#037
Just a brief tour of the stern, and already Catherine felt her body and mind growing acutely weary.
She descended along the VIP-exclusive passageway carpeted in crimson velvet. Ahead, by the cabin door, stood a familiar silhouette, staring blankly. It was Demian Rodria.
His dazed expression sharpened as he recognized her, and he spoke up.
"Miss, where on earth have you been without me? Though... that outfit suits you pretty well."
"I don't need your permission every time I step out, do I?"
"What a harsh thing to say... You haven't already forgotten Chezare's words, have you? I'm here as your guard, like it or not. No one wants to tag along."
Demian's face puffed up in a pout. A big burly guy making that expression made her feel like she suddenly had a little brother—though he looked more like a handsome uncle.
Been and back.
"Where to?"
Up top.
"Why?"
Sightseeing.
Demian eyed the cat suspiciously.
"Why's your chatter suddenly so curt? Hey, you chatterbox, you sick or something? Tongue broken?"
He apparently called Yaong the chatterbox.
"I told it to keep responses short as possible. No need for complications if our cover gets blown out here on the open sea..."
"With Chezare aboard, what's there to worry about? Even if some archdemon dropped in out of nowhere, his word would shut up every priest and holy knight on board."
Not a shred of reliability from start to finish in that statement.
Demian followed her casually into the cabin and spent time with her. They didn't exchange any profound words—just a few tidbits of personal life she'd never heard before. And there was an endless supply of info that, once known, only made things awkwardly distant.
"I've got three moles in a horizontal line right above my hip. As a kid, rubbing them helped me fall asleep fast."
Like body quirks.
"One time, some jerk was badmouthing me so much I couldn't take it, so I snuck over at dawn and shaved his head bald. He bawled the next day."
Or school days' dirty secrets.
"My knight order's the Imperial First—full of weirdos. All top-notch family and skill-wise, so incidents big and small happen daily. The captain's rotten temper is the only thing holding it together. He jokes sometimes that I'll be next captain, and it scares me so bad I'd piss myself. Not scared of him—scared of managing that ragtag bunch."
Or backtalk about the knight captain.
But the most shocking tale of all...
"Demian, isn't the scope of your jokes getting a bit out of hand?"
"No joke."
Catherine furrowed her brow in disbelief and asked again.
"So you're really the Chebok Crown Prince's..."
"Son. Illegitimate, though."
That Demian was imperial-born.
Speechless, Catherine scratched her chin and turned to Yaong. The yellow cat had long since rolled onto its back, deep in honey-sweet slumber.
"Not many treat me like a bastard anymore, so it doesn't mean much now."
No. Regardless of how they're treated, shouldn't you keep that quiet?
"You just thought 'shouldn't you keep that quiet,' right?"
"Yes."
Her unhesitating reply drew a sly grin from Demian. He'd been rummaging through the biscuit box for an hour straight, leaving just one or two crumbs behind.
"Figured you'd find out soon enough anyway, so I spilled early."
She mulled over his words.
"Is the Chebok Crown Prince boarding here or something?"
"Nah, even without him, plenty of folks mention it enough to wear out your ears."
Come to think of it, he'd mentioned "lots of folks I don't get along with" when convincing her earlier. Chezare too—none of them had led purely peaceful lives.
"It's like a secret everyone knows?"
"Spot on."
Well, that was a relief. She'd worried it was some huge secret requiring an exchange of confidences.
But before she could respond, Demian dropped another overshare, lightening the mood. Her ears rang, but thanks to him, her rock-bottom spirits evened out nicely.
When she came to, the sun had set beyond the horizon. Just as she thought about heading out, Chezare arrived at her cabin.
He was dressed as he'd been for the theater, but with his bangs falling naturally, he seemed younger, less prickly.
He naturally placed her hand on his arm and said,
"Lots of clingy flies around, so it might get boring. Go wherever, just don't lose Sir Demian."
"Got it. ...Oh, and for the time being, I'm playing your apprentice—so keep that in mind."
Chezare raised a brow.
"Apprentice? If it's about the theater remark, no need to dwell."
"No. Honestly, people asking about us is obvious. 'What's your relation?' Apprentice is the safest dodge."
Demian, trailing quietly behind, asked Catherine,
"Miss, any special reason for hiding you're lovers?"
Because we're not lovers.
"Ah! Secret romance, huh? Makes sense—if Chezare's lover went public, you'd get unwanted guests, jealous types, maybe even life threats... Ngh, wise move."
This was the good thing about Demian. He assumed, concluded, all on his own.
Catherine quietly shut the door so Yaong could rest easy and stepped out.
Just before reaching the deck, Chezare whispered in her ear,
"Fair warning: it'll be pretty tiring."
She shrugged it off like no big deal.
"Don't worry. I've been to enough banquets to be numb to it."
Then she rummaged in her tote bag, pulled out a fountain pen, and dotted two marks under her eyes. No one would mistake her for Catherine Orleans now.
The deck was already buzzing with people, matched by extravagant excess. A massive fountain spewed chocolate into the air over the slow-sailing ship, pink liquid flowing like a stream around it.
Noticing her gaze, Chezare leaned in and murmured,
"Champagne. I'd skip the food and drink—it's filthy."
"People aren't washing their hands in the champagne, are they?"
"If it were just hands, you'd be lucky."
Absolutely not touching that. Gotta watch out not to sip it drunk.
Feigning nonchalance, Catherine was inwardly shocked. She'd attended plenty of lavish salons led by rich noblewomen.
But a party this ostentatiously pricey and raucous? A first.
Chezare's appearance drew all eyes—to her, standing beside him, precisely.
She could feel Demian shuddering behind her with a sickened face; the stares were that openly intrigued.
"Your Highness Chezare."
In the suddenly hushed atmosphere, an elderly man approached first.
A familiar-faced white-haired elder seized Chezare's hand, face alight with emotion.
"I wholeheartedly congratulate you on the successful subjugation of the evil dragon! This old man is overjoyed to see you again after a full year."
"You've put on weight, Count—still among the living, I see."
"Heh heh, at my age, can't help packing it on."
"No joking. You've shown signs of fattening since you were ten."
"Pretending not to notice is basic courtesy."
Less than five minutes on deck, and Catherine was shocked again. At first, she thought he was treating the elder like a child—but human Chezare's age rivaled Shagweed II's.
The emperor's 140 this year, so Chezare's around there too.
Of course, as an archdemon living millennia effortlessly—but even his human form over a century old felt odd.
Only a select few transcending human limits earned the title of transcendent, enjoying lifespans nearing two centuries. Even in powerhouse Iterana Empire, their number never exceeded three.
They were key in assessing national military might, the pinnacle admired by all swordsmen and mages.
And here she stood, as apprentice to one such transcendent: Duke Chezare Christopher.
Well, contractor in truth, but still.
Savoring his lofty status anew, Catherine smiled contentedly. Worth offering my soul to, at least.
After the long greetings, the elder's eyes turned to her.
"But Your Highness, won't you introduce the lady beside you?"
Chezare glanced down at her. She pondered.
Trailing him meant no peaceful leisure. So how to minimize hassle?
Thankfully, a perfect answer came quick.
"Oh, old timer! I'm Chezare's apprentice. Name's Anne Magi, from the southern Southri Kingdom."
"Hm?"
Despite her sudden foreigner act, neither Chezare nor Demian batted an eye. Demian wore a 'here she goes again' look, and the group accepted her as an outsider.
The elder, who'd been eyeing her sharply, relaxed and offered his hand.
"Well, I'll be. Chezare's apprentice! I'm Col Chancellor. This nation's chancellor. Pleased to meet you, Miss Anne Magi. How fares Southri Kingdom?"
The kindly old man's identity as chancellor? Who'd have thought.
Catherine twitched her fake moles into a grin.
"This place is paradise. Everyone treats me well 'cause I'm with Chezare."
"Wouldn't doubt it. But your imperial tongue's fluent—how long studying?"
"Two months."
Col let out an admiring gasp.
"Two months! As expected of Chezare's pick. The empire's talents will be wailing. The revered duke takes his first apprentice—and it's a foreigner!"
"They'll die of envy."
"Indeed, indeed. Look around—even here, it's overflowing with the jealous. Quite the spectacle."
Catherine, seamlessly playing foreigner, couldn't reply to the last bit.
Her eyes locked with a man beyond the chocolate fountain—soft brown hair, softer than hers.
Ah... damn it.
Enemies meet on narrow bridges, they say.
Stress surging, Catherine squeezed her eyes shut, then open.
Of all people—of all people—Percival Benedict Parhenrine.