Fickle Fate

"Well, what do you think? A charming proposal, isn't it?"

Icilia stood on the banks of a quiet stream, looking at the young man before her with a flirtatious gaze. 

He had short, dark-red hair, white, red-streaked eyes and a pale complexion that bordered on sickliness. Despite being only fifteen, he had a haughty bearing that would put any older aristocrat to shame.

"Me? Cooperating with a ragged whore?" He chuckled, oozing contempt. "Get over yourself, wench."

She returned his scorn with a sigh. "What's with these noblemen and glaringly feigning disinterest? Is your pride that far up your ass? I'm not asking for charity, you know." 

"As if I'd sully my family's name by working with you," he spat.

"The family that you fled?" She grinned, her prominent red eyes deepening. "We're alike in a way you don't fully fathom, Harpax Celaeno." 

Harpax stifled his surprise at her knowing his identity, frowning. "What do you mean?"