Fated Encounters

Jessamine waited for a second, sensing the other person about to walk past her.

It's got to be that man.

"Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment to spare?"

Almost a full stride past her, the man paused and turned.

"You mean—me?"

"Do you see anyone else here?"

"N-no," he stuttered, turning fully to face her. "I just never expected the scion of the di Cadenza family to ask for my time."

Jessamine's eyes narrowed.

That's the second time someone has recognized me.

I suppose I am quite famous, but still—usually people won't recognize me without an introduction.

Ah, who am I kidding. I know I have a fanbase. I just hope he's not a creep...

"You know who I am," she said, "yet I do not have the same privilege."

"And yet you're going to ask me to join the Societie Royale, same as Ms. Blackstone, correct?"

Some unknown, ancient urge sent shivers down Jessamine's spine and set the hairs of her neck on edge. His words were like daggers that cut through social niceties and spoke to the truth.

What is this feeling?

Why do I feel unsettled? Elisabeth Blackstone, by any right, should be far more intimidating.

I am a di Cadenza.

I will not fail.

"Be careful when making assumptions, as the saying goes," she replied. "However, yes, you are correct in this particular circumstance."

"May I ask why you wish to recruit me?"

There's my opportunity.

"Only if I may have your name, first."

"Caspian," he said, with a small, polite bow. "Caspian Dawson, at your service, Ms. di Cadenza."

Jessamine studied him with unbridled curiosity. Everything about his posture and attitude suggested two simultaneous, opposing emotions: self-confidence and utter relaxation.

No, those are only opposing if his self-confidence is a sham.

If it's real, then the reason he's relaxed is because he trusts his own abilities implicitly.

The speed at which he transformed his nervous, innocent freshman act into pure confidence is impressive, especially because I didn't notice it until afterwards.

"Interesting. I don't recall the House of Dawson among the peerages of Britannia."

"It's not," he replied. "I am from common blood."

That seems wrong.

He's far too comfortable around me and around the Blackstone girl to be a commoner.

He was at least raised in proximity to nobility.

"Is it true that you cannot cast magic?"

That appeared to make him falter, if almost imperceptibly.

"I cannot use chants to cast magic," he clarified. "For some reason, the magic structures always break down before they can be utilized. However, I am quite adept with the construction and usage of runic technology."

"You must have a decent understanding of magical theory," she replied. "Not many first-year students are as prepared to talk about magic structures, let alone make their own runes."

"My runes could be the height of simplicity, though."

"I somehow doubt that is the case."

Jessamine paused. The young man was polite, and had a substantial amount of physical charm, and yet something about him repulsed her in a way no other magician had before.

She studied his eyes: the easiest way to read someone's character. It's impossible for someone to control the micromovements of their facial muscles, no matter how many years of training they might have, and someone knowledgeable can use that to their advantage. In this case, that someone was Jessamine.

His eyes held intelligence, confidence, and raw determination.

A dangerous combination.

But if he cannot cast chanted magic…

Well, runic magic is faster, despite chants being more easily customized.

"Well, Mr. Dawson," she began, "if you wish to join the Societie Royale, come to the Societie house this afternoon. I'm sure you heard the details earlier."

"4 p.m., up at the northern point of Avalonne-du-Prix," he confirmed with a smile. "I'll be there."

She turned to walk away, but Caspian spoke up once more.

"Ms. di Cadenza, if I may," he said, "you still haven't answered my question."

Jessamine turned once again to face him.

Why do I want to recruit him?

The truth, then.

"You intrigue me, Caspian Dawson."

***

The car waiting for Arthur Trevena was dark, its windows tinted, with no hood ornament or identifying marks of any kind. It was, in fact, a Rolls-Royce, and a top-of-the-line model to boot. But its sole passenger had no way of knowing that, and yet he could still feel an overwhelming atmosphere of extreme luxury as he settled into the back seat.

"Please come with me, sir," the driver had said, after double-checking Arthur's identification. "I am here on behalf of His Majesty's Secret Service."

The man had produced the appropriate credentials, and reassured Arthur: "You are not in any trouble, lad, but there's someone who wishes to speak with you as urgently as possible. Your parents have been notified."

As if to cement that point, his phone had buzzed with a text from his mother.

"Arthur—if someone approaches you after class, it's okay. Go with him. It'll all make sense. I'm sorry."

Arthur had been very confused and slightly concerned, but listened to his mother and went with the man despite his reservations. The car delivered Arthur to the local airport, but not to the main terminal. Men in dark suits and sunglasses directed the car through a gate onto the airstrip itself, where it stopped in a hangar housing a private jet.

"Am I going to be gone long, sir?" asked Arthur. "Not that I mind, but I'm just beginning grad school, sir, and would prefer to avoid falling behind."

"Not at all," replied the driver. "You should be back by suppertime tonight, unless you choose to stay longer, of course."

The two men exited the car and moved towards the plane, and the driver made a small sound to get Arthur's attention.

"Incidentally, sir; my son was stationed in the Maldives three years ago. I would like to thank you for supporting our armed forces in that conflict, no matter your level of engagement."

Arthur cast his eyes downward.

"Thank you, but I really didn't do anything."

"Nonsense. You showed courage, lad, in the face of imminent death. Such courage deserves reward. Remember that, in the days to come."

Arthur was confused, but mumbled a barely-coherent "Thanks" before entering the plane.

Alone once again, Arthur picked a seat. Having always flown with assigned seating, he felt somewhat discomforted by the sudden luxury, and chose a seat further back in the jet than he would have liked—but then, remained seated, gripped by the invisible hand of embarrassment at the thought of some mysterious observer laughing at his indecision.

The flight wasn't long, and yet Arthur couldn't seem to relax.

How could I relax in this situation?!

When he arrived at Heathrow, the plane—which, he overheard, had been given priority landing clearance—taxied to another private hangar, where an identical car was waiting for him.

If the driver hadn't been a completely different bloke, Arthur would've suspected that the original car had broken every speed limit in Britannia in order to meet him when he landed.

The longer they drove, the more nervous Arthur became. And when the car eventually turned into an underground parking lot in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace, his nerves shot through the roof; his driver noticed and, with a quick smile, said, "Don't worry, son, everything's going to be just fine."

It was obvious attempt to calm the young man, but it worked nonetheless.

The experience of being ushered by a dozen black-clad gentlemen with bulky, artificial torsos—Bulletproof vests?—seemed a hallucination to Arthur, who followed the leader without protest.

They deposited him in what appeared to be an antique sitting room, a place used to entertain guests. It was well-decorated, but just a touch less luxurious than Arthur had expected, and he was surprised at his ability to be disappointed in such a situation. It's not everyday that a graduate student gets an express trip to Buckingham Palace, and when they do, such students tend to be more awestruck by the experience.

Only one in a million students my age will ever sit within these walls, he realized, though the realization was marred by the overstimulation of luxury across the entire journey.

A gentleman entered the room.

Arthur, of course, recognized the man.

Any Britannian would recognize their King.

Nearly stumbling over the corner of the chair on which he had alighted, Arthur knelt before King Uther Pendragon, first of his name, and trembled.

"My liege! It's an honor to meet you, sir!"

The King chuckled at Arthur's attempt at courtesy.

He's not too far off, though a little etiquette training will do him good.

He walked gently, but with authority, to where the young man knelt. To Arthur's astonishment, the King knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and met his questioning gaze—

"Arthur, my boy," said the King, "we have so much to discuss."