Chương 114: 46-2. Embassy

The wine went down, and it was as if an invisible second course had been served. The appointment had been made—now it was time for everyone to chew on it with appropriate elegance. The great skill of court life has never been speaking, but the ability to take a sentence fully capable of sending someone to their death, slice it into seven or eight presentable portions, wash it down with wine, and conclude by remarking on the finish.

Varen III set down his glass and let his gaze sweep the table like a hunter watching hounds circle the same piece of meat, waiting to see who lowered their head first and who showed teeth.

"Well," he said with a light smile, "no one has anything to say? I rather expected you all to be more invested in Cedric's future than he is himself." The first to respond was, naturally, Olivia. She set her glass down with a sound so precise it might have been a signature—that woman could ratify someone's fate just by putting down a cup.

"As Your Majesty has decided, it would not be my place to question it." She laid airtight groundwork before raising her eyes slightly.

"However, the Dragon Kingdom's situation has been volatile for years. Internal factions command their own forces, all deeply entangled with sea trade routes. If Lord Cedric travels with only an imperial letter and title, that may gain entry but not necessarily make anyone sit and listen." She delivered it with perfect evenness, as if noting the soup was undersalted. But I heard the real content—she wasn't objecting, she was negotiating.

Demanding authorization, formal standing, leverage—everything needed to ensure I didn't get dissected by southern nobles before accomplishing anything. Varen III looked at her with apparent amusement.

"And what should he be given?" Olivia lowered her eyes, the faintest smile touching her lips.

"At minimum, the south should understand that the Empire has not sent a newly recognized young noble to be conveniently tested with blades, but someone whose fate—should anything go wrong—would merit a formal record in the capital." Beautifully constructed. In plain language: If you're throwing him away, at least make it expensive. Varen III's smile deepened.

"You calculate on his behalf very carefully."

"I calculate on the Empire's behalf," Olivia replied. I looked at the meat on my plate and found myself identifying with it strongly. It had presumably been alive before this evening, then been cut into neat portions and dressed attractively. Everyone agreed it had value. No one had asked its opinion. The second to speak was Alvira. She had none of Olivia's decorative framing—she set down her utensils, raised her head, and met the emperor's gaze with eyes cold as unthawed northern ice.

"Your Majesty, I have one question." He gestured for her to proceed.

"Is this an embassy or a probe?" The table paused. An excellent question—like an unblunted blade thrust straight through the tablecloth. Gilbert's expression didn't change. Galerus remained his usual breathing stone. Lucas glanced at Alvira as if assessing her life expectancy. Varen III, however, laughed.

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes," Alvira said without hesitation.

"If it's an embassy, the envoy should receive proper protections and standing. If it's a probe, there's no need to wrap it prettily—otherwise you're halfway through feeding him to the dogs before you can pretend that wasn't the plan." I nearly choked. This woman opened her mouth and I immediately wanted to find her a headstone. The problem was she was completely right, making it impossible to suggest she stop.

That was Alvira's most infuriating quality—she wasn't being deliberately provocative, just too lazy to apply cosmetics to dishonesty. Varen III regarded her, then slowly nodded.

"Good. I appreciate a temperament that refuses to burn incense for empty words." His tone remained mild.

"It is both embassy and probe. Testing the south, and testing the Empire. To see whether anyone still remembers how far the capital's reach extends." Alvira said nothing further, just picked up her glass. I knew that expression—not convinced, but noted. She never made scenes at other people's tables. She cleaned her blade and waited. The third to speak was Lucas. He had none of the previous speakers' layered approach—his voice was always clean, like a blade clearing its scabbard.

"If Your Majesty permits, I care about three things." Varen III looked at him.

"Speak."

"First: which southern faction actually commands troops versus which are merchants in dragon skins collecting taxes. Second: whether the Yansha Empire has already contacted them. Third—" He paused, gaze settling on me.

"If Cedric goes, does the capital intend him to return alive, or only his reports?" Blunter than Alvira's question. She had asked if I was a probe; Lucas was asking if I counted as human. I sat quietly, almost wanting to laugh. At least someone had confirmed whether I retained ownership of my own remains post-deployment. Gilbert spoke with characteristic frost.

"Lord Rosa acts under imperial commission. The mission takes precedence, naturally."

"I'm not asking about what the documents say," Lucas replied.

"Then you're asking about what His Majesty decides," Gilbert said. Two swords had been placed on the table—one horizontal, one vertical—neither touched, both understood to draw blood. Varen III watched with the expression of someone finally finding genuine entertainment.

"Mr. Lucas, remember that the Empire is not a nursery. I'm not sending him to enjoy scenery." Lucas lowered his eyes.

"Understood."

"But I have no intention of throwing him away carelessly." Varen III's gaze returned to me.

"If Cedric establishes himself in the south, he'll receive what's owed. If he cannot—" He smiled and left the sentence unfinished. The most merciful aspect of court life—when the emperor said something truly lethal, he typically only said half. The rest was left for private nightmares. Lucas asked nothing further, nodding like a soldier accepting an answer he disliked but understood. He wouldn't plead for my life here—that would only clarify to the emperor who stood close to whom.

The highest loyalty wasn't protecting someone, but not making them die faster. Finally, Jessi's turn. She had been quiet throughout—so quiet she might have been mistaken for a proper attendant. I knew better. When you went still, it was worse than talking, because it meant you were hoarding everyone's words, preparing to produce the most precisely poisonous bone at the optimal moment. Varen III seemed to finally remember her, turning with faint amusement.

"Well, Jessi? No opinion? I expected you to be first on your feet." Jessi stepped forward and bowed, manner so deferential it bordered on dangerous.

"This servant wouldn't presume to have opinions." I heard that and laughed silently. Perfect. Playing innocent right before someone's life got complicated. Sure enough, she raised her head, tone still gentle.

"Only—the young master is young, inexperienced. His constitution is hardy, but he tends to say things that don't sound like they belong to someone with long life expectancy." She paused, glancing considerately at me.

"If he truly must travel south as envoy, someone should accompany him—otherwise he might arrive, open his mouth, and convert mediation into funeral before the first day ends." My eye twitched. It sounded self-deprecating but was actually her inserting herself into the roster in front of a live imperial audience. More impressively, she'd stepped on me simultaneously, making it sound like rescue rather than power grab. Varen III laughed outright.

"You are, at least, honest."

"I have always cherished the young master," Jessi answered without the slightest blush.

"After all, he's worth something now. It would be such a pity if he broke." Matthews let out a muffled chuckle. Adeline raised her wine glass to hide the corner of her mouth. Even Kuroga's eyebrow seemed to shift by the barest fraction. I was the only one sitting there feeling like a piece of fragile porcelain that had just been appraised and packaged for international shipping—complete with the manufacturer's complimentary lunatic warranty.

Varen III studied Jessi like someone contemplating a fox that was particularly worth keeping around, provided it refrained from biting.

"You wish to accompany him?"

"If Your Majesty permits."

"Why?" Jessi blinked once, her tone almost childishly innocent.

"Because if the young master goes alone, he's liable to die inside someone else's sentences," she said.

"If I'm with him, at least he'll understand what killed him." That was so entirely her. Not protective enough to sound noble, not loyal enough to sound heroic—even carrying that characteristic lightness that warranted a slap. But anyone with functioning brain matter could hear exactly what she was doing: petitioning for assignment, in front of a table full of the Empire's most powerful people, binding herself to the life that had just been volunteered as the imperial pathfinder. Varen III didn't agree immediately.

He considered her for a moment, as if weighing whether this particular item was worth including in the southern shipment. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Finally, he smiled.

"Granted." Jessi bowed her head.

"This servant thanks Your Majesty." I kept my eyes lowered and didn't look at her. You had moved far too quickly. So quickly it seemed you were terrified I might actually get the chance to die alone. But that was the most infuriating thing about you—you never bothered dressing loyalty up in pretty words. You simply climbed aboard the sinking ship first, waited until it cast off, then casually asked everyone else if they got seasick. By the time the table had made its rounds, everyone's positions had been declared.

Olivia had negotiated for leverage on my behalf. Alvira had demanded to know whose throat this blade was actually meant for. Lucas had confirmed whether the Empire intended to treat me as a person or consumable material. Jessi had simply, without ceremony, reserved herself a seat beside my coffin. And Varen III had said nothing explicit—while quietly taking the measure of every single person at the table. That was the most nauseating part. He hadn't been announcing an assignment at a banquet.

He had been using the assignment to observe who would speak for me, who would calculate my odds, who would ask about my survival, and who would willingly stake themselves alongside me. As for me? I sat there, quietly finishing the last piece of meat on my plate, and realized I had learned something genuinely valuable tonight. Apparently, once you're placed on the table, you don't die immediately.

Sometimes everyone gathers around first, with impeccable manners, to discuss where you ought to be sent to cook most evenly. When the banquet concluded, the assembled guests rose with the coordinated precision of a well-drilled military withdrawal. Chair legs scraped softly against the floor. Silverware gathered with barely a whisper. Even the attendants' angle of bowing as they cleared the plates was calibrated to precisely the right degree of unobtrusiveness.

The entire inner palace seemed to recall, suddenly, that it was still the Empire, and that performing the emperor has just publicly packaged a fresh heir for southern delivery too much like a funeral procession would be undignified. So everyone maintained perfect composure—composed enough to suggest they had simply finished an entirely unremarkable meal, rather than having just witnessed a live dish receive its cooking instructions. I rose, bowed, and followed the general movement toward the exit.

The candles along the walls of the long hall wavered slightly in the night drafts. The tapestries hung heavy in the shadows like a row of corpses refusing to close their eyes. Only after several steps did I feel the pressure in my chest ease fractionally. Not because I was safe—only because being carried off the table felt marginally more human than remaining under the emperor's direct gaze. Jessi materialized at my side without a sound.

She had always walked like someone who had spent enough years stealing that even accompanying people to their deaths required quiet feet. Which was precisely why her silence now made my skin crawl. When she chattered constantly, at least I knew she was being obnoxious. When she went quiet, I knew she was choosing her moment to cut. We walked until we reached the connecting corridor, where the thick stone walls had absorbed most of the attendants' footsteps ahead and the trailing sounds behind.

Only then did she finally speak.

"Congratulations, young master." I glanced at her sideways.

"On what?"

"On this." Her expression was perfectly sincere—the sincerity of someone who had just finished selecting your coffin lining.

"Barely a few hours after being officially recognized, and already dispatched south by His Majesty. Rapid advancement. Swift departure. Very promising trajectory." I let out a short, humorless sound.

"If you work a little harder, you might have the eulogy memorized before I even leave."

"I wouldn't dare," she said.

"Too early would be bad luck. What if the young master's constitution holds and you actually crawl back? Then I'd just look like I was cursing you."

"As if you've ever stopped."

"That's different." Jessi considered this with apparent seriousness.

"Normally that's called caring. Tonight's version is called state policy." I almost laughed despite myself. The palace corridors at night were long, stone floors returning each footstep in steady echoes, as if someone behind us were counting our remaining days. The high windows on both sides were dark, with only the occasional wall sconce stretching our shadows into long, thin lines.

I looked down at mine and found it oddly appropriate—name nailed back into the family register by daylight, shadow measured for southward shipment by night. Jessi watched me for a moment, then her tone finally dropped a register.

"You'd already guessed there would be a follow-up move, hadn't you?"

"Guessed there would be one. Not this fast."

"The emperor doesn't want you staying in the capital."

"That's hardly a revelation," I said, pulling the corner of my mouth sideways.

"My presence here is inconvenient for everyone right now. From His Majesty's perspective, sending me south eliminates three problems at once—one fewer piece of gossip, one fewer unpredictable variable, and one more living piece he can use to hold a position." Jessi walked a few steps in silence.

"You're not angry."

"Would that help?"

"No," she answered promptly.

"But you usually love being angry about things that won't help." Annoyingly accurate. So accurate I couldn't be bothered to argue. I pressed my fingers against my brow, feeling the wine's delayed effect finally surfacing. I knew you would not disappoint us was still circling in my skull, making something behind my eyes ache. There was a particular danger in becoming too valuable—at a certain price point, even being sold started to look like receiving a commendation.

"You shouldn't have volunteered," I said. Jessi tilted her head, eyes catching the dim lamplight.

"Which part?"

"At the banquet. That petition."

"To accompany you?"

"What else—recite the menu?" She laughed quietly—the sound of a fingertip drawn lightly along glass.

"Young master, going alone is the actual death wish," she said.

"In places like the south, the nobility speak in etiquette, the military commanders speak in blades, and the merchants speak in prices—and the most exhausting part is they usually speak all three simultaneously. If you go alone, you might never even see a dragon. You'd be divided up and consumed by a group of old men dressed better than you before the first audience."

"So you intend to be consumed alongside me?"

"Not necessarily." She was admirably modest about it.

"Think of me more as the splinter lodged in the bone. Not particularly pleasant to eat, impossible to fully expel." I looked at her. That was the most maddening thing about you. You said something completely absurd, and yet every time it landed like it might actually be true. As if your presence wouldn't improve the destination, but would at least ensure the disaster had more interesting layers. I stayed quiet for a moment before speaking.

"The south isn't the capital. If something goes wrong out there, I may not be able to protect you." Jessi's steps didn't slow, her tone perfectly level.

"Young master, that sentence implies you've successfully protected someone before." I nearly choked. She seemed to recognize she'd struck with uncommon precision, and in a rare moment of something resembling conscience, waited one beat before continuing more slowly:"What I mean is—you've never survived by protecting anyone. You've survived because your constitution is unreasonably durable, and because people keep deciding it's not quite time for you to die yet.

Given that, one more person or one fewer—the difference isn't as significant as you're making it."

"That's remarkably comforting."

"I have always been eloquent."

"What you have is a talent for infuriating people."

"Keeping the young master angry enough to stay alive does count as a skill." I stopped bothering to respond. Two inner palace attendants waited at the junction ahead, lanterns in hand, clearly assigned to guide us back to our temporary quarters. In the lamplight, the layer of careful deference Jessi had performed throughout the banquet had already thinned, the familiar sharpness showing through underneath.

She didn't continue needling me—only as we turned down the return corridor did she lower her voice and ask:"What do you think Miss Olivia is thinking right now?" I didn't look back, but I understood why she had chosen this particular moment to say that name. Olivia had fought for exactly one thing at that table: ensuring I wouldn't be disposed of cheaply. That kind of person didn't panic over a single appointment.

She would immediately begin calculating how to convert this assignment into her own path, her own leverage, her own future.

"She's calculating people," I said.

"Which people?"

"Me. The south. The Yansha Empire. How many people in the capital will make their moves while I'm away." I paused.

"And how to ensure this mission ends up opening doors not just for His Majesty, but for herself." Jessi blinked, visibly satisfied that I hadn't reduced Olivia to a woman merely worried about her betrothed. That was the genuinely frightening part. If Olivia were simply jealous, she'd be manageable. People who put sentiment first tend to leave gaps. But she didn't.

When she looked at me, she was never looking at just a man—she was looking at a position, a name, a direction of political wind, and a timeline of who would fall when. The moment the emperor pushed me south, she had probably already mapped three trade routes between Eisenberg and the southern sea lanes, two contingency retreats, and a preliminary list of necessary casualties.

I could picture her in the final moment before leaving the hall—hanging back half a step, unhurried, letting an attendant settle her outer garment before turning to Gilbert with perfect calm: Since the mission is confirmed, should the supply roster require regional coordination en route, Eisenberg would be glad to contribute. No pleading on my behalf. No visible unease.

Just her hand, slipping quietly into the machinery of an imperial commission, making everyone believe she was helping the Empire while methodically driving her own stakes into every road I would travel. Her greatest skill wasn't capturing people. It was architecture. She didn't lock you in. She simply ensured that every path forward was paved in a way she had funded and could collect on. By the time you looked back, every stone beneath your feet had been placed with purpose.

When I didn't continue, Jessi supplied the next question herself.

"And Alvira?" This time my silence lasted longer. Alvira was different from Olivia. Olivia calculated first, then decided which direction to push. Alvira identified who needed to be cut down first, then chose the angle of entry. Her question at the table—is this an embassy or a probe—had been so direct it had effectively torn away half the decorative wrapping in front of everyone. That wasn't rudeness. It was a declaration of position. She didn't care how elegantly the commission had been framed.

She cared about one thing: whoever was using me as a test instrument had better not reach too far. I exhaled slowly.

"She's keeping records."

"Of whom?"

"Everyone who smiled too easily tonight. Everyone who seemed unsurprised by the order. Everyone who helped push me out the door a little too smoothly." I paused.

"And whether His Majesty actually wants me to come back with achievements, or just wants me to absorb the first cut." Jessi went quiet, then suddenly laughed.

"The way you describe it, Miss Alvira cares about you more than Miss Olivia does."

"If you'd like to be carried out horizontally tomorrow morning, keep saying things like that."

"I'm only being accurate," she said unhurriedly.

"One paves your road. One holds your grudges. Young master, you really are quite valuable." I closed my eyes briefly. Yes. Valuable enough that everyone wanted to place bets on me, and no one had bothered to tell me the odds. The attendant ahead stopped at the courtyard gate and bowed us through. The night wind moved through the corridor, pressing the lampflame sideways.

In that moment, I had a strange, hollow feeling—as if what had truly ended tonight wasn't the banquet, but the last stretch of something resembling ordinary days in the capital. At the threshold, Jessi spoke again.

"Young master."

"Mm?"

"You got something wrong just now." I turned to look at her. She stood in the amber lamplight with her arms folded, expression carrying an unusual degree of seriousness.

"You said Miss Olivia is calculating people, and Miss Alvira is keeping records," she said.

"But you missed something."

"What?"

"They're probably both calculating the same thing right now." She smiled at me—thin, quiet, and precise as a blade.

"Which of them gets to make you theirs first, somewhere on that southern road, before the Yansha Empire or the Dragon Kingdom gets the chance." I looked at her and said nothing for a long moment. The night air was cold, moving through the courtyard gate and into my bones. I understood, suddenly, that what had been escorted back to these rooms tonight wasn't a person. It was a newly announced transaction—publicly revealed by the emperor over dinner.

And I was, unfortunately, both the merchandise and the road it traveled.

"Go to sleep," I said finally. Jessi murmured a quiet "Yes, my lord," the smile still at the corner of her mouth, and turned away with steps so light it was as if she'd said nothing at all. I stood in the doorway and watched her silhouette disappear into the shadows of the corridor. Then I thought of Olivia's eyes in the final moment before she left the hall—still, composed, almost gentle. And Alvira's knuckles, white for just an instant as she set down her wine glass. One paving the road. One keeping the record.

One standing beside me, planning to accompany me south and find out firsthand what dying there looked like. The Empire had been generous with me tonight. Over the course of a single dinner, it had thoughtfully assembled every source of future difficulty—every person and every problem I was going to lose sleep over for the foreseeable future.