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Felix Ark Redill had grown accustomed to being watched. His days always consisted of a steady rhythm of gazes; calculating, condemning and cautious. Courtiers measured him for weakness, rivals for advantage, and sycophants for an opening to ingratiate themselves whenever they can. Even at Serendia Academy the weight of attention never left his shoulders. The place was meant to let him breathe a little freer for a short while but unfortunately that wasn't the case. Somehow, these situations made him attuned, almost unconsciously, to the direction of every gaze in a room he is in.
Which was precisely why Monica Norton puzzled him.
The silent treasurer sat at the edge of the council table, drowning in stacks of paper as if the work might swallow her whole. She did not chase attention, nor did she ever wield it in the way majority of the female nobles did. If anything, she seemed to recoil from it; always shrinking into herself whenever attention turned her way.
And yet—he noticed her.
It had begun with the smallest of details. Like, in the way her quill hovered an instant too long before she wrote as if each number she tallied was a battlefield to cross and the way her fingers trembled whenever she was called to speak.
Once he had compared her to a timid squirrel and truth to be told, the comparison still stands. Like the little creature, she is so desperate to go unseen that she only became more noticeable. Whenever he attempted to draw her into conversation, she responded in the same manner and always with lowered lashes as though even her words might vanish if spoken too loudly.
Most of the time, people misunderstood their own worth. Monica Norton was not radiant like Bridget Graham, nor flamboyant like Elliot Howard, nor poised like Cyril Ashley. She was quieter than all of them, quieter than silence itself, but the stillness she carried was magnetic; almost alluring.
It unsettled him how often he caught himself watching her. Watching the way she held her ledger as if it were a shield, or the faint smile she tried to hide when Lana Colette whispered something encouraging beside her.
She was unremarkable and yet he found his eyes wandering back to her again and again for Monica Norton was the sole person in his circle who was an enigma to him. Unlike everybody else, she wanted nothing from him. She only wanted to fade into the background and that very wish made her presence impossible to ignore.
And perhaps that was the root of it, Felix thought.
That night, Felix went to the festival under the cover of a simple disguise.
Like most festivals, the city streets stretched before him like a painting come to life. Colorful banners fluttered from where they were strung from lamp to lamp. Several stalls crowded the sidewalks. Some stalls are covered with colorful clothes and accessories while the others were filled with the sweet aroma of flavors of food.
He had come here to enjoy himself. The food, the bustle and the rare sense of freedom where no one was weighing him down with expectations.
That was supposed to be the whole point. And yet, even if he was surrounded by the laughter and the noise of the festival, his gaze somehow strayed pass it to something he was not expected to see. A slender figure, slipping quietly through the crowd as though she didn’t belong to the noise at all.
Monica Norton.
She had tried to disguise herself ----- a plain cloak pulled close, the hood pulled up, shadowing her hair ---- but he would have known her in a crowd twice as thick. Maybe it was the small, uncertain steps that made him notice her. Maybe.
She moved as though the festival were a battlefield and every burst of laughter a cannon aimed her way.
And she was not alone.
Walking beside her was a young man who looked a few years older therefore definitely not a student at the academy. He is tall, dark-haired, and personality far too relaxed for the press of the crowd. He would occasionally offer her food with casual ease from the paperbag he carried on his hand, as if the gesture were a natural extension of long familiarity. To Felix’s surprise, Monica accepted. She would look at him with a soft expression; she would even smile fondly and it was enough to ignite something sharp in his chest.
The prince slowed his pace, half-hidden by a merchant stall. He told himself it was curiosity or vigilance; his council treasurer deserved protection from strangers who might have ulterior motives after all. But that didn't explain the odd twist of jealousy he felt at the sight of her smiling at another man; a smile that is barely directed at him.
Felix prided himself on composure. He did not let temper rule him, not even when half the court thrived on watching him falter. But jealousy, that was a different beast; it is quieter and harder to pin down. It crept in as he watched the man lean close to say something and watched Monica’s shoulders tremble in laughter she rarely let slip within council chambers.
Who was he? A suitor? A secret beau she had hidden under all that timid silence? The thought made Felix’s jaw tighten.
For a girl who insisted she was “not worth looking upon,” Monica seemed to gather eyes with alarming ease.
And it was not only this stranger.
Felix’s mind began to catalog them; the faces, gestures, moments he had noticed but never strung together. The boy from Minerva who lingered near her after the incident with the imposter teacher. The chess-playing student who had all but proposed marriage. Elliot, with his casual gestures that always seemed to shield her. Even Cyril, who had earned a change in the way she addressed him—Lord Cyril, as though he had moved into a closer orbit around her quiet world while he was still 'Your Highness'.
The realization startled Felix.
While he had been content to simply watch, others had already been moving toward her. And she, his silent little squirrel, did not even seem to notice the gravity she possessed.
The memory came to Felix unbidden, surfacing now as he shadowed Monica’s laughter with that unfamiliar man at the festival. He had seen it before, hadn’t he? That look in another boy’s eyes—the look of someone who had already marked Monica Norton as significant.
Bernie Jones.
The incident with the imposter teacher had rattled the council in ways few dared admit. Felix still remembered the fury in his own veins when danger had crept so close to his circle. But it wasn’t his fury that stuck with him; it was the aftermath. The way Bernie, unassuming and quiet until then, lingered by Monica as though a tether bound him there.
Felix had not meant to notice. He was, after all, a prince—there were larger matters demanding his attention. Yet his eyes had betrayed him, following the subtle gravity between treasurer and boy.
It had been in the infirmary after the chaos. Felix had arrived late, delayed by reports and demands, only to find Monica already seated on the cot, pale but unharmed. And beside her—Bernie Jones, holding himself stiffly as though afraid to be caught but unwilling to leave.
They had been talking in low voices. Not the stilted, obligatory words mostly directed at Monica, but something quieter, easier, shaded with concern. Felix had caught only fragments as he paused in the doorway—Bernie asking if she was truly alright, Monica answering with the same small, awkward honesty she carried everywhere.
And then, she asked why he did what he did. The answer that escaped the boy's lips were simple yet somehow it didn't settle well with him:
"So that every time you look back at it, you'll thank me."
That boy’s gaze had lingered on her longer than propriety allowed. It was not the hungry gaze or even boastful. It was just... steady and intent, as though he had found something worth protecting.
Felix had felt a strange prickling in his chest but he dismissed it quickly. He told himself Bernie was simply grateful. Perhaps Monica had helped him in some way during the ordeal. Perhaps it was nothing at all. But the image remained: Monica ducking her head at a quiet word completely missing the soft look in Bernie’s laced something unspoken.
And now, seeing her laugh at the festival with another man, Felix realized it was not an isolated event. It was a pattern.
Bernie Jones was not the only one.
Felix drew back from the crowd as the voices and colors of the festival blurred around him like a haze. He was not accustomed to this role; the role of standing on the outside and watched others draw close to what his gaze had long claimed in silence. Monica Norton, timid as she appeared, seemed to gather loyalties and affections without the faintest awareness of it.
And Felix… Felix could not quite decide whether that obliviousness made her more maddening or more irresistible.
Felix told himself he was only ensuring her safety; a prince had duties after all and the festival streets were thick with jostling strangers. However, the uncomfortable truth sat in his chest as he trailed Monica’s small figure through the crowd --- careful to keep and far enough back to remain unseen.
When a group of rowdy revelers surged past --- some were laughing loudly and waving mugs of cider ---- Felix saw how the dark-haired man had claimed a place at her side, reached down and clasped Monica’s hand, guiding her gently but firmly through the press of bodies.
Felix’s steps faltered. His gaze locked on their joined hands then on the faint tremor in Monica’s shoulders as she allowed herself to be led. She seemed to look flustered, but not because of the contact but in that way she always was when the world pressed too close to her. She did not pull away. She did not even seem startled as if guiding her through chaos was the man's natural right. And the man seemed to know it too
A pulse of heat rose in Felix’s chest, quick and sharp. He did not like this.
And yet, even as jealousy coiled tighter, another memory surfaced; another boy who had dared draw close to her in a way Felix had never managed.
Robert.
The foreign noble whose sharp wit and sharper tongue had made him a nuisance more than they want to admit. Felix had tolerated him for the sake of diplomacy, nothing more. Well, that was until the chess match.
He remembered it vividly: the great hall hushed around them while chess pieces gleamed like soldiers on parade. Monica had been drawn into the game, almost against her will. Her hands trembled as she placed her opening move. But then something had shifted. With each passing turn, the nerves seemed to melt away, replaced by a concentration so deep it made Felix’s breath still in his throat.
She had played brilliantly, quiet yet with bravado. It was methodical and cunning and it unraveled Robert’s strategies one by one. Even Felix had found himself leaning forward, entirely captivated; as if each piece she moved revealed some hidden facet of her mind that he had never seen before.
And Robert—Robert had seen it too.
When the game ended, when Monica’s shy hands toppled his king, Robert had not been angry. He had smiled, wide and startlingly genuine. And then, with a boldness that made half the council choke, he had asked for her hand in marriage.
Felix remembered the silence that had followed. Her face had gone white as parchment upon hearing the proposal and she stammered, shook her head, and muttered something incoherent. But Robert had only laughed at her reaction and treated her refusal as a challenge.
It had unsettled Felix deeply, though he had hidden it well. Watching her now, weaving through the festival with another man’s hand around hers, that same unease returned—sharper, heavier.
She thought herself unnoticed and yet people are drawn to her like moths to a flame. A flame she didn't even know she carried.
Felix clenched his jaw as he followed.
He will not lose sight of her.
The stranger tightened his hold on Monica’s hand as they slipped free of the drunken crowd, and Felix’s eyes narrowed.
It was absurd. He had no claim over her --- no right to feel the curdling heat that rose in his chest at the sight before him and yet the feeling remained, gnawing at his composure.
He followed at a measured distance from the two, blending easily with the crowd. To any onlooker, he was just another young noble taking in the festival’s offerings. Inside, however, he catalogued every detail, every moment of familiarity this man dared to display.
His mind, restless, pulled at another thread from memory. Another figure who had unwittingly stirred this same irritation in him.
Elliot Howard.
Unlike Robert’s blatant proposal or Benjie’s soft yet lingering gazes, Elliot’s gestures were... far more difficult to define. He had a way of inserting himself into Monica’s orbit without even realizing he was doing it. Even from the very start.
Felix remembered one particular afternoon in the council chambers. Monica was carrying a stack of ledgers nearly taller than she was with the grim resolve of a knight facing down a dragon. Elliot, who happen to stroll in, had spotted her dilemma. Then without even pausing to think, he had lifted the ledgers from her arms with a grin, muttering something about “leaving the heavy lifting to the grandiose.”
Monica had startled, then ducked her head in flustered gratitude. Elliot had shrugged it off with his characteristic charm as he set the books onto the table. To him, it was nothing; like chivalry ingrained that came naturally as breathing. But Felix noticed the way Monica’s shoulders eased at the gesture.
Then there was that time after a storm that left the courtyard sodden. Felix had caught sight of Elliot casually holding his cloak out like a barrier while Monica navigated the slippery stones. She hadn’t even realized he was shielding her path from the splattering mud, but Felix had. Every gesture had been unintentional—yet that made them all the more insidious.
Because Elliot never sought her out. He never lingered like Bernie nor declared himself like Robert. He simply was, and Monica responded to that ease as though it were a language she understood better than any other.
And now, watching her walk hand in hand with this unfamiliar man through the festival stalls, Felix felt the weight of it. One by one, without effort or design, these boys were being drawn to her. A treasurer who wanted nothing more than to disappear was instead becoming the axis around which their attentions turned.
Felix’s pulse quickened, sharp with realization. He had spent too long merely observing, too long content to let others circle her while he kept his distance. If he continued this way, he would be nothing but another silent gaze among many.
Felix followed them past a row of lantern-lit stalls. His expression may be carefully schooled to show calmness but his pulse drummed quick beneath his skin. The stranger at Monica’s side spoke in a low voice, his words lost in the noise of the crowd but his hand is still holding hers. Monica tilted her head towards the stranger, listening to what he has to say then the faintest laugh spilled past her lips. But iwas only for a moment; gone as quickly as it came.
It stung.
And in that sting, Felix’s thoughts slipped again to yet another rival, one who had been circling her with subtle persistence: Cyril Ashley.
Cyril was deliberate in everything. His words, his bearing, even the careful precision with which he held his teacup. A noble to the bone, trained in diplomacy and deference. At first, Felix had thought Monica too timid for Cyril’s notice. But then he had begun to hear it. The way she no longer called him Lord Ashley, stiff and formal, but Lord Cyril, softer, closer. A change small enough for others to overlook, but not Felix.
It had not been a slip of etiquette. It was a shift of trust. A lowering of walls.
Felix had caught glimpses of their conversations, Cyril leaning down with quiet earnestness, Monica nodding as if his reassurances carried weight only she could measure. Others in their circle laughed, boasted, or teased, but Cyril’s voice with her was different. Intent. Purposeful. And Monica listened to him.
Felix walked; hands clenched behind his back while he drowned in his thoughts . How had it come to this? He; who was born under the scrutiny of a kingdom, a prince accustomed to being the subject of devotion and maneuvering, was left in the shadows while Monica Norton, his easily flustered, awkward, desperate to vanish little squirrel, had gathered suitors like blossoms caught in her hair.
Robert with his brazen proposal.
Bernie with his lingering eyes.
Elliot with his unthinking kindness.
Cyril with his steady gravity.
And now, this stranger with the audacity to hold her hand as though she belonged to him.
The realization settled like iron in Felix’s chest: he was not imagining it. She was drawing them; whether she knew it or not. And if he remained idle, she would slip further from his reach until she was no more than another lesson in restraint; a memory of what he might have had if he acted.
Felix fixed his gaze on her as the crowd swallowed them both in lantern light and laughter. Monica Norton. A girl who thought herself unworthy, unnoticed, invisible. Yet she had captured his attention so completely that it burned.
No more silent observation. No more letting others take the spaces he should have claimed.
If Monica was determined to fade from view, then Felix would be the one to pull her into the light.
And this time, he would not allow anyone else to take her hand.