The Bonfire is Burning
Strekl gazed at the women gathered around the bonfire. To an outsider ignorant of the circumstances, the scene might provoke envy or even a jest. He felt the same way himself. In a life defined by training and battle, how often had he been surrounded by beauties? If he had truly become a war hero, perhaps things would have been different—but that ship had long since sailed.
Yet even in a situation that would delight any ordinary man, Strekl focused solely on the pot before him, his mind empty and detached. It was said that women ruined men, but he was past the age where that could happen. He wasn't crippled, but there had been so many honey traps amid the attempts to slander him. Right after the war, there had been countless widows and women left adrift. Some had approached him for various reasons. He'd nearly fallen for it a few times.
Strekl had at least learned not to let a woman ruin him. And the funniest part was Marina sitting right in front of him. She stared gravely into the pot alongside her two disciples. Eating the same meal every day wouldn't do for training—especially not for Bayola, who needed to overcome her blood phobia. So Strekl hunted and prepared animals himself whenever possible.
Two rabbits, their skins poorly removed, bobbed amid the assorted ingredients in the boiling pot, surfacing now and then. Rabbits with rolled-back eyes floating alongside unidentified bits wasn't a pretty sight. And for someone who had to eat the finished product? Even less so. It wasn't food fit for humans. Yet Marina, waiting eagerly to devour it, was indeed a rare breed—a true mage.
As the stew finished cooking, Marina naturally held out her bowl. Strekl sliced off a rabbit's head and placed it in her dish.
"……."
The mage bearing the Silanatiell name glared at him briefly, but Strekl ignored it. This had happened countless times before. Even if it meant vomiting later, she ate. And tomorrow morning, she'd sit in the same spot for breakfast.
Strekl handed Bayola a whole rabbit, still intact in shape. She glared at him. Routine.
"Isn't this discrimination?"
"It's training. You know that better than anyone."
At those words, Bayola would glare, grit her teeth, and bury her nose in the plate.
"If things go as planned, tomorrow you'll have a proper meal."
"The meal might be proper, but the situation won't be."
Bayola stuck out her lower lip and prodded the whole rabbit with her spoon. Each time the bones separated from the flesh and guts spilled out, nausea welled up alongside it. How does this guy make such revolting food every day? Stuff closer to garbage than sustenance should cause illness, yet she'd never gotten sick once. If only she'd caught a stomachache, she could have used it as an excuse for something tasty.
Marina, who had been reshaping her plate's contents into the most human-edible form possible, much like Bayola, spoke up.
"I've heard the lord is a count. What kind of man is he, specifically?"
"An ordinary noble who inherited his title from his parents. He's unremarkable himself, but the land he inherited is vast."
"Not a family with specially inherited history, then?"
"No such history. And from what I saw at the end, there was no sign of it."
They'd arrive in the city tomorrow. A fairly large one, where the lord resided. Migrants were being gathered in nearby villages. To return to the West smoothly, they needed to persuade the lord effectively. He'd prepared a few means, but their success was uncertain. The key was Marina and Bayola.
No lord could ignore an exceptional mage. The wealthier one was, the more they sought ties with mages. Curses—the prime reason mages inspired fear. Slight a mage, and you might end up cursed; better to cultivate helpful ones in case you needed aid. If Marina helped because she was a mage, Bayola's mere presence was cheating.
Even without revealing her name, Bayola's aura was extraordinary. Ordinary folk—even nobles—naturally shrank before her. Plus, she had mastered Muet Empire imperial etiquette. Just having such a woman with perfect imperial manners in their party was leverage to pressure a duchy noble.
"Anyway, tomorrow means proper food, right?"
"Yes. Tomorrow night's meal, I won't touch."
"Good enough."
Marin's plate was half empty. Strekl's cooking was grueling even for her. But it wasn't inedible. The body's recovery after training proved it was better than ordinary fare.
Probably some effect from inheriting her lineage, too.
Still, if it was edible and beneficial, there was no reason to refuse. As Marin diligently emptied her plate, Bayola subtly slid hers over.
"Hey, Marin."
Marin screamed at the sight of the rabbit head floating atop her dish, its eyes gray and festering.
"You crazy bitch! Who asked you to shove that at me?!"
"No... I just thought you could eat this part for me."
"It's your share! Eat it yourself!"
"That's why I'm asking! I can eat everything else, but not the head!"
"Uh, the eyes are tough for me too. Could you take this?"
"I ain't eating parts that don't even yield meat, even if you beg."
Marin turned her back decisively. Bayola and Marina exchanged glances.
"Parts without meat?"
"That's the issue?"
Not the head itself, but the lack of edible meat? It was logic beyond their comprehension. Only Strekl, who sympathized with Marin, chuckled softly. His plate held half a rabbit torso—what was left after serving her—plus a pinch of salt and pepper. His secret seasoning, unshared with disciple or guests.
The next day, Strekl arrived in the city without incident. He assigned chores to the hired laborers and prepared the rest to head straight to the venue.
"We going right away like this?"
Marin asked Strekl. She was inwardly excited about her first noble party.
"I've sent word ahead. And isn't ladies' party prep already tight even starting now?"
"It's at night, not dinner. We've got hours left?"
The sun was high noon. Hours until night—surely enough time, even starting now. Marin couldn't fathom it.
But the other two, with party experience, knew better.
"We can only do the bare minimum. Even that's not enough."
"I didn't go to many parties, but even teas required a week's prep as standard."
No, it's just eating and leaving—what takes so long? The noble world was filled with mysteries beyond imagination. And Marin didn't know: even those "mysteries" were but a fraction of true nobles' deep, shadowy culture and traditions.
The group entered the artisan district. True to a city hosting a count, several shops lined the street. Taxes here were paid in coin or handmade crafts. Shops delivering crafts catered to nobles' finicky tastes—marks of skilled artisans.
Bayola found the city's top tailor with simple inquiries.
Something I couldn't dream of before. Approaching strangers? Unthinkable then. She noticed her growth several times a day. She'd brag to Rebella when they met.
"Here."
Bayola entered the shop. Marin and Marina followed.
Nothing special inside: displayed fabrics, a few finished pieces. Mostly men's wear; scant women's.
A woman dusting clothes scurried over. She flinched at Bayola, then lowered her eyes at Marin and Marina trailing behind.
"H-Honored guests, what brings you to our humble shop...?"
Marina screamed noble at a glance; Marin, head held high, didn't pass for common.
"Need outfits for a party."
"W-We only take women's clothes, especially dresses, by reservation. Please, have mercy...!"
"We know. Fetch the tailor."
"Y-Yes!"
Nobles insisted; commoners complied. The woman vanished inside, soon returning with a hunched man. He squinted at the trio.
"Apologies. Poor eyesight—have to squint to make out faces. Seeking party attire? Sorry, no spares."
"You have some made for fun, don't you?"
"Well, yes, but..."
Sewing alone didn't hone tailoring. Trial pieces led to leftovers.
"Sizes all wrong—unfit for ladies."
"Need measurements?"
The tailor's eyes narrowed further. Cloaked in concealing garb, but at the city's pinnacle, wrist thickness, shoulder position and width, limb lengths yielded estimates.
His eyes widened. Client commissions started fitted from first stitch; self-made reflected ideals. Ideals were ideals—rarely matched in reality. Before him stood mannequins surpassing ideals.
"One moment! I'll fetch them! Bello, help!"
The tailor rushed inside, returning arms laden with dozens of garments.
"Bello, measure. Minor adjustments only. When do you need them?"
"Tonight."
"Plenty of time. Leave it to me!"
"How much?"
"Just fabric cost. Three gold coins."
"Here."
Bayola pulled out coins Strekl had given her. Half the expected price for duchy gold.
Measured and altered, the three tried their outfits. Marin, in blue dress, twisted to inspect herself.
"Not like what I know."
The noblewomen's garb she knew dripped with ornaments. But this... sleek. Flashier than her travel armor. Standing out in this? Mortifying.
"First dress? Happens. Folks think clothes start ornate. No—base first, then adorn. Miss, decorations?"
"Imperial style—ring a bell?"
"Practical. A moment."
Finishing touches were swift. Ornaments dangled anew—heavy vanity, as she knew. But imperial: fewer than duchy nobles wore.
"Special buttons for easy washing. Low maintenance."
"Good work."
"No, thank you for the chance."
"Let's go."
Bayola exited; Marin and Marina followed. Marina spoke.
"Knew you were noble, but quite the status."
"Nothing compared to you."
The Hero's might could raze nations. Saints and thieves ambiguous, but mages matched Heroes—orthodoxy held. She could ruin harvests with floods, toppling realms. A few spells to shatter stable lands. That was Mar Silanatiell.
"Eh."
Marina demurred. Fake Silanatiell versus true imperial noble—which higher? She wondered too.
Night fell. Bayola, Marin, and Marina donned their afternoon outfits and headed to the venue. Strekl waited out front.
"What, full plate even at the party?"
"My party wear. Complain about my attire, bring someone with more feats than me."
"Figured."
No surprise dialogue flowed. And if wearable, full plate wasn't bad. Nobles died to assassins at parties too.
The doors opened wide. Light poured from the gap. Marin shaded her eyes.
Adjusted: orbs blazing sun-like in the chandelier despite night, laden tables of unfamiliar foods below. Facing the archetypal noble party hall, Marin swallowed.
Alasil grumbled in Holy Empire tongue.
"A party? You tricked me... tricked me."
"Not a grand duke—just a lord over one city. What'd you expect? Grateful for this much."
Alasil and Marhal sat side-by-side at a long table. Dozens of candles lit the room; the chef presented dishes. Fare decent, hosting proper. But strictly, this was a banquet—not the party Alasil craved.
Alone with three seats, Alasil ate the chef's portion.
Food's good, though.
She shoveled voraciously. Marhal sipped wine as she quieted.
Then the lord opposite spoke.
"Taking the migrants will be troublesome."
"I haven't even broached the topic yet?"
A man guarding a city in chaos, he was no pushover.