Victor kept up with his increasingly bizarre questions, his dramatic expressions shifting from fake sorrow to a curiosity so exaggerated it bordered on ridiculous. He gestured wildly, leaned in close to Alistair as if desperate for urgent answers to things like, "Did she mention any secret hiding place?" or "Did she ever talk to herself or act weird around mirrors?" — which only made the situation more awkward. The negotiation team exchanged uncomfortable glances, murmuring among themselves, while Phoenix's previously stoic attendants started fidgeting — coughing, scratching their necks, straightening their posture — anything to mask the steadily growing tension in the room.
That's when Donald, ever perceptive, noticed something alarming: a vein was visibly pulsing in Alistair's neck. The young lord held his poker face so tightly that his shoulders were stiff, his fists discreetly clenched. Knowing Alistair's temperament better than anyone present, Donald jumped in like a man defusing a bomb, stepping squarely into the middle of the conversation.
"Lord Phoenix," he said with a respectful bow, "I beg your pardon for interrupting, but I believe young Lord Alistair is beginning to feel... rather uncomfortable with the barrage of questions."
He paused, fixing Victor with a steady look before adding, "Besides, your lordship did mention your schedule was quite tight for extended meetings."
Victor stopped. His eyes blinked rapidly, and for a split second, the mask slipped. He straightened up, brushed imaginary dust off his cloak, and offered a forced smile.
"Ah, yes. How careless of me... I got carried away by concern. And of course, the stress of these last few days," he said theatrically, placing a hand on his chest and drawing a heavy breath, as though he were the real victim here.
One of Phoenix's diplomats immediately stepped in to ease the tension further.
"Understandable, Lord Phoenix. We all feel for young Lady Diana's situation."
"Your pain is ours as well," added another, a bit older, placing a hand on Victor's shoulder with feigned empathy.
"Indeed, my lord... you simply seek answers," offered a third, younger and more timid, trying to smooth things over with a calm voice.
Victor gave a subtle nod, accepting the support like an actor soaking up silent applause. Then he turned to Donald, gesturing with an open palm.
"Sir Donald, please. Let's proceed. We have much to discuss."
As the group began to move, Donald cast a quick glance back. Alistair remained still, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular, clearly chewing over the last few minutes. His shoulders were still tense, and even Phoenix's own attendants — two young men with cautious expressions and a guard with a stern face — kept a respectful distance, as if sensing the static in the air.
Donald hesitated, but knew there was nothing more he could do for now. He turned and followed the others, his face shadowed with concern.
Alistair drew a long, slow breath. His golden eyes shimmered with mild irritation as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. But inside, he was fuming.
'Not even an apology. Nothing! The man drowns me in idiotic questions and still walks away like he's the victim…'
He cast a sideways glance at the nearest servant — a round-faced blond lad — who flinched the moment he realized he was being looked at.
"Take me to my chambers," Alistair ordered, calm but firm, raising an eyebrow. "I assume... what I asked for is already there? Or at least on its way?"
The servant swallowed hard, then managed a quick smile and a bow.
"Yes, sir. The sweets you requested are being prepared. The head cook is overseeing everything herself. And... the rare ingredients you asked for have also been requested. Everything should be ready shortly."
"Excellent," Alistair said, finally letting his shoulders drop as he followed the servant.
And then, with a near-invisible smirk on his lips, he let one last thought slip:
'And to think I used to consider myself shameless… That Victor actually managed to surprise me. If he were any bolder, he'd have asked if Diana liked sleeping with a candle on or if she wore pajamas or nightgowns... Pathetic.'
And so, with steady steps but a mind burning with indignation, Alistair made his way down the long corridors of Phoenix's palace, his cloak swaying gently behind him. His golden eyes scanned the space with a mix of boredom and judgment. Every corner boasted hand-stitched tapestries, floating enchanted chandeliers, white marble statues, and gold-inlaid columns. There was so much beauty and wealth on display, it almost felt like a parade of excess.
'Such extravagance…' Alistair thought, raising an eyebrow. 'If this were Duskweld, they'd melt down those tapestries to build a giant hydraulic arm or a walking forge.'
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. In his homeland, luxury was just another word for useless. Duskweld's culture prized efficiency and innovation. Anything without a practical function was either discarded—or dismantled and repurposed for some bizarre experiment.
The servant walking ahead of Alistair bowed as they reached his chambers.
"Lord Alistair, we've arrived." He opened the door with a ceremonial gesture and stepped aside respectfully.
The room was spacious, laid with a thick, dark carpet and filled with intricately carved furniture. Heavy drapes hung at the windows, and the faint scent of fresh flowers lingered in the air. A fireplace crackled softly in the corner, more for ambience than warmth, considering the mild weather. As Alistair and his personal guard stepped in, the servant turned and, before leaving, extended a small object.
"If you need anything, my lord, simply ring this bell. It's been enchanted with sound magic—I'll hear it no matter where I am."
Alistair took the golden bell, engraved with Phoenix's crest in raised detail. He examined it silently, his expression neutral, about to offer thanks—when something outside caught his eye. The door was still open.
A procession of servants appeared in the corridor, each one carrying a gleaming tray. They moved with practiced balance, and the air grew thick with the scent of sugar and spices as they drew closer. Pies, cakes, cookies, puddings, candied fruits, and other exotic delicacies shimmered like something out of a dessert spellbook—lavishly decorated with colorful fruits and glittering confections.
Alistair raised both eyebrows, genuinely impressed.
"I'm really going to enjoy my stay in Phoenix," he murmured, a faint smile touching his lips as he watched the treats being arranged with reverent care atop a massive oak table in the center of the room.
"You honor us, Lord Alistair," the servant said with a brief bow. "Please, make yourself at home. If you need anything at all, the bell will suffice."
With that, he closed the door quietly, leaving the young lord and his guard alone in the perfumed, silent room—save for the distant footsteps and the clinking of trays being adjusted.
The personal guard, who had been standing stiff and alert by the door, let out a long, relieved sigh and relaxed his posture. His light armor jingled faintly as he approached the table, eyes wide.
"Young lord… may I? Just a little bite?"
"Kenneth…" Alistair turned to him with a teasing look. "Why do you even ask? Sit down already. I ordered four portions of each—two for me, two for you. And let's be clear: I'm not sharing the blueberry pie."
Kenneth didn't wait for a second invitation. He dropped into the nearest chair and began piling sweets onto his plate, his eyes gleaming with equal parts devotion and honest-to-gods hunger.
Alistair watched him for a moment, smiling. Sharing food always made things better—especially with good company.
Kenneth was far more than just a bodyguard. Only five years older, he was the sole warrior Alistair had chosen himself—unusual for a noble, who typically had knights appointed by the family. But there was logic in the choice: the guy had great taste in food, music, and conversation that didn't involve endless flattery. On top of that, Kenneth was absurdly skilled. He was already a level 4 swordsman—classified as an intermediate warrior—which, given his age and status, bordered on legendary. Rarer still: he could use aura. A gift awakened in just one out of every five thousand people.
Kenneth bit into a custard-filled orange tart and nearly fell out of his chair, his eyes watering with joy.
"Young lord… I swear, on my name... I'll follow you to the ends of the world, if you ask it," he said, voice thick with emotion—and tart.
"If you keep talking with your mouth full, you'll choke before we even reach the edge of the dining room," Alistair shot back with a soft laugh.
And so the two remained there, surrounded by sweets, silver, and luxury—more at ease than in any hall full of lords and flatterers. For a few minutes at least, Alistair forgot all about Victor's absurd questions, the forced diplomacy, and Diana's disappearance.
After all, even geniuses need sugar to function properly.
✦ ✦ ✦
With the last trays cleared away by the servants, Alistair and Kenneth now lounged in their armchairs, stomachs full and expressions of utter contentment. The room, once filled with murmurs and the gentle clinking of dishes and spoons, had fallen into a lazy, almost sacred silence. Kenneth, of course, had already snapped back into his formal posture before any servant returned, adjusting his expression and bearing with impressive ease—even if he'd had to repeat the act three times due to Alistair's multiple dessert requests.
But really, what squire would complain about having to eat more dessert?
To Kenneth, the young lord of Duskweld might as well have descended from the heavens. Every extra tray was a divine offering, and he devoured the sweets with religious devotion. Alistair, for his part, wore a calm and quietly amused expression, watching his bodyguard enjoy Phoenix's delicacies as if they were holy relics.
After several long minutes of indulgence and rest, Alistair picked up a glass of water with practiced elegance, dabbed his lips with a white napkin embroidered in gold thread, and—like someone closing a chapter—set the glass down slowly on the table.
The satisfaction in his expression gave way to sudden seriousness.
Kenneth noticed the shift instantly. Without a word, he mirrored his lord's movements—sitting up straight, cleaning his mouth, correcting his posture. It was a habit born of time and necessity—mimic the nobles to mask humble origins. Some found it annoying or even disrespectful. Alistair considered it admirable. It took guts and discipline to reshape oneself, day after day, in pursuit of something greater.
"Kenneth," Alistair said, his voice steady. "It's time."
The squire stood without hesitation and immediately began scanning the room with intent, as if he had trained for this very moment.
"What are we looking for, young lord?" he asked, running his fingers across a bookshelf filled with lavish tomes—many clearly decorative.
"Something," Alistair replied, his golden eyes sweeping across the walls, the floor, the furniture.
"Something?" Kenneth blinked in confusion.
"Anything that feels... out of place. A fake handle, a hidden passage, a magical seal, a secret compartment—anything someone might not want found," Alistair clarified, eyes sharp and focused like a hawk's.
And so the search began. The sound of furniture creaking as it was shifted, fingers tapping along walls in search of hollow spaces, and the rustle of book pages being flipped filled the air.
After several fruitless minutes, Alistair finally threw up his arms in frustration.
"Aaargh! Enough!" he cried out, his tone childish as he shook his hands dramatically in the air.
Kenneth, maintaining his serious demeanor, struggled not to laugh at the outburst. It was just so Alistair...
"Kenneth, watch the door," Alistair ordered, slipping back into his usual composed, determined self. The curtains had already been drawn, shielding the room from outside view. But the bigger concern now was an untimely interruption.
Kenneth nodded and took position at the door, standing tall and alert, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
Alistair moved to the center of the room. He stared at the floor for a few seconds, then slowly raised his gaze, absorbing every detail. He took a deep breath.
'Didn't want to use this…' he thought, his cheeks warming at the memory of the first time. 'But there's no time for shame.'
He shook his head sharply, driving the thought away. Kenneth let out a muffled chuckle upon noticing his lord's expression.
— PathFinder — Alistair thought, activating the mental command.
Immediately, his vision tinted a soft blue, as if a thin magical veil had settled over his eyes. Lines began to appear—subtle tracings running along the walls, beneath the floor, inside the furniture.
This was Leopold's gift to him. Unlike the others, his gift was organic—alive. When focused, Alistair could access this ocular ability, allowing him to see any kind of circuitry: magical, mechanical, even spiritual. Understanding them was another matter… but he was from Duskweld. And in Duskweld, understanding was just a matter of time and effort.
He slowly turned his gaze around the room, as if redrawing it from the inside. Kenneth observed from his post, silent and unbothered, well-accustomed to this peculiar ritual.
A minute later, Alistair smiled.
"She never makes things easy, does she?" he murmured to himself, deactivating the ability. The bluish hues faded, and his vision returned to normal.
From his pocket, he pulled out the small enchanted bell. He rang it once.
A knock echoed at the door almost instantly.
Kenneth opened it, face stony and cold as a guard dog.
"The young lord is exhausted from his journey. From this moment on, no one is to disturb his rest. No exceptions." That last word landed with deliberate weight.
Kenneth's eyes locked onto the servant's. A silent pressure filled the room—heavy, invisible, unmistakable.
The servant paled instantly, swallowing hard. His hands trembled slightly as he replied,
"U-understood... sir," and hurried away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush.
Alistair let out a soft, muffled chuckle, barely containing his amusement as he watched the servant retreat, visibly shaken.
' Glad I wasn't on the receiving end of that threat…' he thought, thoroughly entertained.
What Kenneth had just used was known as Intention—a warrior's will made manifest. It could stem from hatred, bloodlust, or absolute focus. And while Killing Intent was the most well-known form, what Kenneth had wielded was something different… colder, more measured. But no less terrifying to those of weaker spirit.
'When I get back to Duskweld... I need to learn how to do that,' Alistair mused, his blackish eyes lingering on the closed door, glinting with curiosity.