A silver flask, encrusted with sapphires, appears under Voltur’s chin. “Here. Looks like you need a swig.” 

A man with unkempt brown hair – and traces of paint under his fingernails, Voltur can see – offers him a wide, crinkly smile.

He shields their exchange with his body, the kind of frame that is fit but has never toiled a day in its life, and it is as though he doesn’t seem to realise that Voltur dwarfs him by far. The man gestures with his head and a grimace towards the hostess – his mother.

“Our secret.”

Oh thank fuck.

"Thank you," he says, and drinks. It's good. 

He feels wrong in his body, here - too muscled and calloused to be squeezed into these ridiculous ducal clothes - especially next to this man. 

...This very well-dressed nobleman who he has no idea how to talk to. 

"I am in your debt, it seems."

“Oh, goodness, no – you’re the one doing me a favour. Mother is holding me captive by the door to greet people as they come in. As long as I’m talking to you, my Lord, she can’t say I’m not playing the good host.”

That grin is so infectious. He holds out his right hand.

“Benedict Bridgerton.”

Right. All right. He can do this. It's so far outside his world, but so was his first battlefield, wasn't it? And his right elbow doesn't even ache any more. 

He takes the man's hand. His grip is strong, but his skin is so soft, like a baby's. Voltur grips it carefully, trying not to hurt him. "Voltur."

...He's important here. He needs to remember that.

“Voltur?” he echoes in a hum. “You don’t mean…” 

Benedict’s eyes widen. “Not Duke Voltur?”

The eyes of those nearby turn slowly.

Oh, gods. Can the ground swallow him now, please?

...He could break left and bullrush through that line of girls and be up the stairs before any of them have time to do anything, is his first incredibly stupid thought. 

There is absolutely some kind of etiquette for introducing yourself or telling someone your title or bowing or something and he knows none of it. 

Is the Queen here? She's probably watching, this is probably her idea of a hilarious joke. 

He nods awkwardly. "As of very recently, yes. That's me."

To the Bridgerton boy’s credit, he recovers fairly swiftly.

“Well, Your Grace.” He delivers a stage bow, twirling his hand in little circles. “Welcome to the ton.”

Voltur knew that they would look at him differently, now. But the way Benedict looks at him – it has changed, yes, with the revelation of Voltur’s title, but… his eyes sparkle with intrigue.

"The- the ton?" The town? "I mean - thank you." He tries to sound grave and dignified. He thinks. 

He doesn’t notice the faux pas – or at least, he pretends not to. Regardless, Benedict Bridgerton offers the easy way out.

“You are most welcome. Allow me to provide you with the run-down.”

Before Voltur realises it, the smaller man has an arm draped around his shoulders as though they were old friends. He smells the whiskey on his collar.

“That, over there, is Lady Danbury. Queen’s best friend. Absolutely terrifying woman. We all love her dearly. And them, over by the lemonade stands, the group of ladies with the bright orange hair – those are the Featheringtons. The shorter lady, Penelope, is a good acquaintance of my little brother’s – he should be riiiight over…” He shifts their position and points like he is identifying a military target. “There. That’s Colin, fending off some anxious mama or another. There’s also Anthony, my elder brother, looking rather like he’s bitten into a lemon– oh, no, that’s just his usual expression. Eloise is over there, trying to hide from our mother, and… Well, Your Grace. Has anyone else caught your interest? I’d be happy to be your own personal Virgil through the Inferno.”

His head spins with the number of names and connections and identical-looking nobs with all sorts of weird important positions. 

He has absolutely no idea what a virgil is but "inferno" sounds about right. 

"Your mother certainly sounds like a... an interesting woman," he manages, "for people to be so afraid of her." She doesn't look that scary, but then again he once met a two-foot gnome who killed a dozen men at once. 

The Queen's best friend is here? Her Majesty is a very clever woman. Surely she will be normal. "And can you tell me more about Lady Danbury?"

“Oh, none of us are afraid of her. She’s lovely. Best mother in the world. Perhaps a little too motherly at times, but she just wants the best for us, really.” He waves his hand. “Lady Danbury, on the other hand? We are definitely afraid of her. She’s got this thorny exterior but a heart of gold, or so I hear in myths and legends. We were all raised with her just… there, more or less, she’s practically our aunt. Been the Queen’s right-hand woman since queendoms became a thing, etcetera etcetera. If you’re looking for allies, Your Grace, she’s definitely one to make.”

His eyes brighten. “Oh, look! There, the one that’s just stepped off the dance floor – that’s Lord Ophel. Mother was beside herself with glee when an elf accepted an invitation to her ball, so he’s been getting quite a bit of attention. Can’t say I envy him.”

He's staring, isn't he. 

He... probably shouldn't do that, should he. 

It's probably some sort of violation of etiquette. 

He cannot take his eyes off Lord Ophel for a long moment, as the elf seems to float across the dance floor to a table, sips wine with sinfully curved lips, smiles prettily at a girl who looks like she may faint away in happiness. 

The elf is tall, and fair, and his every move seems part of a dance - he's never seen skin glow like that, like a jewel in candlelight, and in his limbs there is a power and strength beyond the merely physical. Something old, and right. 

"I can see why," he murmurs. 

She materialises next to them, for all that she walks slowly and with the aid of a stick now. There's a trick to it. It's like how she doesn't need it when she dances. 

"Mr Bridgerton," she says sharply, inclining her head. 

He snaps to attention.

“Lady Danbury! As radiant as ever.” He takes her hand and kisses it, his posture all of a sudden picture-perfect. “May I introduce you to His Grace, the Duke Voltur?”

Thank the gods for an out.

Ah, well, that explains it. 

She smiles widely. "Your Grace. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." She curtseys just a little, and looks carefully into his eyes. 

A hard man, but not stupid. Terrified, though. 

Oh good someone who isn't looking frightened of him or like something stuck to the bottom of their shoe. 

He tries very hard to remember his etiquette lessons. Do you introduce the higher-ranked person first? ...He's pretty sure that whatever his title might be, he shouldn't try to outdo this Lady Danbury customer. "Lady Danbury. I've heard a great deal about you."

Behind the esteemed Lady‘s back, Benedict shakes his head frantically. His hand makes sharp gestures under his chin.

Oh gods oh gods what did he do. He tries to carry on talking. 

"That is - Her Majesty speaks most highly of you." He's pretty sure she has actually mentioned a Danbury at some point and he is racking his brains trying to remember when.

"Does she indeed. How gratifying." She gives Benedict a flat look over Voltur's shoulder. "Am I correct in my belief that this is your first appearance since your ennoblement, Your Grace? I wonder what Mr Bridgerton has been telling you?"

Her eyes bore into him. 

Benedict gulps.

He looks left and right – a saving grace!

“Oh, would you look at that, more guests arriving! Well, my Lady, duty calls.”

He steps away, dignified at first. When Lady Danbury stops looking, he skitters.

The sapphire flask is left behind in Voltur’s hand.

She lifts an eyebrow. 

Typical Benedict, running- rather, stumbling away as soon as a difficulty arises. It's a habit Violet has often complained about. 

"Well, Your Grace. I wonder if you might allow me to introduce you to some dear friends of mine?"

This man is a commoner. Obviously. She's seen milkmen with more noble bearing. He rather reminds her of... someone she used to know. Except without the enthusiasm.

She affixes her arm in his - my, he is muscular, she thought Generals were supposed to be flabby men with jowls - and begins. 

The night is young, after all. Her duties as sponsor can wait a little. 

Ah. 

"Duke Voltur. May I present Miss Eloise Bridgerton."

Curses. She’s been spotted.

Eloise freezes, caught at the foot of the staircase. She spins around with a thinly-plastered smile on her face, tearing her fingertips from the bannister.

“Oh, Lady Danbury, I did not see you there. My Lord.” She doesn’t even look at him, curtsying like she is brushing an insect off her skirt. “I am afraid I–”

"His Grace the Duke Voltur is most anxious to meet his hostess and all her family for his first public appearance," she says in a voice like razor blades. 

Well, at least he isn't the person here who'd most like to be elsewhere any more. 

She very clearly doesn't want to talk. Should he do something? Or would that offend this Lady Danbury? Oh, gods, his head hurts. He's not anxious to- oh, that was probably something political. 

He settles for a polite smile. 

Eloise goes for a smile. She bares her teeth instead, her eyes practically screaming.

Lady Danbury is going to kill her if she doesn’t go along with this. Maybe it’ll only be five minutes, maybe she can shrug him off to Anthony or someone and then make her escape— 

She looks at him at last. He is rather… tall.

“Your Grace, a pleasure.” She doesn’t sound particularly pleased. “Have you met my brother Anthony?”

Before either of them can catch up, Eloise has already charged ahead.

...Do the nobility... normally do this? 

"A pleasure to meet you as well," he begins, which sounds safe enough, it is after all what she said, when suddenly she's charging ahead towards a man who-

-is walking away from the elf - Voltur tries very hard not to stare again - with a sour look on his face. 

“Anthony! Anthony!” She whisper-shouts, grabbing her brother’s sleeve. “Please—”

He almost drops his list as Eloise jostles him. Impatiently, he turns towards her.

“What is it, sister?”

“You must—”

Voltur catches up to her, and Eloise returns to her best impression of a simpering maiden.

“Your Grace! This is the… brother in question. Anthony– Viscount Anthony. Bridgerton. Viscount… Bridgerton.”

He laughs, surprising himself. He smiles at her. 

"Thank you for the introduction. Lord Bridgerton," he says with a careful bow. Probably the wrong depth, but, well, not as bad as what she just did. "Your sister seemed most eager," is that right? Shouldn't it be 'very eager'? "for me to meet you."

He doesn’t have time for this.

Anthony matches the Duke’s bow. “You honour us, Your Grace. Duke… Voltur, am I correct? Your achievements precede you.”

Unsurprisingly, his sister seems to have vanished. He will add ‘speak to Eloise about her future’ to the ever-growing list of things he needs to do — and come to think of it, he really should speak with Benedict as well…

He frowns. Looks round. Is this normal?

"Thank you." That seems safe enough. "Your sister seems to have disappeared. I hope I did not offend her?" If he did just by being here then he is going to just turn around and walk away, Her Majesty probably can't afford a civil war just to have him marched to these accursed things by force. Probably. 

“Oh, pay no heed of my sister. She scorns any man within ten feet of her; I do believe her demeanour towards you was what she would consider to be friendly.”

Anthony scans Voltur, his eyes flitting up and down for a second. He straightens to match the Duke’s height – but falls short an inch or two.

“Please – do not let me keep you from dancing. I am certain I will see you at White’s this weekend, Your Grace.”

Would she, now. Gods, please let them not all be like this. 

This is a man who has never once had to fight for his life who thinks daddy's title lets him- he cuts off that thought, it isn't going to help .

"I look forward to it." He nods, and turns back towards Lady Danbury, slightly helplessly. 

She is going to have words with the Bridgertons. 

“…Ah, forgive me, where are my manners? In truth, I have been… occupied with the matter of selecting a viscountess; a duty you understand well, I am sure.” He smiles, if only out of politeness. “I do believe the man who rescued our country from civil war will have little trouble on this front.”

Oh no he has to choose a duchess??? Now??? Here??? He has met two whole women here and Lady Danbury scares him and Eloise - Miss Bridgerton? - literally ran away. 

"I am afraid that I have the disadvantage of knowing almost nobody here." He vaguely recognises one or two faces from the army, but he absolutely minimised any contact with the sort of officer who went to these things. "How goes your own search?"

He sighs, slipping his papers into a finely-embroidered pocket. “Rather tediously. I have found the ladies this season, as fine as they are, ceaselessly deficient in one quality or another. It is a great responsibility we carry, men like you and I. Our standards must be robust.”

...He hadn't even really thought about that. But of course. If he marries - he has to marry, he needs an heir - then he creates a Duchess. His choice affects his people, his lands. He nods, and leans in a little closer. "It is. You at least were born to your duties - I am having to learn very quickly. It is a great honour Her Majesty did me, and yet alarming to think of its import." He's finding his words a little easier now. Benedict's flask helps. "What did your standards make of the lord elf, then?"

“Indeed. Heavy is the head, my friend.” His stern gaze becomes almost approving. “You speak of Lord Ophel? A charming enough fellow, though I search not for a poet, and I question the seriousness of his intentions. The elves are a confusing folk. I prefer those that I can understand.”

You and me both, friend, he thinks fervently. 

He scratches his beard. "I wonder." He has an excuse now for his eyes to linger. "I do not know much poetry myself. And yet - a battle is often more than the sum of its parts." 

...Oh gods, he's contradicted a noble- wait, he is a noble. 

"There are plenty of scholars of history who could tell you much of how the soil conditions or troop compositions or what-have-you determined a battle, and yet Her Majesty does not employ them in her armies, for good reason. Some things can only be taken entire." He hasn't looked away from the elf. "I wonder if the choice of a wife might be the same." 

"My lords," she says ingratiatingly, appearing again, "might I take this moment to introduce Miss Sharma and Miss Edwina Sharma? Like you, Your Grace, they find themselves new to the ton."

Hmm. The Viscount Bridgerton would do. The Duke might be better, in theory, but - would the Sheffields accept him as fulfilling their terms? If it were a public matter, they would probably be forced to... 

She nudges Edwina forwards. 

She curtsies. Perfectly.

That woman, the elder Sharma. That was her, the mystery woman in that field, racing away from him on that chestnut mare like some kind of–

He bows his head low. Lower than he did for Voltur, the Duke notes. 

“My Ladies. A pleasure.”

His laughter chimes from down the colonnade.

Oh no, he recognises her. 

She draws herself back a little. Come on, Edwina...

"You are new, Your Grace?"

He's turned away towards the sound of that enchanting laughter.

"It truly is so kind of you to have come, my lord," she twitters, sherry held in quite a tight grip as she looks up at the elf, trying very hard not to think anything untoward. "I do hope it is all to your satisfaction?" If it isn't then she will personally replace her entire staff.

“My Lady, I am having the most delightful of nights,” he assures her, his voice like a melody. 

“In my experience, however… the hostess is often so occupied with ensuring that all is perfect that she neglects to enjoy the fruits of her labour herself.”

Ophel bows and offers an arm. “A dance, perhaps?”

Oh. Oh. She- oh dear. She feels rather warm. 

For a moment she envies Eloise that dratted fan.

"Oh, how kind, my lord," she manages, taking his proffered hand with fingers that manage not to tremble. 

He's so warm, and strong. She melts into him. 

She remembers dancing like this. 

He feels how they watch him. Let them. He smiles at the Dowager Viscountess as he leads her, and the lights catch in his eyes. 

Their love must have been great.

There is a spin midway through the dance, and partners interchange. Violet is passed to another.

She is rather young. Good childbearing age, at least – rather beautiful, if he might say, and there is only one way to know whether her mind is as bright as those large eyes of hers.

He can be charming when he wants to be.

“A dance, Miss Edwina?”

She squints.

Oh- oh, it's happening, isn't it? This is it- she mustn't panic! 

She glances briefly at Kate - she'd been thinking she ought to approach the Duke, until Kate had nudged her towards the viscount - and then back to Lord Bridgerton.

"I would be delighted, my lord."

All of a sudden he's left alone with Kate and Lady Danbury as the next dance begins. 

Well, that did not go well. 

He glances around helplessly - perhaps Miss Sharma would dance? She's certainly beautiful, seems to know Lady Danbury, seems vaguely sensible-

Oh no. She's not sure the Duke would work as a prospect - maybe the Sheffields would accept him or maybe Edwina could convince him to support mother, but she cannot afford to take chances - but she still should not provide competition for her own sister. 

She turns abruptly towards Lady Danbury. 

Oh. 

He wishes they'd just openly say they don't like him because he's a filthy commoner. He wouldn't even blame them. He'd just like to know who his enemies are, thanks. 

He takes another sip from the flask and scowls. 

If she does not take this opportunity now, somebody else will. They are already closing in on perhaps the only suitor left in London who has not yet slipped through her fingers.

He is rather handsome, in a common sort of way.

“Your Grace,” she steps in – graceful, sultry, swanlike. She blinks long eyelashes up at him. “I do not believe I have yet had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

She bats her eyelashes, holding out a perfect hand. “Cressida Cowper.”

She just appears in front of him, and for a moment he's taken aback. She has that sort of aspect that always made him hesitate when fancy carriages came down the street - that kind of confidence - and it takes him a moment to find words. 

"Voltur, Duke of Volturgard," he returns, inclining his head what he thinks is the right amount. 

There's a Cowper in the army. Gutless little man, but cunning. He was a Colonel until Voltur came along and pointed out his talents lay elsewhere and insisted hard enough for the powers that be to give way. Family must be rich.

Well, at least it gives him someone to talk to. 

...What does he say?

Ah, yes.

"Would you care to dance, Miss Cowper?"

A prim smile, not an unladylike grin. Her mother stares coolly from behind the Duke’s shoulder.

Cressida Cowper remains perfect, in the same way a glass gemstone glitters a little too brightly.

She curtsies. “I would be honoured, Your Grace.”

He was taught how to dance, at least. He knows how to actually do the motions, the footwork comes easily to him, but he always just feels silly. Back and forth, twirl, waving his arms around for pointless reasons... Gods, this is humiliating. The pressure of dozens of eyes on him is like physical heat. 

She relishes the watchful gaze of the ton. They stare at her, entire groups of them, as she twirls prettily and marks her territory.

“You dance well, my Lord,” she purrs, stealing the chance to lean into him. Her neck is swan-like; her perfume is too sweet. “One could easily imagine you were born to be nobility. Tell me, are your heroics truly as I hear?”

The girl is giving him the kind of look he'd usually associate with starving wolves. 

...Does this mean she likes him? He's heard stories that the nobs marry each other like merchants trade goods, but she does sound interested. 

He twirls her neatly. She's so light. None of these people have an ounce of muscle on them, or scars, all soft like eiderdown...

"That depends. What have you heard?"

He’s either guarded or rude. No matter. She’ll wear him down.

“Why, Your Grace, certainly not enough. Tales of your… strength, however, certainly ring true.” Her touch lingers on his arms, and she injects a dainty little laugh into her speech, like there was a joke Voltur missed. “I should care to hear them from the man himself.”

So... She wants to hear about his campaigns?

Perhaps this isn't going to be as awkward as he thought. 

"Well, when you hear people talk about the war, you must understand it was at first more like a series of small wars - our western border was practically undefended, so bandit raids were forcing local lords to pull their men into defence, which others could use as an excuse to shirk sworn service to Her Majesty, which gave the rebels cover for a while. And there were more and more disappearances, whole villages dead or worse overnight because of the things coming out of the wilderness to the west... And Her Majesty's armies were," not a complete mess tactically but strategically a nightmare "in dire straits, so I began by moving to weaken the long-term viability of any possible insurrection by..." 

He can happily talk about this for a while. He will describe some of the unimagined horrors of the wilderness, some of the gorier battles he's been in and won against all the odds.

Cressida’s face straightens and falls. Her pale porcelain skin manages to turn white, and even a little green at the edges.

How is she supposed to respond to such ghastly conversation? Does he not know it is impolite to darken a lady’s mind with such topics? 

An unconvincing smile is the best she can do, curled in all the correct ways without even remotely reaching her eyes. “Aha.”

They twirl, and much to her relief she is passed to another. That Eloise takes her place – good, Cressida knows the Bridgerton girl is not interested in marriage, so she will not pose much of a threat.

She will approach the Duke again, soon, in some different way. As foul as his tongue is, he is as handsome as his title.

He passes her to him. 

The world slows for a moment. A piercing flash of too-blue eyes – they meet Voltur’s, disarming him entirely. Their fingertips brush in the sweep of the movement.

And then Eloise is in the arms of the Duke, and the Lord Ophel claims another partner, and they continue to dance separately as though their paths had never once crossed and never will again.

He tears his eyes away, conscious of the sudden hammering of his heart. 

Damn elves. He's heard the stories, they all must have - unless the gentry don't tell them, maybe. They say elves can put a spell on you with a look. 

He swallows. 

"Miss Bridgerton," he manages with a small smile, noting that at least her hands are sort of sweaty and awkward too, "It seems you have not quite managed to make good your escape." 

...Was that too pointed? Probably. But she did run away from him, after all. 

Lady Danbury is a terrifying sniffer-dog of a woman–

“Hm?” She looks up at him, wide-eyed, from where she was keeping a close eye on her feet. Her forehead is damp with sweat. “Sorry. Concentrating.”

That gets her a small grin. "Miss Bridgerton, I promise you, you cannot acquit yourself worse than me when it comes to dance. Do not worry so much about it."

Oh. Good. The elf was so graceful that she felt like a lumbering pig in his arms.

“If we step on one another’s toes, let’s just pretend it didn’t happen, shall we?”

If she were anything like these other girls, she could say that this Duke has a nice enough smile. Happily, she isn’t.

"You have my word." 

He twirls her carefully, trying very hard not to think too much about how he must look doing this. 

She's a pretty girl. Why did she want to run away like that?

"Your brother seemed to be an... Interesting man. I wondered if you had a reason for introducing us."

She almost snorts. “Yes, ‘interesting’ certainly describes him.”

What is this man implying?

“No reason other than he was the only other member of my family in sight. If you have siblings, you’ll know.”

"I'm afraid I don't, any more."

There's an awkward silence. He clears his throat.

"So why were you so keen to pawn me off on your kin? Is my reputation so terrible? Speak freely, I am not an easy man to offend."

“No. In truth, I had little idea of who you were. I simply do not trip over myself at the idea of an eligible suitor.” She frowns then, doll-like. “If you do not mind my asking, what… happened?”

That still doesn't explain why she ran away. Something else must be going on here. 

"I do not mind. I had a brother and a sister. My brother was often sickly - we never could afford to learn why - and he perished of hunger in the lean year." It wasn't so long ago, really, that dismal summer when the harvest failed and a common soldier's wage had been as nothing. "I learned my sister had passed shortly after I was knighted at the Battle for Gescat South. She had fled her husband, when he was in a temper," as he'd learned when he'd returned as Sir Voltur and beaten the truth out of the man, "and... it was a cold night."

She’s completely stopped moving, her eyes fixed on the man in horror. It’s only when some other frustrated woman jabs her in the ribs that she remembers where she is, and forces her feet to move along with the beat that has slowed in her ears.

What does she even say to that?

“…Oh.”

...He does not seem to have a good record when it comes to conversation with women here, does he. 

"It is all right," he assured her. "It is not so very uncommon a fate. And it has been some time, now." 

“I’m not sure what I would do if…” 

If that had been her, losing her siblings like that. No matter how annoying Gregory gets, or how stuffy Anthony is, or how prissy-perfect Daphne can be–

She can’t bear the thought.

Eloise swallows. What would her mother tell her to say? “I’m– sorry. Um. For your loss.”

The song is over, and partners across the floor bow and curtsy to one another. She keeps her eyes fixed on him, her cheeks pink. 

He bows to his partner, a beautiful woman with red hair, and departs.

A small smile. "Thank you." 

He scratches behind his head awkwardly.

"I- Miss Bridgerton, I apologise. I did not mean to upset you. I fear I have said a lot of things wrong this night. I- truly, all this is foreign to me."

She looks left and right, holding onto her skirt in bunches. “It’s alright. It’s, ah… it’s my first time out too.” Her laugh is awkward.

He lowers his head. "I think you have done very well, considering, Miss Bridgerton."

He takes his leave. 

He wanders out to the balcony, glass of champagne in hand. 

It's a cool clear night, and he half-closes his eyes in appreciation as the noise and the light fade away behind him. 

Before Voltur knows it, the elf is standing next to him – the first of these nobles to match his height. He gazes at Voltur in casual interest, leaning against the balustrade.

“You have certainly caused quite the stir.”

His fingers tighten on the stonework, and he's suddenly horribly conscious of his too-big-too-clumsy body stuffed into this ridiculous costume. 

"Have I?" It's not the cleverest thing to say, but he's too busy trying not to glare. 

He eyes spark in amusement. “Yes. The newly-titled soldier-duke, still settling into his new shoes.”

He scowls. He should insult the elf back, but he doesn't know how in this godsforsaken 'ton'. "Really. I'm sure I regret the upset I've apparently caused."

He laughs, unfazed. It’s beautiful, like a rose unfurling. “I know little of any upset caused. I merely wish to offer my aid.”

You do, do you? "I see. You know, I do not believe we've been introduced."

“Oh, I already know who you are.” He drags his eyes over Voltur’s frame. “But of course.”

He bows. “I am Ophel. Son of Hyranon of Valdarin.”

He inclines his head very slightly. "And what do you mean by aid, Lord Ophel?"

The corner of his lip twitches. The expression disappears in a blink of Voltur’s eye.

“You wish to be one of them. You seek integration. Is that correct?”

He grinds his teeth. Right now the last thing he wants is to be like this smug prick. He never even thought about wanting this. He doesn't want to be one of them, he's just here and now he has to, it's not like he can just go home, if he left society the country might collapse. 

Time to be diplomatic.

"What are you getting at?"

“I can teach you.”

"How kind of you, Lord Ophel," he manages after a moment. 

Should he accept? That... probably has diplomatic implications... it's suddenly quite hard to think. 

"I shall... bear your very considerate offer in mind," he says, and then avails himself of the Eloise Bridgerton strategy and flees. 

Voltur can’t get the elf’s perfume out of his tunic.

Luckily, he now has more clothes than he knows what to do with.

He is so very very unsure of this. 

He shifts in his incredibly fancy carriage, because Dukes apparently aren't allowed to use the legs the gods gave them, and straightens his new tunic for the hundredth time. 

"Duke Voltur," she'd said to him crisply the night before, "I do hope you have enjoyed your evening? Perhaps even made friends? I trust that you have been... informed of the tradition of calling hours..."

He rolls up to Bridgerton House. Fancy. Two men paid good money to just stand outside all day looking expensive and scary. He shouldn't even be allowed near a place like this-

He gets out, holding a bunch of flowers Talen had acquired for him on extremely short notice. 

He is announced. He is here to call on Miss Eloise. 

…What?

She snaps her book shut and shoots upright, crestfallen.

“A caller? For me? Are you certain?”

“Don’t look too pleased, sister.” He snickers, tossing an apple into the air.

Spitefully, she swats it from his hand. It tumbles to the ground, rolling to a stop at–

Oh, gods.

The Duke Voltur’s feet.

Eloise is mortified.

He raises his eyebrows and stoops to grab the apple faster than an even-more-embarrassed-looking servant can swoop in. 

"Miss Bridgerton. Good morning."

He glances over at Benedict with a feeling of some relief. He likes that man. He seems normal.

Benedict grins and tips an invisible hat in his direction.

She was focussing on a particularly tricky bit of embroidery, and a few moments' distraction has already led to disaster-

She stands up, all a-flutter. His Grace is the first man she's ever heard her daughter speak of in even neutral terms, and she is not going to allow her terribly foolish second son to spoil anything that might possibly be developing between them. Maybe there could be two Duchesses in the family?

"Oh, Your Grace, how kind of you to come," she twitters, hurrying forwards to distract from her daughter's helplessness. "Please, sit down- you must have some refreshment-" she had in fact heard it rumoured that the Duke preferred rather... indelicate beverages, and hastened to acquire some just in case. 

"Benedict, dear, why don't you go and speak with Anthony about that visit with Daphne and the Duke of Hastings..."

“What visi– ow!” Violet jabs him in the ribs, and he bounds away on this wild goose chase of his mother’s design. He winks at Voltur as he disappears down the hallway.

Oh no. She is left undefended.

Eloise swallows, and remembers to curtsy. It is a little less dismissive and a little more stiff than last time. “Your Grace.”

He nods respectfully. "I brought these for you."

They are very nice flowers. He has no idea where Talen got them. 

“…Peonies. Thank you.” She purses her lips. “I am afraid that I am allergic.”

Okay, that’s not entirely true, but she does feel nauseous every time Simon sends her sister flowers when she visits home, so it’s not entirely a lie either.

"Eloise Bridgerton no you are not."

She smiles ingratiatingly at the Duke.

He laughs, surprising himself. "I'll set them on the table, then, just in case."

Oh. That didn’t scare him off.

“Thank you,” she says again, a little more softly this time.

They are made to sit down. Eloise’s posture is awkward, and she clears her throat a few times. Her cheeks are tinged with pink. A servant offers her a glass of water, which she manages not to spill down her front. Is it warm in here? She feels very warm in here.

Nobody has ever actually called on her yet. Not that she’d ever let them before. She watched Daphne a few times last season, but the whole affair was just so dull and demeaning that she never really thought about actually being in that situation.

Pelor, help.

...Er. What exactly does he say now?

Oh, the hell with it, he was never good at this anyway, he'll just be honest.

"I enjoyed dancing with you last night. I had hoped to make up for my, ah, deficiencies in conversation this morning."

Her mother is so obviously eavesdropping. Pretending to arrange the flowers the Duke brought is getting her nowhere. Ugh.

“Right. Is this you doing that, then?” She… hadn’t meant to sound so biting.

Dancing with him had been alright.

He just grins at her. "I think it can fairly be said that it is me trying. Do you talk like this to everyone, or am I special?"

That was not appropriately noble of him, but he is not going to just stand there and take it like a helpless lump. 

She blushes, directing her glare to the floor. One day she will make the flagstones tremble.

“There certainly is something ‘special’ about you, I shall grant you that. Is riveting conversation all you have come for, then?”

She's easily rattled for a woman so fierce. "Yes, it is. Is an interest in intelligent conversation so surprising? Another special quality of mine, perhaps?"

He realises that, amazingly, he's starting to have fun here.

“And you’ve come to me. For that. With flowers.” Her voice is flat. 

"Yes." His voice is flatter.

She scowls at him. “Fine. Impress me with something intelligent, then, since you clearly think me a half-wit.”

She seems to think she's going to frighten him off, but he fought the Black Wyvern of Clensing Downe, he's not afraid of a girl with a sharp tongue. Obviously he doesn't think she's stupid, or why would he be here? Three-quarters of a wit, at least.

Now probably isn't the time to tease her.

"You are very quick to assume men think ill of you, Miss Bridgerton," he observes instead. "In fact, I enjoyed your frankness."

“Am I so wrong? Are you aware that you yourself, Duke Voltur, are currently taking part in an incredibly sexist tradition?”

Her mother interjects sharply with her name, and Eloise settles down, huffing.

She has fight in her.

He glances at Violet and smiles reassuringly. "I am not aware, no. I only learned this tradition existed yesterday, in fact. Perhaps in deference to the Dowager Viscountess we ought to continue this conversation elsewhere? On promenade, perhaps? I am curious to learn more." 

Eloise is staring at him like he’s grown a third head. “Chaperoned, you mean?”

Oh no- the Duke is an extraordinarily tolerant man, it seems, but now she can't offer to chaperone, unless -

"What a kind invitation, Your Grace," she interjects smoothly, "in fact I had intended to walk in the Park with Lady Danbury today - perhaps you would then escort Eloise?"

…

She is not getting a say in this, is she.

Eloise has no idea where to put her parasol. She shifts it from shoulder to shoulder, growing ever frustrated with this great huge stick thing that is supposed to, what, guard her complexion from even the faintest hint of sun?

It is a nice day, she will grant the gods that.

It's far too late for him to look anything but tanned and sun-worn like the low-born oik he is. 

Does he have to be dressed up like this, though? It's the sort of weather for short breeches and bare chests, not silk and black leather. 

"So, Miss Eloise," he says, conscious of her small damp hand fidgeting uncomfortably where she has to take his arm. "What do you mean when you call it... sexist, was it? to call upon you?"

She stares at him for a moment. “The unfairness of a society catered towards men, in which women are little more than breeding chattel. Do you truly not know?”

Her mother can’t hear them from here, no matter how much she strains her ear.

His arm is truly, remarkably… solid. Her fingers search awkwardly for a grip, and settle somewhere on his vast mountain of a bicep. Truly, do women find this attractive?

What, so, she wouldn't have been allowed to call on him if she'd wanted? Strange. Surely not, can't the aristocracy do whatever they like?

"Miss Eloise, until some months ago I was a soldier - I know little more of the habits of the ton than you know of military strategy. Perhaps less."

“You mean things are different for everybody else?” Her voice is suddenly twice as loud. She nearly drops her stupid parasol.

She’s read a few books on military strategy. She prefers the ones on wizardry, really.

He smiles, a bit thinly. "Things certainly are different for the common folk, yes. Perhaps you could describe plainly what it is that is objectionable about women's place in this society?"

Eloise will happily rant for the next five minutes. Voltur gets the sense that she is secretly pleased that she has, for once, a listening audience.

And then, she asks tentatively, “What about your side of the world? As in… the one you came from? You said… you said your brother…”

He listens, half confused, half fascinated. How the other half live, eh? 

"That does sound concerning. I would say, perhaps I could have a word with Her Majesty about resolving the situation - but surely she herself already knows of it, and yet the situation obtains. I wonder what is to be done?"

He scratches his chin. 

"He starved, yes. It's not so common in these days as it has been, perhaps. Only the old and the very young and the sickly tend to perish in the lean times, at least in the town. I suppose you have not known what it is to go hungry."

A word with the Queen?

She shakes her head, her eyes large.

"Well. It will fare better for them," it feels strange on his tongue, to speak of the common folk so, when he was born among them - though the Queen herself said that he was as noble as any other, fons et origo she had said - but he goes on, "now that the wars are done. But no, Miss Eloise, I truly did not know that that was the lot of women of the ton. What do you intend to do to remedy matters?"

She hadn’t thought that far ahead. She hadn’t realised there was anything she could do about it.

“I suppose I have been… trying to make my voice heard.”

His Grace the Duke Voltur has experienced exactly one big complicated wide-reaching problem in his life and that was the civil war, and what he did with that was solve it. And with all due respect to Miss Eloise, this business doesn't sound that difficult. 

"I see. Perhaps I might broaden your reach. To whom have you spoken already? What solution do you have in mind?"

She wracks her brain so that she doesn’t embarrass herself in front of the war hero.

“You– said you could speak to the Queen about this?”

He frowns. "Of course, that is no trouble. What concerns me is that she has done nothing already. Perhaps the problem is more intractable than it appears. Or, knowing Her Majesty, she's probably up to something." He shakes his head. "In any case - what would you have me say?"

“You speak as if the two of you are friends,” she marvels. “Perhaps, um…” Eloise purses her lips in thought. “Meet me, later tonight. I shall have notes prepared to give to you.”

Maybe they can actually do this. 

He laughs a little. "Her Majesty can be most personable." And, amazingly, more normal than any of these people. "And it no doubt helps that we are both very useful to each other." Because realistically the army's loyalty is to him, personally, but if he tried to rule anything by himself he'd probably be mad or dead in a week. 

"I am glad to see that you lead by example in defying these norms of which you speak. Where shall I meet you?"

She is looking at him differently, now. Less hostile, more starry-eyed.

“Neither Mama nor Anthony would ever let us meet unchaperoned,” she deliberates, her lips curling smugly. “Unless we are somewhere they will not see us. There is a pair of rope swings under an oak tree on our grounds. I will be there at ten.”

It’s okay. They’re not going to get up to anything untoward, she has little interest in that sort of thing right now. This is for the greater good!

He grins.

Bridgerton House is high-walled and guarded by very loyal servants, but the thing it lacks is a robust threat model. 

A gentleman is at liberty to stroll of an evening, even alone. 

An active man can turn aside down an alleyway and nip over a wall too fast for anyone to notice.

Then it's simply a matter of finding a building ajoining the wall, swarming onto its roof, crawling along the wall, making a small leap onto a nearby tree, and hopping down it quick as a schoolboy. 

He rather enjoys it, really. He's pleasantly out of breath by the time he finds Eloise. 

"Miss Bridgerton."

She stands up from where she had been idly swinging. “What sort of a time do you call this?”

There is a leaf in his hair. She plucks it and presents it to him pointedly. “Did you scale every tree in England?”

He chuckles. "Only those necessary for my discreet entry, I promise you." He plucks the leaf from her hand and tucks it jauntily behind his ear. "It has been some time since I was obliged to break in. Perhaps I am out of practice. Have you collected your thoughts?"

She furrows her brow at him, perching back onto the swing. Another, to her right, remains empty.

“When did you last need to–? Oh, it does not matter. I do not wish to know.” She retrieves a pile of parchment from her satchel, holding it out to him. Her hands are covered in ink. “Here. Here are all my thoughts to present to the Queen. What do you think?”

He can read. He can. Sort of. With a lot of effort. And a dictionary. And someone to help him. 

He takes it from her with thanks, and sits absently on the swing next to her. He tucks the sheaf of parchment into his tunic. 

Stares for a moment. 

"It seems well-detailed," he manages. "I hope it will work."

“You didn’t even read it!”

He turns a little and quickly plucks it from his pocket, scanning it hurriedly. "I meant only to sit a moment-"

“It’s upside down.” She huffs. “Can you even read?”

“You can read. Can’t you?”

"..."

He looks down. 

"...With some difficulty. And a good deal of assistance. Yes. A little. Not well."

“Oh.” She softens.

Do they not teach people to read outside the ton?

There is a moment of silence, before she reaches out to take the papers back. Her hands are surprisingly gentle. “Let me.”

She will run him through point after point, showing him where on the page she is, letting him follow along. There is a spark of passion in her eyes like fire.

He's not stupid, he just can't make the letters line up in his head. He follows. 

She sounds good when she talks like this. Like it's where she's meant to be. 

When she's done, he leans back. "I fear I have not read enough to understand all the theory behind what you have said. But the Queen will be impressed at least by its cleverness. Let us hope that will be enough." He flashes her a smile. "And if it is not, we shall need another plan."

“You really think so?” She asks, leaning in. Her blue eyes shine in the moonlight.

"I do." 

She is pretty. And clever. 

If he has to marry for the country's sake, he could do an awful lot worse. 

He smiles tenderly at her.

She beams at him. No one has ever taken her seriously before.

“I do feel that it lacks in perspective, though. Could you show me, perhaps? The world outside the ton?”

His brow furrows. "Show you?"

...Oh. Of course. Gods, she's a grown woman and she must barely have set foot out of this house. 

"Of course. What would you like to see?"

She grins. “What kind of place did you used to frequent? Let us begin there.”

Eloise almost feels bad, taking advantage of him like this. He is still new to this world, has little idea of all the ridiculous suffocating rules and expectations – the timing is perfect.

Anthony is so going to kill them, but only if he finds out.

"Miss Bridgerton, you excel yourself." He has just the place in mind. 

She's almost certainly never set foot in a tavern. 

"Do you need a hand getting over the wall?"

“No. Why should I? Is it because I am a–?” She cuts herself off, reminding herself of the circumstances of their secret rendezvous. “Ahem. I used to climb trees when I was younger. I am certain I shall be fine.”

Regardless, Eloise is stubborn. She tries, staring for ages at the vine patterns to try to determine the best course upwards. 

It’s useless. She can’t do anything with these stupid shoes on.

She turns back to Voltur, her cheeks pink. “Yes, actually, perhaps your assistance as a gentleman would be proper.”

A lot of first-time soldiers are like that. Doesn't do to let them carry on thinking they can do anything, but doesn't help to humiliate them either. 

So he's not going to offer her a piggyback.

He gives her a leg up, and they make it over the wall. 

He takes her to his favourite tavern, the one he used to think was far too expensive for most nights - to her, it's still going to be a different world. 

Eloise draws her light-blue cloak over herself, halfway hiding behind Voltur. She holds onto his arm, both of hers wrapped tight around him, peeking out from the shadow of his broad frame. Despite her nervousness, excitement lights up her moonlike face. 

“What does one do here?”

He takes a second to breathe in the smell of stale beer and wood-smoke. 

Gods he's missed this place. 

He just smirks at her, leads her over to a table, and tips a serving-boy probably his week's wages to get them a couple of flagons of what a dwarf would call baby food. 

"To start with," he declares, "one drinks."

Gods what is she doing here–

Eloise settles down in a rather horrifically uncomfortable wooden chair in a rather horrifically smelly building, and she takes a sip of a rather horrifically bitter drink. She gags.

She likes it.

“You drink this for fun?”

"Yes. It gets better once you're halfway down."

He takes a drink, glances around the place, looking for familiar faces.

Then he takes pity on her. 

"I think the trouble is," he declares, leaning over, "is that you're not meant to sip it. You're meant to quaff. Like this."

He demonstrates. 

She stares at him. And then slowly, uncertainly, she lifts the tankard to her lips. It’s most of the size of her head, and twice that of her hand. 

And then she tilts her head back and downs it.

She coughs and splutters, slamming it back down. “You lied! That remains as foul as the time Gregory brought back a dead toad as a pet.”

He laughs louder than he has in some time. The dwarf-ale helps. 

It might make her smile a bit too.

"Maybe you need to try it a few times. Acquired tastes, you know. A dead toad?"

“Yes. Our father dropped him as a baby. Or so I hear.” She goes quiet for a bit, but then smiles at him. A rare, genuine smile. “What next, then?”

He is interrupted in replying by the woman at the next table deciding to noisily jump up and dance on it.

She has no idea how to react other than to stare in wonder. A small laugh leaves her lips, guarded, but the cracks in her spirit begin to open. She leans in close to Voltur. “Is this a common happenstance?” 

Her voice is far louder than she intended it to be. Perhaps something to do with that gods-awful drink she can’t stop sipping. Regardless, it is better to shout here, she thinks – it is beginning to be so rowdy she can barely hear her own mind.

"Not common enough!" he shouts - someone's found a fiddle, and he's waving his flagon to the music. 

The woman on the table is rather pretty. 

He nudges Eloise. 

"Come on! Drink up, the second flagon is always better."

The woman on the table is rather pretty.

“Hm?” She looks over at him again, halfway startled. The candlelights shine in her eyes. “Oh– gods, alright.”

She faces that second flagon with an expression Voltur recognises from regarding his men-at-arms before a battle. And, indeed, she shows the same bravery.

“I do believe you were correct,” she slurs, leaning into that impossibly broad shoulder. “Only on a technicality. The second was marga– margal… marginally better.”

He shouldn't have got her the third one. 

He should have remembered that a flagon is two pints and she's a small girl. 

He also probably shouldn't have tried the shots on top of that himself. 

But it's too late for that now. 

He pats her on the arm a little clumsily and leans closer to her. He's warm and quite gentle even now. 

"'m always right in the end." He shakes himself. "So what d'you think of this fine estabblishment now, El- sorry, Lady- wait, Miss Bridgerton?"

“The best. The most… prettiest.” Eloise sighs wistfully, her eyes somewhere across the room. “Please. My name is– name is just fine.”

A grin slowly spreads on her face. “Do you ever feel pigeonholed into a role, Voltur? I ash– assume… ahem, I can call you that. If we are to be friends.”

Pigeonholed is a funny word.

Pigeonholed. He likes pigeons. He used to chase them when he was a boy. His mother told him he could keep it if he ever caught one. 

He then realises he's said that out loud. 

"Of course, Eloise. Gods I miss calling people by their names."

He looks at her, follows her gaze to the other side of the room. The dancing lady is still going. Must be her first time seeing how the rest of the world dances. 

"Not until I came to town, no. Nobody much cared what I did. Then all of a sudden I've got these responserberl- these duties." He looks at her sideways, a sort of tipsily cunning look. "So what hole do they want to put you in, then?"

She rests her chin on the table morosely. “You should meet my sister, Daphne. The– the Duchess.” Her tone is saccharine.

“Oh. No offence,” she amends half-heartedly, glancing up at him through long eyelashes. This table is rather comfy, she thinks. “It is simply that– that she is perfect. She left the shape of the hole I should fill.”

Eloise clearly does not understand the joke.

She sighs then, lifting her head. A lock of hair slips into her face. “Did you ever catch a pigeon?”

"'m sure I will. I keep having these nightmares where the Queen makes me recite all the, you know, the names and titles and things, of everyone in the ton, from memory."

He rests his head on his hands so he can look her in the eye. She's tiny compared to him. Lots of feelings in a very tiny body. "Iwoulda thought she'd already done it for you? Got one Duchess in the family, hooray, don't need two?"

"Never did catch a pigeon. Wonder if I could do it now. I slew a dragon, you know? There's going to be," he makes a face, "songs about it."

Her mouth forms a perfect ‘O’.

”You SLEW a DRAGON?!”

Lots of lung space in that tiny body too. People have turned around from three tables away.

“When?! How?! What colour?!”

"End of the war. Sword. Black." He takes a swig. "Y'see, turns out - so, your dragons, right, they say in books and things, no offence, there's these different colours and here's what they're like and, you realise, that's all written by sort of the people who made it back, right? 'Snot like that when you're there. It was, it was, the Black Wyvern of Densing Clowns, it was this colour like the bottom of a pit - not like a black dog, just, you felt like there was something wrong with your eyes when you looked at it. And it did this thing like a scream and made the air eat itself. Turns out it was stirring up the war all the time, that's why we couldn't put it down. Clever bastard. Had to lure it onto the battlefield and that took some doing. Melted a whole platoon. But then I could grab it and hold on for dear life and, long story, I had a sword forged by some ancient hero and it could cut dragonscale, and it fell, and it was like, like a shadow lifted from all men's hearts, and they said I should have a dukedom for it." He hiccoughs. 

“Wow.” She says, and instantly feels stupid. But what exactly do you say to something like that?

She tries again. “…Wow.”

…

“Densing Clowns?”

He frowns. "That doesn't sound right. Clensing! Clensing Downe."

He falls silent a moment, then refocusses on her with some effort. 

"So what'sh the rest of your family like? I only met your brothers for a minute. Don't know what it must be like to grow up like that."

HE’S JUST GLOSSING OVER THE FUCKING DRAGON—?

“Ah. Yes, I thought you and Benedict seemed to know one another.” 

What does one say to a dragon slayer?

“They are alright, I suppose. Sometimes.”

A black dragon slayer?

“I have seven brothers and sisters. It is all rather suffocating most of the time, I can hardly get a word in edgeways if I… do not shout.”

He looks so normal. Yes, he is probably very strong, and Eloise has read stories about such feats, but staring at Voltur now, she realises she only has his word to take for it. She can hardly believe it.

“Do you still have the sword?” she blurts out.

He brightens up. "I do!"

He reaches easily into his tunic and -

- not even a ripple, no visible fold in space, just - 

What he draws forth from a space where it should not fit is a blade three feet long that shines like a mirror, moon-silver mithril that sits light and bitter-sharp in his hands, the smooth curve of the blade like nothing any smith of these days could dream of, the handle all wrought in gold, a sapphire the size of a hen's egg nestled in the pommel. In the flicker of candlelight, Eloise can see the deep-set twinkle of runes sung into the metal. A work of great artisans in the time of Raikoth, before the deep mines crumbled and the ancient libraries burned, ensorcelled with long-forgotten spells; ancient, and as new as the day it was made. It glitters. 

Conversations stop. 

"'got these too." On the table lands something like a smooth sheet of rock, but too dark to see - a perfect silhouette in the candlelight, an oddly oily violet gleam deep inside, oddly difficult to focus upon. The scale of a dragon. 

And then something huge and round, black like onyx and veined with pure bone-white. 

An egg. 

She stares into her tankard. There must be something in the stuff. She is beginning to see things.

But– no, he did not have a sword on him before, not even a harness for it, she is sure. Which means– 

Which must mean—

No, surely not. She’s read books. Bags of Holding are rare, so rare that they’re probably not real anymore. A thing out of Fallen Raikoth.

Eloise’s intelligent blue eyes shift to the egg, staring at it apprehensively. The sword and the scale are but beautiful glimmers in her blurred periphery. “What is– in that thing? Will it… hatch?” She whispers the last word.

She gets the sense, through the glaze of the alcohol, that they should not be displaying these out in public so flippantly. 

He gets the same sense, and is already packing them away. 

There is absolutely no way that egg could be concealed on his person, it's massive. 

"No idea. Found it in the thing's lair in a pit of something... bubbly." It had been a pool of black brackish water that seethed and smoked exceedingly. "Hasn't moved. They say they can take years to hatch, but I bet you anything that's just a guess. Scholars make half this shit up." He's slurring his words now. "No idea what I'll do if it does hatch. 'Hey dragon kid, sorry I killed your mum- your dad? I don't actually know?'" he bursts out laughing. 

She stares at him, wide-eyed, before nervously starting to giggle. And she cannot help it. Against all her better wisdom, soon the pair of them are doubled over, guffawing to themselves as if having been told the funniest joke in the world.

There are tears in Eloise’s eyes when their fit calms down, and her cheeks and neck are flushed with the struggle to breathe. “Perhaps– perhaps you should take it to a wizard. I am certain they will know what to do.”

He sighs. "Indeed. I... wish I knew one I trusted with it." 

She furrows her brow, deep in thought.

In the corner of her eye, people are staring. She sees a hooded man whisper into the ear of a friend, and something twists in her stomach. Her very nauseated, ale-filled stomach.

Voltur has attracted too much attention.

“Perhaps it would be better to discuss this on the journey home?” Her question is pointed. 

He gets to his feet without staggering very much, and holds out his arm. Then, after a moment, he half-retracts it. "Would you rather not take my arm, in fact?"

She tries to rise, and the world spins. “No. No. Just… act entirely natural.” Her voice is pale, and she snatches back Voltur’s arm in a tight grip. 

Dear gods, how do her brothers do this every night? She knows, they think they’re so subtle—

“…How does one walk?”

He steadies himself. "One foot in front of the other. Left, then right. I think."

He can get them out of here. He doesn't really notice Eloise's weight, even if she stumbles against him. She's so small. 

He smiles to himself a little. 

“Do you have a Bag of Holding?” she blurts out, when they are sufficiently out of earshot of that fascinating establishment and she has grown accustomed enough to the pattern of walking in a not so  straight line.

He may be weaving a little as well as they make their way down the street. Back towards - thing. Big house. 

"Oh, yeah. Found it in the hoard as well. Got some kind of runes stitched on it. 's only small. Keep it in m'pocket, s'handy for keeping things." He yawns hugely. 

She is stunned for a moment, but less so now. She is growing accustomed to being surprised by him. “You are…”

There are no words for it.

“Unbelievable.” Her voice is soft.

And then she clears her throat and blushes, and carries on with the matter at hand. “Well, we should do shomething about that dragon egg. It could hatch any day! Tomorrow, even!”

He shrugs. "Not sure I believe it mmyself. And confused. Those aren't the same. It's strange learning to be different. One of you. The egg! Yes. Not sure what. Don't know what makes them hatch." He hiccoughs. 

“Well… perhaps if we keep it very warm? I really do think we should find a wizard. Perhaps– there are some wizards my family consults, sometimes, maybe them? No– then my mother will surely find out.” She mulls it over as though it is the largest thought of her life. Her brow scrunches cutely. “Ah! You are a duke. Surely you can hire a great wizard.”

He laughs uproariously. "That's right! I can have a, a court wizard- oh gods I don't know how you get a court wizard. Uh. Yeah, I guess I should ask Talen about that. I probably need a good one. Hmm. I'll tell her we need to be able to trust them with a dragon egg."

“Yes! Yes, someone trustworthy. You are already shaping up to be rather a wise duke, you know.” She pats him clumsily on the shoulder.

He pats her hand awkwardly where it rests on his shoulder. "Thank you. That- that means a lot." He smiles at her a little lopsidedly. 

“You really aren’t like the others, are you.”

"Nah. Don't think I'm going to be. Best I can do is try an' fake it."

She finds herself shaking her head. “No. No, I… like that. You are all sort of… refreshing, I suppose.” And then she turns pink and they have arrived at her garden wall. “Gift me a lift?”

"Oh. Thank you." For some reason he's a little flushed. "Of course." She really is very light.

“Release my sister. Now.”

She screams, losing her balance.

He jumps, but springs forwards and catches her neatly. Then sets her down carefully on her feet. 

"Ah! Anthony, wasn't it? Good to see you again."

She gives Anthony a huge, perfectly casual smile. In reality, it is more like a grimace. Remembering her place, she quickly steps away from Voltur. “Brother! It is not what it looks like. The duke and I were just—”

He narrows his eyes at Voltur, and grabs Eloise’s arm and tugs her roughly behind him. He smells the alcohol on her, can smell it from a mile away. “Oh, I know exactly what it looks like, sister. You, Your Grace. You are new to this ton, and that is the only reason I am not challenging you to a duel this very instant. But if you have tainted my sister’s virtue, if you have so much as looked at her in the wrong way—”

“Anthony! Nothing like that happened!” Eloise cries out in disgust.

A muscle feathers in his jaw. He glares at Voltur. “You may be a duke in name, but you still bear the manners of a commoner. Stay away from my family.”

It might be the drink or he might just be sick of this, but something ugly flares up in him and he takes a step forwards, his lips stretching in a cruel smile. His voice is low, rough, no trace now of trying to talk like the nobs do. "Nah, these are manners of a Duke now. Know why? You're a gen'leman, you know what that word means in the old language, right? Warlord. Because all you lily-livered little bitches could do when the swords came out was cry. Never spilt blood before, have you?" 

There's something on his face now that's dark and wild, out of place with his fine clothes and neat-trimmed beard. His eyes aren't focussed on Anthony any more.

"The only reason I'm not showing you what a real fight looks like is because you're a little boy who doesn't even understand what he's threatening to do. So you don't scare me with your prancing about in padded jackets and your nasty words and your bendy little swords, and I'm not just talking about the fucking joke you call duelling. Maybe your great-whatever-grandad had some balls, but what have you done to talk to me like that, Viscount? You're lucky your sister's got brains or you'd all be fucked."

He yells and charges.

Eloise holds him back, but only barely. She sees a figure out of the corner of her eye– “Benedict, help me!”

What is happening?!

Benedict doesn’t waste time asking questions. He’s too drunk for that, after the night he and Anthony had—

He helps Eloise drag their brother inside, casting a look back at Voltur.

She looks back at Voltur too. Helpless.

Disappointed in him.

The door to Bridgerton House shuts heavily.

...

...

All right, he probably could have handled that better. 

There is shouting behind the door. Other voices join in. It’s too muffled for Voltur to make out – he hears Eloise’s voice just as loudly as Anthony’s, and Benedict’s, perhaps trying to mediate, and then– is that Violet? Lights come on in the parlour.

It is cold outside. Voltur can feel it even with the warm delusion of the drink. 

Right. He should knock on the door and explain and apologise, unravel this whole mess before it turns into some kind of stupid aristocrat feud or something. 

...Shouldn't he? 

Oh gods, what if that breaks a rule too. 

He hesitates. 

“You wish to be one of them. You seek integration,” the elf had said.

“I can teach you.”

Gods fucking damn it. 

He turns on his heel and strides away from Bridgerton House.

"Ah, Duke Voltur," she says warmly, as though this is a pleasant surprise and she hasn't kept him waiting in the Uncomfortable Hallway for the last twenty minutes. "Do sit down. Have some tea." It's the most complicated array of cutlery possible, which is technically only called for if she entertains an emperor or a deity, but then, she is the queen and she does what she likes. 

And she doesn't like to be subtle. 

"I trust you are settling in to life in the city well?"

Gods damn the woman. 

Well, two can play this game. She can play it better, but he saved her country and he's spent hours talking strategy with her and he's even, technically, fought beside her. Well, not beside her, she was under armed guard half a mile away from the battlefield while she cast her spells because apparently she can't do anything under pressure, but the point is, he's not scared. 

Mostly not scared. 

He ignores the silverware, grabs a handful of cake with his fingers, and answers with his mouth full, "Your Majesty?" 

Her lips compress into a thin line. 

This is one of the few downsides of being queen: one cannot rule alone, and one cannot rule without an army, which means one cannot perfectly control everyone. 

"There have been no issues?"

"Ma'am." His voice is very neutral. He looks at a spot just behind her left ear. 

"Lady Danbury told me a rather interesting story late last night, Your Grace. Very late last night, in fact. She was rather disturbed, it seems."

"I'm sorry to hear it, Your Majesty. Lady Danbury was very kind." Still so so neutral. He chews cake. 

"Lady Danbury had me awakened, in fact, to tell me that she was afraid for the future of the Bridgerton family, after certain rather scandalous events. Between you and the Viscount."

"Not sure what she could have meant, Your Majesty. I have no quarrell with anyone."

She does relax fractionally. She wasn't very worried, but you do have to be a little worried that maybe the kind of person who can end a civil war can also start one. She didn't think Voltur was going to demand satisfaction from the Bridgertons, or start a feud against them, but... well, it is a relief.

She doesn't let it show.

"General Voltur you have been in town for two days and you have already come to blows with a gentleman. One dreads to think what you might take it into your head to do next."

"Ma'am?"

She closes her eyes and sighs. 

In the depths of deepest rumour, in barest whispers from twisted revenants in the layered vaults below the earth, in the forbidden ruins of the lost Old Kingdom, there is enough for an inquisitive mind to guess that indeed in the days of Raikoth there was mortal magic beyond the Ninth Circle. She once considered devoting her life to piecing together, from hints and smatterings, a shadow of that glorious past. And then she decided that being queen would be more fun. But it would have meant she could have Compelled the entire country to do as she said. 

"You will make an actual effort. You have won a war and slain a dragon, you are a man of parts, it is not beyond you to engage in civil conversation with high society if you put your perfectly capable mind to it. Learn to behave, or I will have to teach you, and then I will be very annoyed and I am very good at making my displeasure known. That will be all."

"Ma'am."

He nods respectfully. 

"Thank you for your support, Your Majesty. Oh - Miss Eloise Bridgerton had some interesting ideas for making the ton better." He withdraws the copy he had written, in fine calligraphy, of Eloise's notes. "I'm sure it would make little issues like this much less frequent, if it please Your Majesty."

He flees makes a tactical withdrawal. 

Dearest gentle reader,

Much is made of the so-called vulgar mushrooms, those who have good fortune in the world of mere trade, and yet discover - unhappy strivers! - that a high position in society is a prize rather more hard-won, and beyond barter; and yet one new arrival in the ton, most unusually, finds himself at once elevated from the very gutter to a rank exceeding any but Her Majesty the Queen herself, purchased with a currency far older even than gold: blood.

While none could question Her Majesty's decision, it seems that the precipitous ascent of the newly-created Duke Voltur has already caused grave disturbance, for a man of battle does not readily lay down arms. I refer, of course, to the positively shocking animosity suddenly developed between the fledgling Duchy of Volturgard, and one of our most beloved families, the Bridgertons...

Gods, there's nothing for it. 

There is a house on the edge of Mayfair that does not look like it once did. A dozen different flowers bloom across it now; its trees grow now in graceful shapes, as though bowing respectfully towards the door.

His carriage draws up outside. 

There are no servants in attendance outside. 

Well, the hell with it. 

He gets out of his carriage his own self, thank you very much, and makes for the door. 

In the perfume of this garden is the faintest scent of something old and terribly beautiful, something lost and precious like a memory of youth. 

He stands for a moment, a little dazed. 

And then he simply knocks. 

The door opens, seemingly by itself. The very fabric of the house welcomes Voltur inside.

The light inside is warm and soft. That perfume is everywhere he turns, the same sweetness he can’t seem to get out of his old clothes, and it clings now gently to his skin. Strange and beautiful plants, kept indoors, reach towards large windows like the hands of a lover. Paintings line the amber-yellow walls.

The sound of a pianoforte beckons him further inside.

Of course his house is like this. Another set of clothes for the special drawer. He doesn't want everything he owns to smell of elf. 

He follows the enchanting sound, almost dreamlike. It's like nothing he's heard before, but then, the only music he used to hear involved a lot more chanting. 

He wanders into the room. 

The elf-lord’s back is turned to him. His hair is loose and golden, falling past his mid-back in waves. The sun shines upon him through a skylight of stained glass.

As though in a trance, he plays, and does not seem to notice Voltur’s presence. 

He just stands, and stares, and waits. 

Maybe this won't be so bad.

...it's beautiful. Everything. The house, the music, the elf-lord himself. Beautiful. 

He finishes the song, and turns.

The last time Voltur saw him, at the Bridgerton Ball, they were both in their finery. Now, Lord Ophel wears only a loose shirt and some breeches. It suits him more, somehow. 

There is a copy of Whistledown on the piano.

“Duke Voltur.” He rises, bowing his head. “I have been expecting you.”

"."

...Why isn't he saying anything. 

Ophel was expecting him??

He clears his throat. "I... Would like to take you up on your offer. To... Teach me."

He's staring. 

He smiles.

With an elegant hand, he lifts up the pamphlet resting where his sheet music should be. “Are you familiar with a certain Lady Whistledown, Your Grace? I admit, when I first arrived here, I did not think much of her. But I do now find her columns to be rather fascinating.”

The elf crosses the distance between them, politely offering the paper to Voltur. “Tell me, did the Viscount deserve it?”

"I am not." He takes the paper, glances at it. Spots his own name, something that's probably "Bridgerton". Of course. 

"Deserve what? I didn't even touch the man. And I wasn't going to hurt him very much even if I'd had the chance." He's seen too many young men wounded already, thank you. 

“Ha. And this had nothing to do with a certain Miss Eloise, of course?” He looks at Voltur like he is reading every single one of his little micro-expressions. It’s a little unsettling, being… scanned.

"She held him back. I really didn't understand what all the fuss was about." He still doesn't. Obviously Anthony doesn't approve of having to talk to a commoner, but he wouldn't have thought he'd be that blatant about it all of a sudden. 

He hums thoughtfully, having seemingly procured a glass of wine out of nowhere. He offers it to Voltur. “Do you wish to court the girl?”

He takes it, sips. 

...

...Actually, it isn't bad. It isn't bad at all. 

All right, one point for nobby drinks. 

"I only met her the day before yesterday."

Lord Ophel hums again, going to sit down. “Typically, when one brings scandal upon a lady, it would be the gentlemanly thing to marry her.” He gestures for Voltur to sit opposite.

"Bring scandal upon her? By the gods, man, all I did was take her out for a drink. I thought I was supposed to be a duke now? What's wrong with being seen with me?"

He sighs softly. 

“The rules of the ton may seem arbitrary, but at their core, they are built upon the very human concepts of honour and protection. You brought an unmarried lady out with you, unchaperoned, in the middle of the night, without the knowledge of her elders, into a rather… grimy establishment, I have heard. You got her drunk. She is, most likely, already suffering for it, and that is beyond the very real possibility that you might or might not have taken… liberties with her. You are new to this society, Your Grace. Its people have yet to trust you.”

His face wrinkles in honest confusion. "What? I was there. She was perfectly safe."

“I know.” He seems to take pity. “That is, in truth, a large part of the problem. You were there. You took her away. You were alone with her.”

"Ah. Yes. I see." He takes another sip. "And titled or not, my manners are too common for her family to be associated with me?" That doesn't sound quite right, but what does he know. 

“More that… you have not yet learned the way they operate. Anthony Bridgerton is an awful man at times, but he only ever acts in the best interests of his family. A more loyal patriarch you could not find.”

He pauses.

“What happened? Truly.”

He scowls. "I talked with her in the park. She had some strong ideas about how the ton ought to think better of women, so I offered to talk to the Queen about it. She had me meet her in her garden to give me her letters. I invited her out to the town for a drink. We had some drinks. Then we walked home. Then her brother intervened and started shouting about duelling, as though he knows a damn thing he's talking about, so I put him in his place and the next thing I knew he was being dragged away and this Whistledown character was writing snippy stories about me. Maybe I should've talked Anthony down, but he was the one who started with the deadly insults, here. All I said was hello."

The corners of his lips twitch. So that is what Miss Eloise does in her spare time. He likes her. As far as options go for the fledgling duke, they do seem well-suited. 

He ignores the sour feeling in his chest.

“And what did you say to him?”

He glares. "I said hello. He responded by threatening to duel me and calling me a commoner and so on. I politely pointed out some of his personal failings and said I earned it the old-fashioned way, and he just traded on great-grandaddy's past glories and didn't deserve the viscountcy. I know that part wasn't very diplomatic, but I still don't see what was wrong with 'hello Anthony'."

“Politely?” He is the picture of calm, but his words are cutting. Sharper than any sword Voltur has ever gone up against.

“Your Grace, you were unpleasant towards him and you know it, regardless of who started it or not. Note that I am referring to you by your title. Calling him by his name was a playground insult. You… are a grown man, are you not? It truly is so difficult to tell with humans.”

It is strange. Voltur is pretty sure he’s being scolded, but Ophel speaks so gently to him.

???

They do say elves are not like us, and they are not wrong. 

All right. Deep breath. He probably really can't tell how old people are.

"I think we are far enough apart in our understanding that I should be very clear. I am a grown man, yes. I know it wasn't polite to insult him, I know I shouldn't have risen to the bait, but what I don't understand is why he insulted me in the first place. At the start I did genuinely think I was being friendly. Are you suggesting it was an insult just to mention his name? We'd already met! I thought I was on his level now! I can't keep calling people Lord every time... can I?" Oh gods, if that's what all this is about...

“Calm.” He leans over and presses a hand to Voltur’s chest. It sends sparks through his body. “I am sorry that this society has left you second-guessing your every move, but spiralling will not help you. You did well explaining yourself to me.”

And then he smiles teasingly. “I see that you are not entirely a brute. We can make something out of you yet.”

He takes a deep, grinding breath. He is a soldier and a general, not a little schoolboy. Be diplomatic. "Thank you. I am told that I have my redeeming features, yes."

“And what do these unnamed people usually say?” He leans back, lounging into the velvet cushions. His eyes sparkle.

He gives him a flat look. "As I recall, it was something to do with saving the kingdom, defending the faith, and slaying the Black Wyvern Who Devours. You'd think people would say 'thank you', but you'd be surprised."

“Hm. Nothing to do with you yourself, though. How disappointing.” He tilts his head upwards. The slope of his jaw catches the light. “Are you much more than the sum total of your actions?”

He opens his mouth and then stops. He's not sure he even understands the question. Probably best to be direct. "I don't know what else you could mean."

“All I know about you is what you have done. Who are you?” His eyes pierce into him. 

Does the Duke know who he is, after years of war? Has he ever had a chance to leave the action, really?

He stares for a moment. The elf has such blue eyes, like a summer sky...

Who is he? What sort of man is he, what can be said of him, other than what he's done?

The question hasn't occurred to him before. He can't respond. 

He blinks. Perhaps this is how the elves get you, enchant you, they make you do this, this strange sort of staring at yourself until you're lost in your own head. 

"I don't know," he says shortly. 

He looks at him for a moment, unreadable. “Then you are little more than a blade to sharpen. Is that what you are telling me?”

A flush comes over his cheeks. He always feels like this around them, like the assumption is always that he's always doing something wrong according to some rules nobody ever explained made up by some dead prick pickled in shitty too-sweet wine. Who the hell died and put the elf in charge of judging the souls of men?

"Maybe. Wasn't much time for sitting with my thumb up my arse and pondering my own virtues when the war came." 

What's the elf ever done except sit around and be graceful and gorgeous?

He grins, flashing perfect white teeth.

This man is so pretty when he blushes. There is something softer to him, then. More authentic.

Good. That is, at its purest, the task at hand. He will make him do it more.

“Very well, Your Grace. Where do you most feel yourself lacking?”

He folds his arms and glowers. "I seem to keep pissing off the aristocracy."

“Good. Now say that again, properly.”

Fucking smug fucking elves. "I do not understand how to speak with members of the ton properly."

“Better.” He sits up, resting his hands on his knees. “It is all about your choice of words, what to say at the right moment. Perhaps begin by thinking. When the Viscount began insulting you, you were quick to insult him in turn. That, Your Grace, will not make you any friends.”

“Let us first examine the simpler matters. You address one by their title, unless you are granted explicit permission to do otherwise. Seeing as we are clearly going to be exposed to one another for the long term, you may call me Ophel.” He smiles softly. “Though I do find the thought of you calling me ‘My Lord’ rather appealing.”

"Hmph. You'd have to call me 'Your Grace', and I don't have any grace." At least he's allowed to use people's actual names here. 

...This is the elf being nice, isn't it. Gods fucking damn it. 

"Thank you, Ophel."

His name. It sounds wonderful, on this human’s tongue.

“I am not so sure. I watched you dance, at the ball. A little stiff, but…” The elf straightens as an idea comes to him. “There is another ball tonight, I recall. The Smythe-Smiths, if I am correct?” He stands, holding out a hand. “Dance with me. Let us practice.”

He meets his gaze, unmoving.

He didn't think it was this bad, this new-found fear of embarrassing himself. His heart is suddenly hammering and his mouth is dry - gods, this is ridiculous, he can't be afraid to dance, he's slain a dragon.

He frowns. “It is alright. It is only me. I will not judge you harshly.”

He speaks like they are old friends. Voltur feels it, strangely.

Ophel’s hand remains raised, waiting to be taken. His hands are large, but slim. Gold rings and gemstones decorate his long fingers.

He takes his hand. 

Voltur treats dancing pretty much how he treats swordplay, which is to say, technique is handy, but it's not as important as getting there with speed and power. 

He's still pretty good. He has a lot of coordination.

Music plays from some distant corner of the hall. It is no matter; Voltur need not look. These are the ways of the elves.

Ophel makes little adjustments to his stance, carefully guiding Voltur’s hands to sit more firmly on his waist. He notes every misstep, every wrong move.

“Eye contact,” he breathes.

He looks into Ophel's eyes. Deep into them. They are so, so blue, like sapphire. At this distance, he can see the tiny flecks and whorls, not quite the same shape as a human's.

His breath is shaky. 

They are so close that Voltur can count the freckles on his skin. That perfume is all he knows.

The natural flush on Ophel’s cheeks deepens. And then he speaks.

“You are not doing it correctly.”

In a cutting move, faster than Voltur’s instincts can follow, they switch positions. Ophel forces his hands away, and grabs the duke close by the waist, pulling him in firmly. 

“Hands on my shoulders. Watch.”

Before Voltur knows it, he is being swept away like a maiden in a dance.

He follows. Correctly, this time.

He smirks. “This role suits you.”

The music fades away. Ophel takes a step back, and waits expectantly for Voltur to do the same.

“Now curtsy.”

"I - what? How?"

Oh gods what?

“I jest. A bow is usually appropriate.” With his hands clasped behind his back, he demonstrates. He does not tear his eyes away.

When Voltur manages the simple act, he is rewarded with another of the elf’s approving smiles. 

“Are you hungry?”

He was a fraction of a second away from doing it. 

He needs to get out. Needs to clear his head. 

"Yes," he says immediately, instead.

“Good. I do so tire of eating alone.” He is quiet for a moment, and then his voice is kind. “Come. Have you ever partaken of elven food?”

He leads Voltur through the house. Ophel’s posture is perfectly straight, and he treads so lightly, like he never left the dance. 

"I have not. I... Think my life has been very different from anything you know." What even is elven food? 

It probably sparkles. 

He feels like a clumsy giant as he traipses after the elf. 

“I would love to hear of it, over luncheon.” 

Servants pull out chairs for them at an elaborately-laid table, and they sit. Flowers and silver dishes lay between them, and… 

Oh no. Approximately a hundred types of utensils, all waiting expectantly for Voltur to pick the correct one – and then he realises what this meal is, a sudden moment of clarity amidst the haze of elven hospitality. This is just another test.

Ophel rests his chin on his hand, blinking with long eyelashes. “Will you tell me of this life of yours?”

Good. He shouldn't start to relax. Right. Yes. 

He drags his eyes away from the flowers, from the elf's eyes. 

Steels himself, and takes a fork. 

"I didn't really know my father. My mother raised us, me and- my brother and sister. She was a washerwoman, we had very little. When I was twelve there were soldiers coming around, and I thought it'd make things easier on our mum- simpler for my mother, so I joined. Then it was just... I don't know. One day after the other. I learned. It was... Bad, in those days. Chaos. Didn't know who we were supposed to fight half the time. It was just such a... The country needed good men, loyal men to the Queen, and instead it had... jackals. In the end I was made a general. And then I could start to change things. We won the war. The next thing I knew, I was... Here."

Ophel listens closely, holding onto his every word. He regards the man before him with such fascination, like Voltur is one of those many framed canvases on the walls.

”Did you get your wish?” he asks softly. “Did you make things easier for your mother?”

"No," he says shortly, "I didn't." 

...

That's probably rude as well. But he shouldn't make the mistake be made with that blonde girl, either. These people are very fragile. 

"I made sure that she was taken care of as soon as I could. I sent money home. She will not want for anything ever again. But... For most of my life I have not known her, now." His fingers tighten on the fork, remembering. "I think she resents that I was not there." He remembers seeing her, this stranger sitting bewildered in a house where she fears scuffing the polish on all the expensive things, flinching when servants bow to her, so thin and so much less than she was, eyes rimmed forever red with tears. "I think she wishes I had been there to help. She... there is a sense in which she does not know her only son."

Only son? Voltur had mentioned a brother… Ophel does not ask. The tragedy is implicit.

“Twelve is too young for war,” he says carefully, “and too young for condemnation. Your suffering has given her a warm bed.”

And then he changes the subject, before he risks making his guest even more uncomfortable. “It is the leftmost fork you should be using, my friend.”

He snorts, but he does change forks. 

"Ninety is too young for war. Or nine hundred, as the case may be. All mortals are too young, in the end."

He chuckles wryly. “And how old are you now, General?

"Eight and twenty."

“Nine and thirty.” He smiles. “We are both young for our kin. The lifespans of men are rather tragically short, but you have much of it yet to live. You can leave the war behind, Voltur.”

His eyes dart downwards for a fraction of a second.

“That is a carving knife. It is a bread knife you want.”

...

...Should he tell him?

He changes knives, holds it in probably the wrong way. You hold a knife however makes it easiest to strike, you see...

This is an elf. Probably elves don't even have wars. He wouldn't understand. 

He says it anyway. 

"I'm... not sure I can. Not sure I want to. I don't know anything else, it was all my adult life. And..." 

He doesn't know why, but he just can't stop himself. 

"I... Ophel, I. It..." 

He's only tried to tell anyone once, and it didn't work, but now the words just spill out. 

"You hear the songs, you hear the speeches, about war, about what it makes of men. It's-" 

He's saying it all out of order. 

"I mean - you have no idea what it's like. Nobody does. Nobody who wasn't there. The number of men I watched die - there were so many. You don't realise at the time. There were- there were people I loved there. You don't stop feeling the grief, or I didn't, anyway. But when you're actually there - when it's just you and your wits and your sword and the enemy, you're so alive, everything is so bright and real, it's not, not like anything else. And then- I'm not normal. I've seen it from all the sides, foot-soldier and cavalryman and general. When you're a knight and you see all these shining rows of steel, blow on blow and charge and return and then suddenly there's spellfire and demons and- fuck, I'm sorry, I can't tell you what it's like, I'm not a poet, I'm a soldier. I- it was awful. People couldn't walk the roads in peace, you probably wouldn't be able to be here. It had to be stopped. It had to. I did everything I could to make it stop and it worked. But-" here it comes. "But sometimes I- I miss it, Ophel. I really miss it. It was real. I was a man then. Now I- I try to be the Duke and I don't know how and it's all so- so empty."

He grips his glass, drinks. It is good.

"Ant- Lord Bridgerton came at me the other night, looked like he was going to kill me. Eloise held him back but- I wouldn't have hurt him much, you understand, I was only going to take him down, teach him what fighting really means, he needs to know that. But- gods, just for that moment, it was the best I've felt in months."

Ophel listens closely. There is a silence after Voltur finishes his confession, and it presses down heavily upon them until the elf finally breaks it.

“Allow me to understand you. Your very existence since a child has been defined by the matter of life and death. The rush was written into you as though by Fate. It flows in your blood; you are a fighter, Voltur. You are a killer. You cannot change this, and do not wish to.”

He speaks matter-of-factly. His cutlery clinks as he rests it upon his plate.

“I was wrong. The war has followed you to a new frontier. So, I have a proposition for you.”

"I'm listening."

He's not a killer. He is, but - he's not a danger, not here, not now.