The Cursed Extra-Chapter 70: [2.18] The Art of the Strategic Faceplant

"Sometimes the best way to save someone is to trip over your own feet at exactly the right moment."

***

I stumbled forward.

My foot caught on what might have been a stone or possibly just air. I wasn’t certain, and I committed to the uncertainty. My body lurched in a graceless sprawl that I barely corrected, windmilling my arms for balance like a drunk stork in a hurricane.

The motion carried me directly between Vance and Rhys.

Whatever tension had been building between them shattered like glass.

"Oh! Excuse me, I was just—" I looked up, blinked with confused innocence at both of them. The expression of someone who’d just realized they’d interrupted something important.

"Rhys, right? I was wondering if you might... that is, would you mind terribly if we partnered up?" The words tumbled out too fast. Too eager. "I’m afraid I’m rather hopeless at this sort of thing. As you may have just witnessed, ha. And you seem like you might be patient with someone who’s, well..."

I let the sentence die. Offered a sheepish smile I’d spent hours perfecting.

Not too dramatic. Not too subtle. Just the right balance of apologetic and hopeful. The expression of someone who knew they were asking for charity but didn’t have enough pride left to stop.

Vance’s eyes narrowed. Just a fraction. Just for a moment. Then his expression smoothed back into aristocratic neutrality.

But I’d seen it. The flash of genuine anger as his plans evaporated.

Got you.

I could practically see the gears turning behind those cold brown eyes. The careful positioning he’d orchestrated, choosing his moment when Blackthorne was occupied. The witnesses he’d gathered to spread word of Rhys’s humiliation. The rumors he’d planned to seed afterward.

All of it rendered useless by my bumbling intervention.

And he was trapped.

To object now, to demand Rhys spar with him instead, would make him look petty. Desperate. Beneath his dignity. House Aurum’s golden children didn’t fight over scraps with House Onyx dregs. They took what they wanted when nobody important was watching.

The beautiful thing about being known as a complete disaster? People went to impressive lengths to avoid being associated with you.

Vance couldn’t claim Rhys without pushing me aside first. And pushing me aside meant acknowledging I existed. And acknowledging I existed meant lowering himself to my level.

The social math simply didn’t work in his favor.

That’s the power of being worthless. Nobody wants to touch you. Not even to get you out of the way.

Rhys looked between us. His green eyes were sharp, reading the subtext with the kind of intelligence that had nothing to do with formal education. The survival instincts of someone who grew up knowing that understanding power dynamics could mean the difference between eating and going hungry.

His gaze stayed on me a moment too long. I saw something flicker in those green depths. Curiosity, maybe. Or suspicion. The wariness of someone who’d learned that unexpected kindness usually came with strings.

"Of course," he said. Voice carefully neutral. "I’d be happy to help."

"Excellent!" I beamed at him with relieved gratitude. The smile was too bright, too intense. The kind that made people uncomfortable because it suggested desperate neediness.

"I promise I’ll try not to embarrass myself too badly. Or, well, more badly than usual. There’s probably a limit to these things, isn’t there? Some maximum embarrassment threshold where the universe just refuses to acknowledge more humiliation?" 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

Nervous babbling. Another layer of the mask. The chatter of someone who couldn’t handle silence.

Vance’s smile could’ve cut glass. "How... considerate of you, Leone. Always ready to lend a hand to those in need." Each syllable dripped condescension. "I’m sure you two will make quite the pair."

The implication was clear. Two failures deserving each other. The commoner and the academy’s greatest disappointment.

He’d lost this battle, but he got his parting shot in. Reframed the situation to minimize the damage.

Then he turned and stalked off to find another partner. Spine rigid with barely hidden irritation.

Small victory. Not decisive. But enough to disrupt the script.

Enough to introduce a variable into the equation of Rhys’s doom.

The weapon rack was a battered thing of dark wood and iron. Scarred by years of students grabbing weapons in a hurry. The practice blades were wooden with iron cores for weight, surfaces splintered from hundreds of impacts.

I selected one at random. Tested its weight with theatrical clumsiness. Held it too far up the handle, then too far down, then briefly grabbed the blade end before correcting with a startled laugh.

Rhys chose his with more care. His hands moved over the options with the attention of someone who understood that the right tool could mean the difference between walking away and being carried away.

"Thank you," he said quietly. Low enough that it wouldn’t carry to anyone watching.

I blinked at him. Expression open and guileless. "For what?"

"You know what."

His green eyes held understanding that made my mask feel suddenly fragile.

"The question is why."

Ah. There it is.

The commoner isn’t stupid. He knows what Vance was doing. He knows what I just did. And now he wants to know what game I’m playing.

Fair enough. In his position, I’d want to know too.

"I really don’t know what you mean," I said, voice pitched high with confusion. "I just needed a partner and you seemed nice and I’m absolutely terrible at approaching people so I thought if I just sort of... fell in your general direction..."

I gestured vaguely at the spot where I’d nearly faceplanted.

"...then maybe that would count as an introduction? I’m not very good at social things. My tutors gave up on me years ago."

Rhys studied me for a long moment. His expression gave nothing away.

"Alright," he said finally. "Let’s practice, then."

He took up a stance. Proper form, despite what Blackthorne had criticized earlier. The kind of stance you learned by necessity rather than instruction.

I took up something that vaguely resembled a stance. Wobbly. Wrong in at least three ways I could immediately identify.

"Like this?"

"...no. Not really. Here."