The Mage's Melancholy (2)
Armed and Kriel sat down to eat, and Orishin, watching the two of them, thought to himself, 'This bastard...'
More versed in etiquette than expected? He'd figured the guy was some grizzled mercenary who'd eaten his share of steel, given how he kept insisting he wasn't a real knight. But that wasn't it either. The way he handled his cutlery was anything but ordinary. His stern features didn't quite scream traditional nobility, but they were noble enough that you could buy him as the head of some martial house.
Orishin reached out to Tuon. To avoid disturbing Armed and Kriel's meal, it was a private telepathic transmission, one-on-one.
So, that little blade brat was remotely coaching him on dining etiquette. Orishin felt a headache throbbing in his long-severed head, even though that was impossible. Tuon's words carried a hint of smug satisfaction, which only made it more absurd. What the hell was that sword spirit's deal, really? Would the spirit of Gratuon, the Corpse-Eating Sword, even know about dining etiquette? Given the number of corpses it'd devoured, he couldn't rule it out entirely. It had probably sliced up hundreds of nobles on the battlefield. But whether this 'Tuon' truly originated from Gratuon was questionable to begin with. Less the sword itself, more something new born from its remnants.
A Dark Knight shunning the abyss, a beheaded spirit (formerly), and now a sword spirit of unknown origins. What a bizarre crew.
Following Tuon's nagging instructions in his head, Kriel switched utensils accordingly. He had a rough idea from his Earth days about the order of courses in a formal banquet, but it was nothing compared to a proper instructor.
Armed, raised in the Ket count's household, watched with gleaming eyes.
"You wolfed it down like a beast during your mercenary days. Where'd you get properly knighted?"
She tossed it out casually, but underneath lurked a prayer: 'Please, for the love of god, don't have gotten knighted anywhere.' No matter how much of a disgrace he was, her marriage would intimately affect the power dynamics within the count's house. If Kriel was still just a wandering knight, that would suffice. Her two other siblings would dismiss him as the weirdo sister's pitiful match and ignore him. But if he were a knight-captain from some other imperial noble house, it risked projecting that house's influence into the Ket family through her. Even if Armed claimed she had no interest in such crass power games, they'd sabotage it anyway.
Kriel replied nonchalantly.
"What, you got a hobby of watching people eat?"
"Hmph. Don't paint me as some vulgar voyeur. Meals are essential for maintaining combat effectiveness. During my mercenary days, I watched not just you, but every soldier under our company's command eat."
Armed's fluent response poured out in a rapid-fire stream, somehow feeling too quick. It reminded Kriel of Earth's military. That phrase "combat effectiveness." Meal discipline, skipping meals critically harms combat readiness—familiar rhetoric. Apparently, Tirnanog and Earth shared the notion that you fight better on a full stomach.
"I see. I'm still a wandering knight. Got stuck with the Western Front army unintentionally, but I'll be discharging soon enough."
"Western Front?"
Armed furrowed her brow. Well, he wasn't tied to any house anyway. Good that he was getting out soon. No idea how he'd ended up in that backwater facing one of the three great calamities. Probably rushed in sword-first to save someone and washed up there.
"Whatever. That settles it."
This ambiguous reply. Orishin suddenly craved a snack to chew on. Sharing a table was a huge symbol of trust. The word "family" derived from sharing meals for a reason. At the same time, inquiring about his knighting was a roundabout way of probing their current employer-employee relationship. They'd shared a meal, signaling deep trust through shared food, then broached employment—implying, 'No plans to entrust yourself to me?'
As Orishin muttered to himself, a commotion erupted outside the room. Light, frivolous footsteps. Clattering bumps. The door burst open.
"Oh! Miss Armed Ket! I heard you'd prepared a luncheon for me! Though I am late—"
He looked like someone had mashed "young noble" and "greenhorn" together and split the result—a blond youth.
Ket’s face twisted at the uninvited guest.
"Ah, shit."
"Wh-what?!"
"I don't recall sending you an invite. Didn't the usher tell you this wasn't your seat?"
The blond called Mazarr looked around in bewilderment. His eyes landed on Kriel, blankly chewing away. The asparagus garnish on the lamb steak was exceptionally flavorful. Mazarr's eyebrow twitched at Kriel ignoring him entirely to keep eating.
"Who's that? Miss Ket. A new patron for your academy? But no matter who it is, none outrank Mazarr Gav—"
Ket snapped her fingers. An unnatural gust swept Mazarr up.
'Whoa?!' An undignified yelp echoed as he was dragged out the door by the wind. The door locked with a click. Multiple bolts secured flawlessly—a delicate symphony of magic.
"Oh. Your skills have improved."
Kriel was impressed. Last he'd seen in Ket territory, Armed's magic wasn't this refined. She'd brute-forced with massive firepower. Far from this precision. Scatter friendlies, then bombard, or open with an explosive salvo to crush enemy morale.
In the time since, Armed's prowess had leaped forward.
About to explain Mazarr, Armed deflated at the praise. Wasn't that a sketchy exchange? And his takeaway was "magic improved"? Praise was nice anytime, but read the room.
"Yeah. Improved. Abyss prevention research isn't just about raw power."
Unspoken truths lingered. Like the helplessness seeing Kriel collapsed after the Wraith King fight.
"Impressive indeed."
One might expect more, but Kriel just picked up his knife again. Growing exasperated, Armed spoke first.
"Hey. Aren't you gonna ask something? Like who that Mazarr guy was, or what our relationship is?"
"What good comes from prying into what others don't wish to share?"
Consideration or indifference? As Armed felt a twinge of loneliness, Kriel continued.
"The family meddling, right? You declared you'd bow out of the succession fight, but whether they believe you is another matter. Using marriage to cut you off completely?"
"Huh?"
Spot-on analysis. Kriel topped tender lamb with marmalade and swallowed.
"Hard to find a fiancé matching your caliber on short notice.... Probably showed up as an academy patron, funneled funds, then suddenly pinched the purse and pitched 'marry me to make the academy thrive' or somesuch."
Armed's face flickered between admiration and shock in real time. Kriel felt a strange satisfaction at her vivid reaction.
"How'd you know? Did you hear about it and come?"
How to spin this? Kriel settled on the ultimate excuse.
"A knight's duty isn't just frontline combat. Advising one's lord to face reality and make sound choices is also a knight's role. This level of political sense is basic knightly literacy."
Truth be told, it was mostly thanks to dramas. He'd binged plenty back on Earth.