COTE x AOT: Ashes in The Sky

I've been trying, for the damn life of me, to understand what the hell European aristocratic etiquette is all about—I've been trying since that ballroom chapter and I still CAN'T GET THE HANG OF IT.

Victoria base: French/English Nobility

Catherine's base: Russian Nobility/Eastern Europe

Frederica base: Crusader/Italian Nobility

Ludwig base: German/Austrian Nobility

[Delete later]

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Location: Lusignan Estate, Wall Rose
Year: 845
Time: A Few Days After the Fall

The Lusignan estate wasn't the largest house I'd ever been to.

That distinction still belonged to my father's—our family's—place back in Japan. Technically, by blood and legal documentation, it was my house too. But considering I spent most of my time there being lazy, monitored or ignored, I'm not sure it counts as "visiting."

This, however...

A sweeping lawn. Sculpted hedges, even a big gazebo that looked right out of a fairy tale.

This was definitely my first time at a girl's house.

I didn't really know if "girl" was the right word. Frederica de Lusignan was around my age, maybe a little older, but she carried herself like someone who'd already drafted her own funeral speech.

The kind of person who had probably never tripped in public and would prefer death over showing up late to a tea meeting.

She was very formal.

Still... technically my first time. Right?

I sat across from her in the gazebo as a breeze brushed past us. Frederica sat on the other side of the table, partially obscured by a pyramid of elegantly stacked sweets and porcelain.

A tower of sugar...

I don't know if this is hell or heaven.

Maybe it's limbo.

She murmured something softly to the servant setting down the last of the cups. I couldn't catch the words. Whatever it was, it was enough to make the girl bow her head and leave us alone without another glance.

When Frederica turned her attention back to me, she looked mildly self-conscious.

"I might've gone overboard," she said quietly. "Sorry. I'm not used to... entertaining guests."

I glanced at the small mountain of cream-filled pastries and puffed sugar-cakes crowding the edge of my saucer.

"...It shows."

Her eyes flicked up. No smile, but the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Maybe it was my imagination, but she looked annoyed.

"It's fine," I said, trying to comfort her. "This is also a first for me."

"You've never visited someone's house before?"

"Not like this. Not a personal visit."

She blinked once, surprised.

"Oh... Then I probably should've introduced you to my parents. This feels—" she looked at the spread of sweets "—excessively informal."

"No need." I tilted my head slightly. "Where are they, anyway?"

"In Karanes," she replied, clasping her hands lightly in her lap. "They're assisting with refugee coordination efforts. A lot of displaced nobles and merchants passed through after Wall Maria fell. It's been a disaster."

I nodded once. The logistical chaos of over 250,000 people getting crammed further into these walls was a nightmare that I wouldn't want to deal with. Of course, the minor houses were scrambling to protect their property and influence.

"The letters you sent," she continued, "got delayed. Completely buried in the backlogs after the collapse. I didn't get mine until three days ago."

"That explains it," I remarked, watching the steam curl from the tea. "Your note said you wanted to meet in person. Just to talk."

"Yes," she said. "That's all."

I waited.

"I mean," she added quickly, fingers adjusting the edge of her sleeve, "it's just been a while since the winter gala, and I realized I... barely spoke to you."

"...That's true."

Frederica glanced at the food again. She didn't reach for anything immediately. Her eyes flicked toward a chocolate-drizzled tart twice, then moved away.

Chocolate... That's some of the most expensive foodstuffs within the entire walls, and her family can just casually have tarts glazed with it?

What kind of industrial towns does her family run to afford this?

I reached for it.

She moved—quick, almost imperceptible—and grabbed the exact one I was aiming for.

"..."

Oh, ok.

She looked at me.

"...Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," I replied, selecting a different one. "I was just wondering if you had a favourite."

She blinked again, slowly. "Not really," she lied.

It was subtle—how her fingers clung just a little longer to the tart. She rotated the plate once clockwise before setting it back.

"..."

She liked sweet things. A lot, probably.

I filed that piece of information for later.

"So," I said after a moment, "what did you want to talk about?"

Frederica lifted her teacup with both hands, as if steadying herself. "I thought we could... reintroduce ourselves. Cover the basics. Interests, hobbies, family. Then just talk from there. Naturally. Until we run out of things to say."

It sounded rehearsed. In fact, it sounded like something written down by a maid who was tasked with preparing her for this conversation.

"That's very structured."

She looked down at her tea. "I thought it would help."

I didn't comment.

After a moment, she added, more softly, "...I'm not very good at this."

"I can tell."

"Is that sarcasm or a personal insult?"

"...Yes."

"Doesn't matter," she muttered. "If we're both new to this sort of thing, I can only assume you're just as anxious as I am."

"Anxious?" I asked. "You don't look anxious."

"Have you looked at my face?" she said flatly, setting her teacup down. She raised a hand and gestured casually. "Brows are too set. My left hand keeps hovering near the edge of the saucer. I've already tapped my thumb against my cup four times."

She wasn't wrong. All of that had happened. Just subtly enough to blend in unless you were paying close attention.

I was.

She exhaled lightly, like she'd caught herself overexplaining.

"...It's a mess on my end," she admitted. "People aren't really my thing. Small talk even less so. One-on-one conversations... Utter disaster."

Still, she pressed on.

"I suppose I'll start, then." Her tone reset, more formal. "My name is Frederica de Lusignan. I'm eighteen, soon to be nineteen. My family oversees several industrial holdings outside Karanes, mostly steel and textile processing. We also manage a few landed estates. My father is Viscount Robert de Lusignan. And..."

She hesitated.

"...I like painting. Sometimes."

She exhaled.

"That went better than last time."

"At the gala?"

"I think I said— 'Frederica. Of House Lusignan.' And then walked off."

"I don't think it went like that, but I remember you barely gave the minimum courtesy."

"I wasn't trying to be rude."

"I didn't say you were." I met her eyes again. "I assumed you just weren't used to people."

She blinked.

"That's... fair."

She then hummed once, then held her cup to her lips again—still hiding behind the porcelain rim, even as she set it down.

"Your turn," she said. "Or—your introduction, I should say. You never got the chance before that idiot servant dumped wine all over you."

"I remember that..."

I hadn't forgotten. It was the perfect distraction at the time, and I'd used it.

Still, I'd accepted this invitation to talk for a reason. Delaying it now wouldn't benefit anything.

She picked up the tart and... took a slow, careful bite, savouring the flavour.

I spoke while she chewed.

"I'm turning eighteen in a few weeks," I began. "I play piano. I do calligraphy. And I'm a baker."

I let that one hang in the air a second.

"I helped bake the sweet treats at the gala."

Frederica stopped mid-chew. Her eyes widened a moment.

She stared at me, still chewing, like a chipmunk.

"...What?"

I waited until she swallowed.

Phrasing, Kiyotaka.

"You're saying," she started again, "you're a commoner?"

"As far as I know. Unless I'm some secret noble with memory loss."

She blinked, then slowly placed the tart back onto the small plate beside her teacup. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin like it were a ceremony.

"That's... interesting," she said carefully. "From the way you carry yourself, I assumed you were from noble stock."

"Maybe I'm just good at pretending."

"Or perhaps you naturally have manners," she mused, tilting her head. "Even the way you sit is measured. It's almost irritating."

"Is it?"

She hummed lightly and reached for another tart, then paused and seemed to change her mind.

"So," she said, voice shifting slightly, "you're a baker."

I nodded. "I did mention that."

She looked at me with that same unreadable expression she'd worn since I arrived. "I might have something for you."

"What sort of something?"

She stood, posture aligning like someone who'd had it drilled into her since infancy. Out of instinct or decorum, I followed suit.

"The snacks here are mostly imported from Wall Sina," she explained, brushing an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve. "However... I've been thinking it would be convenient to make some on-site. It would be fresher, don't you think?"

She flicked away a loose lock of her hair, then met my eyes again. "Would you be willing to teach some of my kitchen staff how to recreate the sweets from the gala?"

I considered it.

"If they're capable of following instructions."

"They are." Her tone didn't allow for debate.

Then she moved toward the edge of the gazebo.

I stepped aside automatically to let her pass, but she stopped, turned her hand toward me, palm angled slightly up.

I looked at it... Then back at her.

She gave me a flat look, completely unimpressed.

"Your etiquette is worse than I thought."

"Sorry?"

"When a lady offers her hand at the top of the stairs, it is polite to take it. Guide her down."

"There are only four steps."

"Politeness isn't about logistics. It's about optics."

I blinked. But I took her hand.

Her grip was surprisingly firm for someone who looked like they'd never carried anything heavier than a teacup. I guided her down, even though her shoes were flat, and her dress wasn't nearly restrictive enough to warrant the help.

She didn't stumble or even glance down.

She just kept her hand in mine for one step too long before letting go.

"You might have the tone and speech patterns down," she said, brushing off her skirt once she was on level ground, "but you still lack the finer points of etiquette."

"Such as?"

"Gestures. Awareness. Timing." She glanced sidelong at me. "Maybe I'll give you a lesson. Before—or after—you teach my staff."

"How generous."

"I like efficiency. And I dislike being mildly embarrassed in public."

"Then I'll try not to cause you a scandal."

"Good," she said, deadpan. "I'm too young to have a social reputation ruined by an uncultured baker."

"...Uncultured?"

"By noble standards," she added. "You're refined for someone unsorted. But your reaction time is poor."

I nodded. "I'll work on my reflexes."

She stopped walking, half-turned, and gave me another once-over.

"Do," she said. "You're almost passable."

Then, without a smile or farewell, she walked ahead toward the estate.

"..."

Almost passable.

Coming from her, I assumed that was high praise.

...

...

...

I had a sneaking suspicion this so-called "casual conversation" had gone slightly off-script.

Not that I expected idle chatter. Nothing with Frederica de Lusignan had ever felt truly casual. But I also didn't anticipate walking out of this meeting with flour on my sleeves and three sets of kitchen staff awaiting instruction like it was a life or death scenario.

Apparently, when she'd said, "Would you be willing to teach some of my kitchen staff," she meant "Devote your afternoon to me without pay."

I wasn't offended but it did make me wonder if, in her world, "conversation" was a catch-all term that could mean anything from tea to conscription.

Currently, I was sitting across from her again—no longer in the gazebo, but in a smaller drawing room where she was now methodically, methodically, lecturing me on etiquette.

"For instance," Frederica said, tapping her knuckle on the arm of her chair, "if a lady of standing lowers her fan and makes eye contact, that generally signals interest. Though not always a romantic interest. Sometimes it's a political signal."

I blinked once.

She continued anyway.

"Also, for future reference, when addressing a countess at a formal gathering, always begin by acknowledging her lands, if they're inherited. If they're married, address her title but do not refer to her husband unless prompted."

I didn't respond.

"In mixed company, wait until she addresses you first unless you are her equal or higher. In that case, you offer a greeting, but you do not begin a discussion unless she invites it."

Still no reaction from me.

"Also," she added, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve, "don't compliment her clothing too directly. It can be seen as undermining her taste. You may compliment the tailoring or the clothmaker, never the dress itself."

She paused. "I assume you're taking notes somewhere in that head of yours."

"Somewhere," I said.

"Hm."

A silver tray with a half-dozen pastries I'd helped make sat on a low table nearby. One of the staff had arranged them with care, probably hoping she'd pick a favourite. She hadn't touched them yet.

Apparently, it was lecture time first.

"..."

Are the readers even reading this part? Or are you just scrolling?

"I'll skip the section on dancing," she added. "You danced well enough with Frieda at the gala. I assume you learned that at school?"

"Yes."

No. We improvised on the spot.

"Then let's move to more practical matters. Protocol when addressing someone with titles. Say you meet a marquis in the north—what's the proper greeting?"

"Depends," I said. "Northern marquisates have different preferences, don't they? Ludwig, for example, doesn't particularly have one."

She stared at me for a second, then tilted her head slightly.

"Correct. Hm. Fine. Let's try another."

She adjusted her seat, her posture as straight as a sword. Her dark hair was still down—unusual for someone of her class—but her bearing never slipped.

"If you're escorting a lady into a salon during a banquet, who enters first?"

"She does."

"And if it's raining?"

"Still her."

"And if the path is muddy?"

"Still her," I replied.

She narrowed her eyes. "Because?"

"Because you're supposed to suffer silently and shield her from inconvenience."

Frederica's lips pressed into a line. Then she clicked her tongue lightly.

"Good boy."

What?

"I'm not a dog."

"Then stop staring off into the distance like one." She remarked. "You've been zoning out for the past minute."

"I was listening."

"Oh?" she said, folding her arms. "Then tell me what I just said about wine service at court."

"You said if a server overfills a glass, the guest should subtly angle it away without drawing attention. But if underfilled, they should wait until the server's exited before requesting more—never interrupt a pour."

Her fingers paused on her sleeve.

"...Alright. Maybe you were listening."

"I'm not deaf," I said flatly.

"You're just very good at looking like you're ignoring me."

"That's what good listeners do. They don't interrupt."

She blinked once, lips twitching upward. "I suppose I'll add that to my notes. You're frustratingly capable."

I didn't respond.

Instead, she leaned back, glancing at the window, then toward the pastries she'd ignored for the last ten minutes. I assumed we were finally at the end of the lesson—or trial, depending on perspective.

The truth was, the White Room never trained us for this kind of interaction. Human decorum? Respect for titles?

I'm not even sure the books I read in there touched on those topics.

ANHS had helped me interact with ordinary people, sure. Practice with classmates, special exams... the Ayanokouji Group. But that had nothing to do with understanding things like political marriages, signalling with fans, or how to address a viscount's second wife's dog.

And now I was being taught by an actual aristocrat—how to engage with politicians and nobles using rules from a centuries-old codebook of etiquette.

Efficient in its own strange way.

Still.

If I hadn't mentioned I was a baker, I probably wouldn't be in this situation.

Note for later.

Frederica reached forward and took one of the tarts I had helped bake earlier. She bit down, the pastry crunching faintly beneath her teeth. Her expression didn't change much, though I caught it—just barely—a small twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Then, as if recalling some forgotten scrap of etiquette, she looked back at me.

"Would you like some?" she asked. "They're quite good. Fruits of your labour, after all."

That's my payment? My own labour?

I took one anyway. Not out of hunger, but because turning it down would just restart the etiquette lecture.

Besides, I couldn't really complain. Workers' rights weren't exactly a thing within the Walls. If they were, they hadn't reached the aristocracy.

I bit into it. It was fine. I'd done better.

She didn't seem interested in small talk anymore, because the moment I set the tart down, she leaned slightly forward.

"Now then," she said. "Let's move to something more current."

My eyes flicked up.

"That letter you sent," she continued. "About those children you're offering."

Just like that.

Direct. No preamble.

You're going a bit too fast for my liking, Frederica.

"Shouldn't your parents be involved in that discussion?" I asked.

She waved the idea away as if it were dust on her sleeve.

"As the only heir to the Lusignan name and Viscounty, I've taken it upon myself to start assuming the more pressing duties. I'm of age. My father is focused on matters in Trost, and my mother..." She tilted her head, "Let's just say she prefers not to be involved unless there are jewels involved."

She smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt. "So—these children. Do you have anything in mind?"

"Any work is generally fine. But for two of them specifically—one girl, one boy—housework would be best."

She didn't blink, but the corner of her eye sharpened. "Interesting."

I waited.

She took another bite of the tart, chewed once, then swallowed. "Coincidentally, we let two of our attendants go recently."

She didn't elaborate.

"I'd like to meet them," she added. "Interviews, naturally. What were their names again?"

"Reiner Braun. Annie Leonhart."

"Hm. Sounds like a backroom deal already, doesn't it?"

She said it so evenly, I almost missed the weight behind it.

Her way with words and tones, despite being so deadpan, is fascinating.

"Wall Maria falls," she continued lightly, "and suddenly I'm negotiating new staff from a courier who bakes and plays piano."

"It does feel sort of shady," I admitted.

She nodded. "You haven't even gone to Catherine, or Victoria, or Ludwig yet... and I already feel like we're at the tail end of something."

What?

How did she know that?

I hadn't told her I planned to speak with Catherine Arkadyev. Or Victoria. Or Ludwig.

No one had.

My fingers brushed the edge of the plate.

She was already playing the next move before I'd made mine.

And here I thought I'd be the one to dominate.

───

Location: Orvud District, Wall Sina
Year: 845
Time: A Few Days After the Fall

When Reiner first overheard that Eren had a friend from Wall Sina, it had seemed like divine intervention.

Seriously.

They'd barely been in the Walls for a few hours and already had more questions than answers: how the hell were they supposed to get close to the king? How could they find the Founding Titan without blowing their cover? How could they integrate themselves deeper into a society they barely understood?

Then came the name.

Kiyotaka Ayanokouji.

Eren spoke about him like he was some sort of... being? Was that a good way to put it?

He was a friend, but not exactly close. Quiet. Clever. Deadpan. Soft-spoken. Helpful. Mysterious—all those things.

Then Reiner had seen him.

He looked like Mikasa Ackerman's twin, if that twin had been plucked out of a noble house and given exactly one emotion to show per week. Kiyotaka didn't smile, didn't frown, didn't seem interested in anything. But he offered them work.

Work.

Real, legitimate work within Wall Sina. Inside the ring of aristocracy.

It was a coup.

A blessing.

Even if it looked a little weird.

And it did look weird, being approached by a teenager who stared through them like they were a child's building blocks.

Still, Reiner had kept his smile firm, his handshake steady. They couldn't afford to be picky.

Now?

Now the three of them stood in a narrow side alley tucked between two storehouses, brick walls flanking them. The buzz of the market hummed just down the street, but the alley was quiet.

Annie crossed her arms.

"We should leave," she said plainly.

Bertholdt blinked. "What?"

Reiner narrowed his eyes. "You serious?"

She didn't answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the ground, lingering on nothing in particular.

"I don't like the feeling I get from him," she said. "Something's off."

"Okay, so what?" Reiner stepped forward. "It's weird, I get that, but we need this. You said it yourself—get in and out. If we're going to find the Founder, we need contacts, and this is the perfect opportunity."

"Exactly," Bertholdt added. "This gets us close to the aristocrats. Close to the heart of the government. Maybe even close to the royal family."

Annie shook her head. "Then take the jobs. Get the access. But stay away from him."

Reiner scoffed. "You're being dramatic."

"No, I'm not." She looked up, sharp now. "Have you even looked at him? He's the type of person who knows everything but doesn't do anything. He didn't even ask many questions. He didn't flinch when we lied. He didn't even blink when we gave him our names."

Reiner opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"He's watching everything we do. I know it," she said. "If we stay too close to him, we won't be the ones doing the infiltrating."

That shut Reiner up for a moment.

Bertholdt looked between them, hesitant. "So... you think he's dangerous?"

"I think he's the kind of dangerous that doesn't carry a weapon," she said. "The kind that smiles at you while tying a rope around your neck."

"That's the thing," Reiner muttered. "He doesn't smile."

"Exactly."

Silence settled between them for another second.

Bertholdt ran a hand through his hair.

"What about Eren? Armin? Mikasa?"

Annie shrugged. "They can do whatever they want. I want to go home. I'm not getting caught in some side quest because you two want to 'blend in' better or whatever."

Reiner clenched his jaw but didn't argue.

She turned, already stepping out of the alley.

"We've still got that shopping list to fill out."

She raised a hand and gestured for them to follow.

"I'm not repeating myself. Let's go."

Reiner looked at Bertholdt.

Bertholdt looked back, hesitant, and then they followed her.

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Words: 3889

Author Notes:

Characterization, and trying to get an audience to like/get interested in a certain character in general, who they're not used to/is an original creation, is hard.