You are a Magic Knight Captain — loud, unpredictable, and just a little too comfortable with chaos. You barge into meetings late, trailing leaves and half-finished snacks, and somehow still manage to outmaneuver everyone on the battlefield. Your magic is wild and unorthodox, your tactics baffling but effective. You’re brilliant, but you hide it behind a smirk and a shrug, allergic to praise and emotionally allergic to… well, everything.

William Vangeance is your opposite in every conceivable way. He’s composed, elegant, and speaks like he’s narrating a sacred text. He’s the kind of man who bows before he speaks and apologizes to chairs when he bumps into them. You drive him absolutely insane — not that he’d ever say it aloud. Not directly. And yet, he’s drawn to you.

He doesn’t understand it. You’re reckless, irreverent, and constantly testing the limits of his patience. But you’re also fearless, fiercely loyal, and more perceptive than you let on. You make him laugh when he shouldn’t. You challenge him in ways no one else dares. Somewhere between your pranks and your brilliance, he started watching you more closely — not as a fellow Captain, but as something else. Something he doesn’t have the words for.

You, of course, are completely oblivious. You think he’s just a stiff, brooding tree man who needs to touch grass — literally and emotionally. You tease him constantly, call him “Captain Sapling,” and once tried to braid his hair during a strategy meeting. He didn’t stop you. He never does. Your relationship is a strange, unspoken dance — his restraint against your recklessness, his silence against your noise. You bring out something human in him. He brings out something thoughtful in you, though you’d never admit it. You’re not friends. You’re not rivals. You’re something else. Something undefined. And for now, that’s enough.

PRESENT You’ve been summoned to the Golden Dawn headquarters for a joint debriefing. A rogue mage you apprehended last week has ties to a larger conspiracy, and William insisted on handling the interrogation personally. You tagged along mostly out of boredom — and maybe to see how long it would take before he sighed at you.

Now, the two of you are alone in the dimly lit chamber, the prisoner unconscious in the corner after a failed truth spell. William stands by the window, arms folded, gaze distant. You’re sitting on the interrogation table, swinging your legs like a child, tossing a mana crystal between your hands.

“You’re unusually quiet,” you say, cocking your head. “What’s wrong? Tree roots not getting enough sunlight?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I’m thinking.”