Caught in the Cut

Factions

Claude exhaled, his eyes flicking to Lilia’s furrowed brow as she scribbled in her notebook across the courtyard. He’d met her not long ago, and she kept sticking close—too close for his liking. She hadn’t looked into him too deep yet, which was a relief. Most people did, either because they were curious or were scheming something. Producing rumors at a rapid pace, and it wore him out.

Laughter rang out from the marble steps, cutting through the courtyard’s low hum. Evelyn Von Estera stood with her usual entourage, the crimson sash of her house draped over one shoulder. Even at this distance, Claude felt the weight of her presence. She wasn’t looking now, but she would. She always did.

He rolled his shoulders, shoving his hands into his pockets. Avoidance only worked for so long. Whether it was Evelyn, the factions, or the ever-present rumors trailing him, something was always closing in. And if Veltrane Academy had taught him anything, it was that staying out of things didn’t mean staying safe.

He wasn’t sure how to blend in with more people. He had no allegiance—Royalists, Reformists, and not even neutral. Julius had pitched something vague once, but it fizzled out, and Claude hadn’t cared. Even now, it didn’t feel right. Staying free made him feel more right in his heart, even if he couldn’t explain exactly why.

While Claude was lost in thought, a second-year in a gray cloak cut through the crowd, hood up, moving fast past Lilia. He didn’t look at Claude, just flicked an envelope into his hand and kept going. The faint scent of lavender hit him. He’d smelled that before—when Evelyn passed him after a lecture, her eyes lingering.

The note was hers. Sharp script, no name:

Western garden. Third bell. Failure invites scrutiny.

Third bell was an hour away. He could ignore it, but she’d push harder—more notes, more pressure. Evelyn had influence, practically running the Royalists alongside Prince Leonhardt. She had power, and ignoring her meant trouble he couldn’t outrun.

Claude sighed and crumpled the note into his pocket. The bell rang. He exhaled once more, then headed for the garden. He’d listen, keep quiet, and stay sharp.

A deal from the villainess

The garden smelled of roses, heavy and close. Evelyn sat under a pavilion, silver hair bright in the dusk, violet eyes locking on him. She nodded to a chair with a gloved hand. Claude paused, then sat, gripping the armrest.

“You’re on time,” she said, voice steady, a faint smile tugging her lips as she slid a teacup his way. “Sit. Relax a little.”

He stayed tense, eyeing the tea but not touching it. “Lord Arden,” she started, settling back, “You’re quite popular.”

“Not with intention,” he said, keeping his tone even, testing her.

She tilted her head, leaning forward just enough to close the gap. “My intuitions aren’t able to unlock that yet, but what I do know is that you don’t fit this place—none of the usual slots work for you.”

He frowned, shifting in the chair, fingers pressing into the wood. “What’s that supposed to mean? Could you inform me?”

She laughed softly, a quick sound, then waved a hand. “Not yet. I don’t spill first—you’ve got to give me something. Look, I’m not here to trip over myself explaining. What I do have is a deal.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting. “What kind?”

“One that’s benefit for benefit. I’ll give you answers if you help me investigate.”

Claude, confused by the fast-paced, hard-to-understand conversation, rubbed his head. “My apologies, but could you dissect?”

“Ah, you see. I’m with the Royalists,” she said, her voice dropping a notch, like she was letting him in on it. “Prince Leonhardt’s future’s my stake. Reformists are stirring up trouble—messy stuff—and I need someone to poke around for me. You do that, and I’ll give you one straight answer. Your pick.”

Claude crossed his arms, leaning back a bit. “Sure, but what’s the reason for choosing me? You’ve got people wrapped around your fingers—why not use them instead of making a deal with someone you’re unsure about?”

She smirked, tapping the table lightly. “Fair question. Want to cash in your answer on that?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head quick, realizing she’d cornered him for a second. “Not yet.”

“Smart,” she said, grinning now. “Here’s the job then: tonight, neutral faction meeting, southern wing. Slip in, listen, and bring me what you hear. That’s it for now—just keep your mouth shut about it.”

His gut twisted, and he hesitated, uncrossing his arms. “Why tonight? What’s the hurry?”

She shrugged, casual but sharp. “Things are moving fast. I need eyes now. A slight head start means everything.”

Claude was thinking it over. Trouble wasn’t his plan, but info could keep him up here. If he said no, she’d dig anyway, and he’d be blind. “Fine,” he said, dropping his hand. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” she said, her grin fading to something steadier, almost approving. “We’ll talk after. I don’t trust quick, Claude—you’re a loose piece, and I’m curious what you’ll turn up. Midnight, come back here. Stay out of sight.”

She stood and walked off, leaving the tea untouched. He exhaled, loosening his grip, and got ready.

A bloody overhaul

Night hit the southern wing as Claude slipped in, hood up, heart pounding. The neutral faction’s hall was dim, tapestries on the walls, nobles around an oak table. He stuck to the shadows by a corner, listening as voices sharpened.

“We’re stuck,” a thin noble said, fists tight. “Reformists cut our trade—gold’s gone. Their border lords are eyeing our lands.”

A broad-shouldered man slammed the table. “They’ve got us by the throat. Our families are scrambling.”

A lean guy in a gray cloak stepped up, he had a green emblem on his chest—Reformist. “Time’s up,” he said, voice hard. “We’ve got gold and swords if you join. Say no, you’re done. No begging.”

The thin noble stood. “You want us to give you everything—our loyalty, our lands.”

“No,” the Reformist said, stepping closer. “We’re taking it. Trade opens when you’re ours. Lands stay if you’re ours. Fight with us, and you’ll see.”

A younger noble fidgeted. “We’ve stayed neutral—this is against our policies. Why would we agree to something like that?”

“You’re weak,” the Reformist said. “That makes you ours.”

The broad-shouldered man growled, “We won’t fall like that, get your asses out of here!”

A scream broke in. Two guards dragged a lanky kid from the back, his uniform torn, his brown hair messy. He fought, a notebook dropping as they pinned him. Claude’s stomach dropped, fists clenching. The faction leader, a scarred brute, stepped up with a dagger.

“Traitors bleed,” the leader said. He twisted the kid’s arm—bone snapped. The kid screamed, loud and rough. Then he stabbed the dagger into his thigh, blood pouring out onto the floor. His cries faded to gasps, his body slumping.

The gory sight made Claude’s chest tighten, nails digging in. The neutrals froze—some looked away, and others stared. The thin noble stammered, “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, we did,” the Reformist said, walking past the blood. “Join or die. This is a takeover. We’re aiming for a system with merit over birth. Royalists are weak, and you’re our way to break them.”

The broad-shouldered man’s fists shook. “You’re making us pawns.”

“Pawns with gold and swords,” the Reformist said. “Take it, or we’ll take you out too.”

The room went quiet, blood pooling. The thin noble nodded. “We’re in—don’t hurt us.”

“Smart choice,” the Reformist said. “Alright, tonight is one. Clean up and get in line.”

People trickled out of the hall, their faces grim. Claude followed the crowd, sweat dampening his neck, his heart pounding. The Reformists weren’t just seizing control—they were making examples of the Royalists.

The tortured kid lay crumpled on the floor, barely breathing. A few bystanders cast uneasy glances his way, sympathy flickering in their eyes, but fear kept them frozen. No one moved. No one dared.

After everyone was forced out, Claude waited, pacing his steps. He couldn’t just leave someone to die. When the crowd started to spread out, he slipped out of the dispersing crowd unnoticed. Then, he carefully sneaked back to the hall.

When he stepped into the hall, he saw that the boy was still there. He was motionless, blood pooling beneath him. Claude approached him and crouched, pressing a hand against the kid’s shoulder. While lifting him up, he felt the warmth of his blood seeping through fabric.

“Hey, stay with me. I’ve got you.”

The kid coughed weakly. “I’m fine—just need… hospital.”

Claude hesitated, surprised he could even speak after what he’d endured. “Yeah, let’s get you patched up.”

But as he moved to lift him, the boy gripped crouched back, voice hoarse with panic. “Wait! My notes… They’re ruined. Father’ll kill me if I fail history.”

Claude stared at him, incredulous. “You’re bleeding out, and that’s your biggest worry?” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head before hauling the kid up. “Come on.”

Supporting him, Claude startled toward the infirmary.

The aftermath

Claude kicked the infirmary door open. And made an attendant jump up from shock. “What’s this?”

“Stabbed in the leg, arm broken,” Claude said, setting the kid on a cot, hands shaky. “Please fix him.”

The attendant cut the pant leg, stitching the gash. The kid groaned. “If I miss that exam, my uncle’s done with me.”

Claude wiped his hands on his cloak. “What’s your name?”

“Felix,” the kid said, eyes half-closed. “Thanks for… helping me.”

“No worries. What were you doing there?” Claude asked, shifting his feet.

Felix winced. “Taking notes. Wrong place, wrong time. Don’t ask more—not worth it.”

Claude nodded. “Alright, please rest up. The nurse will heal you. I’ll be leaving you for a bit. I’ve got a meeting I have to attend.”

Report

Midnight came, and Claude reached the garden, Felix’s blood dry on his sleeve. Evelyn looked up from the pavilion table, her violet eyes narrowing slightly as he approached, breath unsteady. A faint smirk tugged at her lips.

“You’re late,” she said smoothly, gesturing at his sleeve. “And rather unkempt. Care to enlighten me?”

Claude rubbed at the dried blood, shrugging. “Dropped a guy at the infirmary. The neutral meeting turned into a mess.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her tone steady but probing. “I’d expect no less from that crowd. Go on—what did you find?”

He exhaled, meeting her gaze. “Reformists are running the show. They’ve cut trade routes and pulled border lords to their side. Tonight wasn’t a negotiation—it was a takeover. They stabbed a kid to force the neutrals in line. They’re coming for the Royalists with gold and swords. Their goal being: pushing merit over birth.”

Evelyn’s smirk faded, her jaw tightening just a touch as she straightened. “Stabbed someone? That’s awful.” She paused.” Who was the unfortunate soul?”

“Kid named Felix,” Claude said, wiping his mouth with his hand, still edged. “Barely hanging on. Said he was there taking notes.”

“Felix?” Her expression flickered, a moment of something softer, then vanished. She shook her head slightly. “Poor boy—caught in something bigger than him.” She tapped the table lightly, her voice firm again. “They’re moving faster than I expected. If they secure the neutrals, Leonhardt’s grip weakens—and so does mine. And if they’re willing to spill blood here…”

She trailed off, unsure how to move on. Then, she shifted gears.

“You did well Claude. Better than most would’ve managed. You even risked yourself to save someone.”

Claude hesitated, rubbing his neck. “It was the right thing to do.”

She studied him, the sharpness in her gaze softening just a little. “Hm. A soft spot—or a bold one.” Then, she flicked off her fingers, casual but decisive. “Meet me tomorrow, same time. I’ll sort this out and give you that answer I promised.”

“Right,” he said, turning, shoulders easing. “No more blood, though—I’m over it.”

Evelyn’s gaze drifted, her expression unreadable. Then she tilted her head. “I’m sorry Claude, but don’t tempt fate. We’ll see what comes.”

A comforting lunatic

Later, Claude pushed the infirmary door open. Felix was propped up, leg bandaged, arm in a sling, notebook on his lap—bloody but there.

“You’re back,” Felix said, voice rough, eyes widening. “Didn’t expect it.”

“Checking if you’re alive,” Claude said, leaning on the wall. “How’s it feel?”

“Rough,” Felix said, shifting the notebook. “But I’ll make it. Still mad about my notes—history’s in six hours.”

Claude snorted. “You’re crazy. Skip it.”

“No way,” Felix said, gripping the pages. “My family’d drop me. I have to pass.”

“You’ll drop dead that before that,” said Claude, pointing at his covered-up wounds.

Felix laughed, short and pained. “Maybe. Well… Thank you anyway. I owe you one.”

“Forget it,” Claude said, stepping off the wall. “Just don’t get stabbed again.”

“Trying,” Felix said, grinning faintly. “You’re not with anyone either, right? You didn’t seem convinced to me.”

Claude tensed. “No. I don’t.”

Felix nodded. “Smart. It’s a mess. Won’t ask—safer that way.”

“Good,” Claude said, heading out. “You should rest your injuries out. You look bad.”

Felix layed back, exhaling shakily. “Now that I think about it, I never gave you my full name, did I?”

“Oh yeah,” Claude admitted, shifting his weight. “And I never told you mine at all.” He felt a bit ashamed. “Sorry about that. I’m Claude Arden.”

Felix let out a weak chuckle. “Claude Arden, huh? Well, it’s Felix Moreau. See you—if I don’t bleed out.”

Claude nodded, hesitating before standing. He was still worried, but strangely, Felix’s presence was… reassuring. The guy was a little chaotic, a bit of a lunatic, you could say. Yet, somehow, Claude could relate a bit.