The City of Mages
The City of Mages
This city was not Aslan's homeland.
It was a self-evident truth, hardly worth stating. Aslan had not been born or raised in Geladrion, and if one measured by the years spent, his true home was the ruin of Beryl.
Yet here he was, pulling that unspoken truth back to the surface, all because of the moment he found himself in.
Familiar streets, a landscape that refused to feel foreign. Enough to stir a twelve-year-old ache of nostalgia.
Lost in the weight of memory, Aslan stood still until the woman before him fixed her pink eyes on his face.
"Aslan?"
"...Ah."
Twelve years ago, he had seen this city only through the graphics of a game. A backdrop he had cycled through endlessly over countless playthroughs.
Because it was a city of mages, it had remained untouched, unchanged. Staring at it now, a wordless longing gripped him so tightly that he stood rooted until the woman called his name and tugged at his sleeve.
"Sorry."
"What is there to be sorry about? Between you and me."
He did not ask what she meant by between you and me. Instead of voicing a stupid question, Aslan offered an ambiguous smile, and the woman gazed at that smile with an expression soft and unguarded, as if even his ambiguity pleased her.
A certain heat gathered in her pink eyes as she met his look. She stepped back, lifted the hem of her skirt, and spun once.
The fabric billowed with the fluid turn. Aslan was a beat slow to recognize it, but the dress was similar to the one Ereta had worn in her days as a Saintess.
The difference lay in the finer embroidery along the hem, the white panel over the bodice, and the row of buttons that fastened the garment closed.
Part everyday wear, part travel attire for nobility, the dress clung to her white skin and followed the soft, full lines of her body without restraint.
"How does it look?"
She showed off the dress with a satisfied smile that carried a faint edge of anxiety.
Aslan read that anxiety at once and understood its source: she was afraid it might not suit her.
"It suits you well."
"...Really?"
The corners of her lips rose. Her gentle features lent the smile a quality of tender warmth.
Catching Aslan's gaze fixed on the dress, she offered a short explanation.
It was nearly an excuse.
"It's been enchanted with protection magic from the Transmutation School and restoration magic. When I went to buy new armor, the mages here told me I'd be better off buying something like this. So I did."
And it was true. This was a city of mages. Most of its population were spellcasters.
Here, obtaining superb enchanted clothing that rivaled proper armor was both easier and cheaper. Ereta's choice was, by that standard, entirely rational.
But Aslan did not believe it was the whole reason.
When his gentle gaze settled on her, Ereta froze for a moment, then forced a smile.
"Why this dress, though? Other clothes would have suited you just as well."
There was no reproach in his tone. Ereta let her stiff shoulders loosen and exhaled. Having braced herself with equal parts hope and worry that he might scold her, she answered only after the long breath had left her.
"Well... this style feels comfortable. And... I am a Master in my own right, you know?"
The woman scratched her cheek and glanced at Aslan sidelong. A flicker of mischief lived in that look.
Aslan registered the mischief, blinked at the out-of-context remark, and the woman managed a laugh at his reaction.
"I know your gaze was more at ease back when I wore plate over cloth. You thought I wouldn't notice?"
His gaze had been more at ease?
At those words, Aslan pictured the garments she used to wear.
Outfits that clung to her body, baring every line, steeped in a subtle obscenity that revealed nothing outright.
It wasn't that he possessed some fetish, but denying her statement was beyond him.
"I want you to be on edge when you look at me," she said. "I want you to feel troubled, not knowing where to rest your eyes. So I chose this dress. Didn't I do well?"
What did she mean by well? Aslan's expression shifted to a mixture of bitter smile and genuine perplexity, and Ereta let out a sultry laugh at the sight.
"Is there anything you need, Aslan?"
"Me? I think I have most things. Already bought a whetstone..."
"No, I meant something you want."
Something he wanted?
There were plenty of things. More than enough.
A usable wand, a scabbard, a shield or a bow, arrows, a wrist-mounted hand crossbow would be nice too.
But Aslan understood that was not what Ereta was asking.
She was asking whether there was an item he desired purely for personal preference.
Aslan had none.
"Nothing, really."
"Is that so? Then I might be overstepping, but... may I make one suggestion?"
"A suggestion?"
"Yes."
She drew out the word as she clasped her hands together. Hands still joined, she let them hang and looked up at Aslan.
"That armor you wear is striking, but the color with the cloak is a little... don't you think? I was thinking you might dye the cloak."
"...Ah. You're right, but I don't usually pay much attention to—"
Ereta answered before he could finish, as though she had expected his response.
"If you dye it black, you'll be harder to spot at night, and it'll look more intimidating. Throw it in the dark, and they won't be able to dodge it, either."
That answer was one Aslan could not refuse.
Because Aslan was, at his core, a min-maxer obsessed with performance.
More than that, he was still a man. The thought of his armor and cloak flowing together in seamless black—there was no denying it would look impressive.
A carefully repressed boyish enthusiasm rose despite him, and he shoved it back down as he answered.
"You make a good point. Thanks for the idea. Then I'll go get the cloak..."
"I already sent it ahead, knowing you'd agree."
Another immediate reply.
Aslan's eyes widened, and the woman smiled with deep satisfaction.
"You're not the only one who knows us well, Aslan. We're learning about the man called Aslan, too."
Though I'm the one who knows you best. The truth of the added remark was uncertain. Fay alone knew Aslan intimately, and Angie had spent her own share of time questioning and observing him, piecing together who he was.
Whether the woman truly knew Aslan better than Angie, or Fay, or Tiyamal was an open question, but the claim carried a charm independent of its accuracy.
In the end, Aslan could only laugh it off. Denying it would leave her embarrassed, and agreeing would be embarrassing for him.
For Ereta, who had hoped for an answer either way, it was a disappointment, but her affection did not cool over something so small.
If anything, determined to pull an answer out of him, she reached out and hooked her index finger over his. A faint body heat curled around their linked pinkies.
And in her upward gaze, there was heat. Aslan met that gaze, forced a smile, and changed the subject.
"Aren't you hungry? It's about time to eat."
Aslan, the man who had once been Lee Hyun-woo, diverted the conversation toward food with a Korean's instinct, and the woman shook her head as though a mere meal meant nothing.
"I don't think I can look pretty while eating. Food can wait."
Aslan did not deliver any lecture about eating on time.
Searching for some other deflection, he averted his eyes from the vivid curves of her body, and Ereta suddenly glanced up at the sky.
Beyond the sinking sun, a violet sky unveiled itself, and beneath that violet, a scatter of stars drifted and flickered.
Through clouds sailing above, something like the fin of a living creature slipped past alongside a whisper of presence. A typical evening in Geladrion.
"Shall we go to the dye workshop, then?"
"Hm?"
"They said it would be done around sunset. Your cloak, I mean."
A bright laugh. Before Aslan could react, the woman seized his hand.
The hand that had barely grazed his fingers was now firmly clasped, and with deft skill she slipped her grip and interlaced their fingers.
The warmth of her palm pressed against his, the faint thread of her pulse. A pulse both Ereta and Aslan could feel from the other.
The woman sensed Aslan's steady heartbeat and let out a small, dissatisfied "hmm," while Aslan felt Ereta's pulse racing and settled into a troubled expression.
The woman was undeniably embarrassed.
She had asked him not to push her away even if she acted boldly, but her bold advances naturally came hand in hand with shame.
How could they not?
Ereta was a wicked woman who had spent a lifetime knowing only slaughter and intimidation as her dealings with humans.
The wicked woman Ereta did not possess the experience to walk through tender, ticklish love with a straight face.
So she was happy even in her embarrassment. The shame was only natural, so she paid it no mind. Nothing would change if she didn't take a step forward.
"Come on, let's go."
And so, with a faintly flushed face and a forced smile, the woman led Aslan forward.
Even with the bashfulness and hesitation woven into her stride, her steps were light.
The reason was clear, and though Aslan knew it, he said nothing.
It wasn't resolve. It was simply Aslan's own way of keeping himself from breaking.