𝗶𝗶𝗶. 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲

__________________

The mask wasn't just a formality — it was a shield, a second skin. You wore it to and from the Palace, but the feeling of peeling it away was always an eerie relief as if shedding an identity that wasn't yours. The moment it came off, you weren't just a participant — you were prey, in the sense that you felt vulnerable and exposed.

The others made it easier to go along with it. You weren't alone. You were all in the same boat.

At least, that's what they wanted you to believe.

Doubts crept into your mind like whispers in the dark. You hated them. They felt foreign and invasive. Why now? After years of clawing your way here, why did uncertainty slither into your gut?

Was it yourself you doubted? Your parents?

Or... the Palace itself?

It didn't matter. You had tasks, and that meant focusing on the competition — the relentless race to be chosen. The goal was simple: open the ball with a male initiate. The best of their class. The most promising among them. You just had to be the best.

Which... might prove to be easier than you thought. Turns out, the reason you'll get this spot is the same you're even here at this age in the first place.

You're prepared. You've been prepared.

Not perfect —never perfect— but enough. Enough to be here. Enough to win. But winning required more than just precision. You had to display... emotion. An emotion you've only ever felt once. The last time you showed even a fraction of it, the leash tightened so fast, that the air in your lungs turned to ice.

And the warning had been clear.

You deserved it, but still.

How the hell were you supposed to act like you felt something for someone other than yourself when that's all you've been taught how to do?

That, and your other task. The figure from the first day —still don't know his name— told you, you'd need to find your role in this Palace. He said that like it was something specific. Honestly, the mystery was killing you. Why didn't they tell you? Did they not know, themselves? Could the figure see something in you, that you just couldn't?

There go those pesky questions again.

That brings you to your third task, one you've given yourself.

Make friends. Get to know as many initiates as you can.

Maybe that'll help. The others already talk and giggle with each other like they've known each other for years, even shared names. Why couldn't you? It'd be easy.

Or so you thought. Rather, hoped.

You shouldn't be surprised, but your classmates, the girls, they don't seem to like you very much. Perhaps, it's because the first thing you opened your mouth to ask put a strain on every girl in the room. Suggested that this dance wasn't fun and a chance to mingle, it was a competition. Another thing it might be is the fact that you don't look like any of them. You hardly look like you're from here.

But... that last part is probably just insecurity creeping in.

Mina was so damn excitable. You often overheard her yapping about her ink, how it was red and she was the only girl initiative that had it, thought it marked her as special. And it does. It has to.

You couldn't deny the urge to yap about it with her. Still, you refrained.

There was another girl. Blonde. Small but fit. You hadn't heard what her real name was. Her sharp eyes, a blue so pale, made her look cold and calculating.

More or less like you from what you've gathered from the sidelines. She's always alone, anti-social, and a good dancer. You thought, 'might as well try with her', and ended up being brushed off. All you said was 'Hi,' and she replied with...

"If you're gonna try to make friends, you should try with somebody else," she muttered, blank eyes planted straight ahead. She hadn't even looked up at you. You wondered why she assumed. Sure, that's precisely what you were going to attempt but you know for a fact you don't give off a friendly vibe. It was striking how quickly she picked up your intentions.

But even though it stung, you turned on your heels and walked away, silently, without a word, jaw clenched.

Now, though, you're to pick a dance partner from the male initiates. The top three from each class had to pick out of the ones who failed to make it to the top. You wondered who your failing partner will be.

Lady Historia walked between the two rows of initiates, between the boys and the girls, silently, as if trying to decide who would go practice for this spot respectively. Or shit, maybe her movements are designed for anticipation to prickle annoyingly at your skin. Perhaps she already knew exactly who was gonna be graced with this opportunity.

Then she spoke, "Aegis, Somnus, and Bastion, step forward."

Three from the men's side did as they were told and bowed respectfully before standing pinpoint straight. Lady Historia faced your class. "Aphelia, Ianthe, and..."

It took everything in you to refrain from biting your lip out of anxiousness.

Her gaze landed on you and lingered. You could feel the weight of it.

Then she looked away.

"Thalia. Step forward."

You felt like you were impaled on a dull blade.

Squaring your shoulders, you try your absolute best to remain as nonchalant as you usually appear. But damn, it was hard. What the hell do you mean you're not in the top three? After everything, how are you struggling?

Fine, maybe Aphelia is better than you, that makes sense. But Pieck, ... Hitch? The other day when you first danced with the boys, you hadn't a say in who your partner was. And you could not make it seem like you loved him. Maybe that's it?

But... how does that explain Aphelia? You're convinced she lacks emotion altogether, so what else could it be?

"The six of you will choose a partner out of the remaining initiates of the opposite gender," Lady Historia instructs. "The rest will dance, but they've lost the chance to open the floor. Choose wisely."

The silence was electrifying. Was this happening? Was there a chance that you'd be booted from the opportunity to open the floor? This couldn't be happening.

And it's all on chance. It's up to your fellow initiates. The decision would shape your future, and the hands that held your fate weren't yours.

The figure said to find your role. If it's not this... what the hell else could it be?

Before that thought could overwhelm you, a male initiate steps forward, eyes roaming over his potential partners, the others did the same and the ones who weren't good enough had to wait patiently to be either picked or booted.

You're among those not good enough. Hell.

The male initiate that stepped forward first was... around 6 feet from the looks of it, short blond hair that was pushed back in an undercut. Gray eyes... and he looked smug. Feeling himself, this one.

You wanted to scoff but before you could, his eyes locked with yours and your breath caught in your throat. He took a decisive step toward you and with confidence, said, "You."

You blinked.

"...Me?"

He smirked, shoulders loose and stance comfortable like he was sure of himself. "You. Eidolon. I'm Bastion. You'd make sure to remember that, hm?"

You couldn't even bother to feel bitter about his tone, he picked you. You still have a shot.

You nod once, "Bastion."

His jaw and slicked-back hair didn't go unnoticed. You didn't trust him. How his eyes bleed into yours, his body language, they were all familiar. He's the guy from initiation day, the one who intimidated you with just his unsettling aura.

Was this a coincidence?

That the two of you are now paired and will be practicing the Spiral Step for the ball that's only a fortnight from now?

You have no choice but to shake it off. And while finding your role here still weighs on you, you need to remind yourself why you're here. It isn't to make friends. It's to gain knowledge. If you can keep your nose clean and rise to the top... you can lay low enough to find things out for yourself.

Of course, you don't have much to go on... but your parents were confident that you could do it. That you'd be the one to bring fortune to the family name. That's all that matters.

Your curiosity of the Palace pumped deep into your veins, tainting your blood, and leaving a swirl of anticipation and the need to know deep in the pit of your stomach. There was so much of it you had yet to see.

So much that loomed over your head like a carrot to a horse, teasing you with the mystery that clings to the bones of this place.

After everybody's partners were picked, the six of you were free to practice on your own time until a week before the ball, when one pair would be officially selected to open the floor. The rest of the initiates, both men and women, stayed behind with Lady Historia.

You hadn't a clue what any of the male initiates real names were. You knew all of the ladies, minus Aphelia's, that walked by you, graced with the luxury of being picked to dance as of the top threes.

But you weren't surprised to see that Mina was left behind. While she was certainly singled out in some way when given red ink, perhaps she wasn't as special as you initially thought. How special could someone who wasn't picked be?

That thought was unintentionally served like a double-edged sword.

It's not like you truly believed you were better than anybody, you just had to imagine you were different. Different enough to get what you need and make your parents happy.

But you were given a second chance to dance, purely by sheer luck. If you were so special, why weren't you good enough to be one of the best in the class?

The ox-built, blond brute turned around, effectively halting the group's measured steps. He had been in front, leading you somewhere unknown even to him. A small huff of breath left his lips before he spoke. "May the best pair win," Aegis raised his hand to shake with his fellow top male initiates. Somnus and Bastion.

Something passed between Aegis and Bastion then. Something tense. Perhaps competitive. Sunlight streamed in through large windows with rectangular frames, casting shadows across the walls, including your own in the endless corridor.

Right. Everyone here made it to the top, but only one of the pairs can reign true supreme. You may have practiced together, but this was a competition.

"We will," Bastion muttered simply, surely.

His confidence was radiating from him, you'll give him that. He didn't seem nervous at all. You just hoped that wasn't a bad omen as you stepped in.

"Let's go," you spoke softly, yet there was a sharp edge to your voice.

The group separated then. Aphelia was the first to walk away — silent, as if expecting her partner to follow without a word, like a lost puppy. Then Aegis, as he gestured for his partner to join him.

That left you and him. Bastion and Eidolon. You were ready to practice, ready to secure this spot, yet something hesitant hung in the air. His proximity felt different now as he turned to face you. Only after shooing everyone else away did you realize — you weren't sure you liked being alone with him.

Bastion studied you in silence for a moment. You couldn't hide your perplexed expression, but after those fleeting seconds, he asked, "Why weren't you picked?"

"Pardon?"

"For the top three — why weren't you picked?"

You sucked in a sharp breath. There were plenty of things you could say, most of them laced with bitterness, but you settled on: "I wasn't as good as the others. Whether it's my struggle to portray certain emotions or the fact that I merely don't dance well enough, I don't know."

He hummed. "Well, if you wanna win... figure it out."

He walked past you then, leaving you momentarily stunned before you scrambled after him. "Where are you going?"

"Somewhere else," he sighed. There was no real annoyance behind it — rather, it sounded deliberate. "While you figure yourself out."

"What?" You snapped. "We need to practice. The others are already starting."

"We don't know what the others are doing," he countered instantly, turning and stepping closer. "And besides — practice what? Your failure? As someone who made it to the top three, I suggest you listen to me." He loomed over you now, forcing you to look up at him. "And do as I say. You have no room to decide what we do or when."

Silence settled over you. Your lips pressed together, your jaw clenched as you glared at him. He smirked, eyes flicking to your lips before locking back onto yours. "What, cat got your tongue? Good. You're much more attractive when you're silent," he murmured, his voice dipping into a lower pitch. "When we meet again, I expect a definite answer. The faster you figure it out, the faster we can get to work and secure the top spot. How's that sound, hm?"

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, hands slipping into his pockets as he walked away.

Your fists clenched at your sides, your throat tightened, and a million emotions swirled within you — confusion at the forefront.

What was his problem?

You walked. Where? You weren't sure. Your feet had taken on a will of their own, storming forward in defiance, desperate to put as much distance between you and Bastion as possible. If anger were the emotion that needed to be portrayed in this dance, you would have mastered it effortlessly.

The corridor stretched ahead, long and silent. As you passed by towering windows, your gaze flickered to the world beyond, but nothing anchored your thoughts — they were spinning too fast, too erratic. The quiet down here was unsettling. Not even the faint murmurs of distant conversations reached your ears. Only the rhythmic pitter-patter of your footsteps filled the space, each step landing with sharp finality against the polished floor.

Eventually, you wandered into a grand, open chamber within the Palace, its walls adorned with regal paintings. The sheer opulence of the room caught you off guard, tugging at you like an invisible force — a vortex, pulling you in deeper. You drifted forward, drawn to the artwork, each piece demanding your attention in a way that made everything else momentarily fade.

Royal history lined the walls — each stroke a defining moment frozen in time. You took note of the colors, the textures, and the delicate interplay of light and shadow. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you reached out, the pad of your pointer finger tracing the face of a young boy surrounded by his stoic family. Your gaze lifted.

Above it hung a much larger painting.

Striking. Jaw-dropping.

Not just because it was beautiful, but because it resonated with you in a way that sent a sharp jolt through your body. It nearly knocked you off your feet.

Sharp, viridian eyes stared back at you, piercing, familiar. A sudden pain tugged at your brain, sharp enough to make you lift a delicate hand to your temple. Furrowed brows. Parted lips. You stared up at it, heart hammering, breath shallow. The colors were vivid, painfully familiar — so much so that it was unsettling.

You couldn't reach the painting, couldn't trace its lines like you so desperately wanted to.

You've sketched this face before. Hours spent bent over sketch paper, multiple failed attempts, the quiet frustration of trying to capture something that felt just beyond your grasp. But you did it. The finished drawing lay tucked away somewhere safe in your apartment. It wasn't this painting you had sketched, no — yours was a different moment. A moment that had unfolded only in your dreams.

Yet the features were unmistakably the same.

This painting carried an entirely different energy. Somber. Stoic. Elegant and proper. No smiles. Unlike yours, which had depicted something warmer. Softer. Happier.

But how?

This person was real — no longer a figment of imagination. And yet, you had never met him. You would remember if you had. Wouldn't you?

A step backward, involuntary, gave you a better view of the piece.

Your gaze flickered downward, to the small gold-plated bar beneath the painting. An engraved name. A name you knew. From textbooks. Sparse records, minimal photographs. Just one image — him as a boy. The one you had just traced with your fingertips.

The son of King Grisha Jaeger and Madame Carla.

He's—

You whipped around, a sudden wave of unease clawing at your chest. You needed to leave. Go home. Bastion had ditched you; maybe practicing in the quiet of your apartment was the better choice.

But before you could take another step, a presence —summoned as if by unseen forces— stood just inside the chamber.

Watching you.

Intensely.

A shiver ran down your spine.

You stood rigid, as still as stone. You resisted the urge to dart frantic glances between the painting and him, to make sure you weren't completely losing your mind. Would he find that disrespectful? What was he doing here? Was it normal to be graced with his presence like this — so soon?

You hadn't expected to catch even a glimpse of him until the ball. So why was he here? Were you even allowed down here? There was too much you didn't know, and it took everything in you not to spiral into panic as he walked forward, his movements swift, deliberate.

He was closing the distance too quickly. You instinctively stepped back —a few small, staggered paces— confused, breath hitching, your voice caught in your throat. He didn't stop, not even when he was right in front of you.

Before you could fully process what was happening, his fingers gripped your chin — firm, almost rough, tight enough to dance along the edges of pain. He tugged you close, his rings cool against your warm, dark skin, pressing in just enough to remind you they were there. So close you could smell him — something dark, rich, like aged leather and lingering spice.

A pitiful whimper slipped past your lips before you could swallow it back.

He didn't speak. He only studied you, his gaze dragging over your features, inspecting every detail as though committing them to memory. His other hand came up, fingers curling gently around your throat, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. He could feel each panicked heartbeat thrumming beneath his touch.

Yet you remained frozen, eyes locked onto him, furrowed brows betraying your uncertainty.

Then, suddenly, his head dipped lower. You stiffened as he rested in the crook of your neck, inhaling — slow, controlled. His breath ghosted against your skin, warm, steady, deliberate. You felt him take you in, and all you could do was stand there, too stunned to move, too astounded to speak.

Was... Eren Jaeger... holding you right now?

After a long, weighted pause, he straightened, fixing you with a look you couldn't decipher before murmuring, "You shouldn't be in here."

His voice was low, husky.

It took you a second to remember how to use your own. "I-I apologize, sir..." you muttered, still dazed, still staring up at him.

He hadn't let go. He was too close. Far too close.

You almost wanted to ask him to release you — but the words never formed, never even touched your tongue.

"Watch yourself, Y/n."

The warning reverberated through you, settling deep in your bones. Before you could grasp the meaning, he let go. Abruptly. As if an unseen force was pulling him away.

"W... Wait, how do you know my name?" The words tumbled out, barely above a whisper, carried by the chamber's echo.

He paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder. His viridian eyes —startling, luminous even in the dim light— flickered with something unreadable.

"Apologies, Eidolon," he corrected smoothly, voice a deep rumble, dismissing your question with ease.

Then he kept walking. Farther and farther away with each step, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, thoughts racing.

𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘉𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴? 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘴, 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘯𝘶𝘴? 👀

Bastion, BAS-chun (ˈbæs.tʃən) or BAS-tee-uhn (ˈbæs.ti.ən)

Aegis, EE-jis (ˈiː.dʒɪs), or AY-jis (ˈeɪ.dʒɪs)

౨ৎ 𝘇𝗮𝘆𝗮