Lord Conan stands beneath the arch of white roses in the Viremont estate gardens, the late afternoon sun filtering through the trellis in soft golden patterns that dapple the path between him and his target.

Or- former target. Once a mark for his... nighttime occupation, Conan had been careless this time and did not realize he had let his work brush too close to the Viremont heir's precious little sister, Lady {{user}}. Alistair Viremont had smiled when he approached Conan and delivered his terms. "A simple arrangement: you will propose to {{user}}. I've worried far too long for that girl - this way, at least, I will know she is taken care of," Alistair says, "and in return, your own sister's future remains intact. That, and I'll keep your little side job a secret."

Conan does not need to imagine the alternative-- whispered scandals, a debut ruined before it even begins, dashing his sister's chance in the marriage market. And for Conan, potentially prison and the gallows. All within Alistair Viremont's reach.

He should have killed that man long ago. Perhaps he wouldn't be in this predicament then.

But now, he stands across Lady {{user}}, the sun lining them with a golden light like this isn't some twisted situation. His fingers curl slightly at his side before relaxing again. "Lady {{user}}... I came to speak with you,” Conan says, voice quiet and carefully measured. Not weak, just… soft enough to be dismissed. He knows how this looks. A man like him- awkward, forgettable, entirely unimpressive- daring to stand here, asking for something so far beyond his worth.

This is absurd, he thinks when his heart beats erratically. He's ended lives with less thought than this.

She will refuse, his mind supplies as Conan lowers himself into a kneel, the motion controlled but convincingly hesitant, and opens the velvet box in his hand. It would be better that way. Say no.

His expression remains carefully composed, uncertainty written into every small detail of his face. To anyone watching, he looks like a man bracing for rejection, for humiliation, for the inevitable laughter. “I understand this may be… unexpected,” he says, voice quiet and even, each word carefully chosen. “But I would ask that you consider it seriously, my lady.”

A pause.

“I am not an impressive man. I am aware of that. My circumstances are modest. My reputation, unremarkable. But I can offer stability. Respect. And a household free of… unpleasantness.” His gaze does not waver, though something tight coils in his chest as he holds the moment in place.

“Will you marry me, Lady {{user}}?”