The ease of the strong.
It was unmistakable in Alice.
From a distance, it might have been mistaken for arrogance. But coming from her, it wasn’t that at all—it was the natural dignity of a noble who had never once doubted her place in the world.
Eyes steady with self-assurance.
A straight back that never bent unnecessarily.
Confidence radiating from every small, composed movement.
It suited her almost too well.
’...No. This isn’t the time to admire her.’
Was now really the moment to be standing here, appreciating Alice’s presence?
Chasing duels. Provoking pride. Walking straight toward disaster.
I already knew how this ended.
Expulsion.
A stern "recommendation for self-reflection."
And somewhere on the road back to her family estate—a ’mysterious’ accident that no one would investigate too deeply.
Before her pride hardened into true arrogance, I had to stop her.
’For Alice, oratory is a solution to problems—second only to dueling.’
If I continued arguing plainly, it would be pointless. She would listen politely, then discard my words without a second thought.
What she needed wasn’t persuasion.
It was contrast.
What oratory could do—what dueling could not.
And for that, I first had to make her understand why she needed it.
"Your words are correct, my lady," I said calmly. "There’s no reason for you to concern yourself with those beneath you."
Alice inclined her head slightly, satisfied.
"You grasp things quickly," she replied. "As expected."
"But," I continued without pause, "what if the problem lies above you?"
That caught her.
Her brows knit together almost imperceptibly.
"...Above me?" she echoed.
"Yes," I said. "Those you cannot challenge to a duel."
I took a step closer, lowering my voice—not conspiratorial, but deliberate.
"For instance, Duke Draken. A man you cannot strike down with force, no matter how skilled you are."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Or," I added, letting the words settle before continuing,
"someone who holds power not through strength, but through position. Someone like the Crown Prince."
The effect was immediate.
Alice’s hand clenched into a fist.
She tried to conceal it, slipping her right hand behind her back, but the faint tremor in her arm betrayed her.
I pretended not to notice and let out a slow sigh.
"Blades are honest," I said. "They decide things cleanly. Win or lose. Live or die."
Alice didn’t interrupt me.
"But words," I continued, "are dishonest by nature. They bend, twist, and linger. They can wound without leaving a scar—and kill without ever drawing blood."
Her lips pressed together.
"You’re suggesting," she said coolly, "that I lack the ability to deal with such people."
"No," I replied at once. "I’m saying your usual method doesn’t apply to them."
Silence stretched between us.
I met her gaze directly.
"You can defeat a knight in a duel," I said. "You can silence an insolent noble with your reputation. But when someone outranks you—when they smile while pushing you toward a corner—you cannot draw your sword."
Her eyes flickered.
"Do you think," she said quietly, "that I haven’t realized this?"
"I think you’ve realized it," I answered. "But you’ve been relying on endurance instead of preparation."
That struck deeper than I expected.
Alice exhaled slowly, shoulders rising and falling once.
"A weapon that leaves no evidence," I continued. "One that allows you to push, corner, and dismantle someone who believes themselves untouchable."
She turned slightly, looking out over the hall where nobles were still whispering among themselves.
"...Words are unreliable," Alice said at last. "They can be twisted."
"Exactly," I replied without hesitation.
Good.
She was following.
I could almost feel the moment the idea began to take root—not acceptance, not agreement, but curiosity. For Alice Draken, that alone was progress.
"It’s a dilemma for me as well," I continued, keeping my tone light, almost casual. "My fiancée—Lady Amelia—is from a higher-ranked earl’s family. Settling disagreements through duels or sparring isn’t exactly practical. Human relationships are... unpredictable."
"I would accept it, though," Alice said flatly.
I paused.
"...You would?"
She nodded once, utterly serious. "If someone challenged me honestly, I wouldn’t refuse."
I exhaled quietly.
That was exactly like her. Straightforward to a fault.
"But Lady Amelia wouldn’t," I said after a moment. "That’s why we learn oratory."
Alice’s brow furrowed slightly.
"Oratory?"
"To dress logic with just enough exaggeration that the other side nods along before they realize they’ve already agreed," I explained. "It works regardless of the other person’s strength, status, or power."
She crossed her arms. "And if you fail?"
"Then you risk provoking them," I admitted. "Words can soothe—or they can sharpen into knives."
That earned a small hum of acknowledgment.
I went on, careful not to sound like I was lecturing her.
"Think about it. Political marriages are built on compromise. Differences of opinion are inevitable."
Alice’s eyes drifted downward, unfocused.
"...Is that so?"
"Yes," I said gently. "We can’t just swallow everything. If something is wrong, we have to express it somehow."
She remained silent, but I could tell she was listening.
This wasn’t about Amelia.
And it wasn’t about me.
This was about Alice herself—about the way she endured things she shouldn’t have, simply because she believed that endurance was strength.
I chose my next words carefully.
"Strength isn’t only about striking harder," I said. "Sometimes it’s about making the other person realize they’re cornered—without ever drawing a sword."
Alice let out a quiet breath.
"...You’re saying I rely too much on force."
"I’m saying," I corrected, "that you already have more weapons than you think."
Her gaze snapped back to me.
For a brief moment, something sharp flickered behind her eyes—surprise, perhaps. Or irritation.
Then she looked away.
"...You speak as if you’ve seen this happen before."
I smiled faintly. "Let’s just say I’ve seen what happens when people stay silent for too long."
That was true.
Just not in a way I could explain.
She didn’t press me further.
Instead, she straightened her posture, expression thoughtful, the edge of irritation dulled into something colder and more deliberate.
"Words can be tools," she murmured. "Or weapons."
"Exactly."
A pause settled between us—not awkward, but heavy with unspoken reflection.