Chương 3: 02-1: Magic, Rations, and Wine

"Cedric."

"What now?" I snapped back with barely concealed impatience, slapping the yellowed parchment map against my knee and trying to read our position through the scattered sunlight filtering between the hemlock branches. No luck. Past Hemlock Town, the map became aggressively unhelpful. Mountain ranges sketched like something a dog had chewed on. Rivers meandering in wobbling lines that looked like a drunkard's handiwork.

As for roads—they simply dissolved into blank nothingness the moment they crossed the domain borders. Staring at all that empty white space, I felt a sickeningly familiar recognition settle in my chest.... Just like my life. Within the domain, you at least had names, rules, destinations carved out by someone else. Step outside House Rosa's gates, and there was only blankness ahead. No direction, no guarantees—just cold wind, thick mud, and the coin toss of whether starvation or a blade would find you first.

The urge to crumple this useless parchment and hurl it into the nearest puddle was almost overwhelming.

"We're almost out of rations." Jessi tapped the visibly deflated leather pouch hanging from my saddle, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on cloud cover. I glanced at the pouch. My mood dropped another notch.

"I was planning to resupply in town," I said, exhaling through my teeth and turning to glare at her.

"But someone nearly got themselves hanged, so I had to drop everything to save a life."

"My deepest apologies, Master." She fired back in that tone she'd perfected—completely deadpan, completely deliberate, completely taking the piss. She even pinched the ragged edges of her so-called skirt and executed a curtsy so technically incorrect it had to be intentional.

"Next time I shall be more mindful of where I position the chamber pot, so as not to delay Your Grace's sacred procurement of black bread."

"If you could manage three minutes of silence, I'd probably live five years longer."

"Only five?" She tilted her head, looking genuinely crestfallen.

"I must not be trying hard enough." This woman is a force of nature. She wasn't even doing anything, just walking beside me, and somehow I could feel my remaining lifespan ticking down at a measurable rate. Though—if I was being brutally honest—annoying as she was, I couldn't deny that the "outside knowledge" she'd been casually dropping along the way was more practically useful than any combat drill I'd suffered through in the castle courtyard. How to read whether a guard was desperate for coin.

Which weeds could slow bleeding. What kind of standing water usually meant snakes nearby. And most importantly—why dignity in the wilderness wasn't a virtue but a liability that got people killed. If someone had told me a few days ago that I'd be marching along listening to survival tips from a girl who stole coins, ran cons, and had a tongue sharp enough to draw blood, I'd have called them insane. Looking at things now, the insane one was probably me.

"Hey, Cedric." She called my name again. This time, not little lordling. For some reason, my grip on the reins tightened slightly.

"What?" I kept my voice carefully neutral. Jessi laced her hands behind her head and walked backward, facing me, completely unconcerned about rocks or roots. She squinted, looking me up and down with unhurried appraisal.

"Where are you actually planning to go?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you can't seriously intend to just drift forever like a wandering ghost." She chinned toward the map in my hand.

"I don't mind aimless travel—I've never known where I'm sleeping tomorrow anyway. But that face of yours doesn't look like someone on a journey. It looks like someone running. And if you're running, you should at least know what you're running toward." I was quiet for a moment. Wind moved through the hemlock forest, heavy with resin, damp earth, and the weight of unspoken things.

"If I can manage it—the capital." The moment those words left my mouth, my eldest brother's face surfaced in my mind. That smile of his—always composed, always warm, always perfectly calibrated to make me sick. And the hemp rope hanging from my saddle, occasionally swaying to knock against my leg. My hand tightened without thinking. Fingernails bit into my palm, sharp as needles, but the cold fury spreading slowly from my chest was clearer than any physical pain. The capital. Maybe there was opportunity there.

Maybe answers. Maybe nothing at all. But at least it was farther from the shadow of House Rosa. Better to walk toward a larger unknown than rot in place.

"The capital... oof." Jessi grabbed her forehead like she'd heard a curse word, letting out a groan of theatrical despair.

"That place is nothing but bad memories. Sewers, dungeons, empty stomachs, getting chased through every back alley... just thinking about it makes me want to light a memorial candle for my younger self."

"Perfect." I jumped on it almost instantly, like a drowning man seizing driftwood.

"Then you don't have to force yourself to come along. If there's a fork in the road ahead, we go our separate ways. Safer for you, and for me it'll be—" Quieter. I didn't get to finish. Jessi stopped walking. Dropped her head. Her shoulders gave a small, pathetic tremor. Then she slowly looked up—and her eyes were actually, genuinely red.

"So..." Her voice wavered like wet paper about to tear.

"You're really going to throw me away, little lordling?" My stomach lurched.... Here we go. I knew—absolutely knew—this was a performance. But looking at those suddenly reddened eyes, my brain still went blank for just a heartbeat.

"I guess I was just some cheap plaything you picked up on the side of the road..." She pressed one hand to her chest, voice trembling with the energy of a street theater tragedy queen.

"I lit your fires, kept you company, walked through wind and rain at your side. And now you're bored, so you'll just toss me in a ditch... Oh, poor, wretched Jessi..."

"Keep your voice down!" I nearly lunged to clap my hand over her mouth. Too late. Two mercenaries with loaded packs happened to be passing by. They caught enough key words to turn and stare in unison. The look in their eyes was thick with contempt and moral condemnation—as if I weren't some broke exile but a practiced villain who made a hobby of luring innocent girls to ruin. One was already scowling like he was seriously considering delivering righteous justice straight to my jaw.

"That's not—! What she just said isn't—!"

"See? Now he's yelling at me." Jessi stepped back half a pace, sniffled audibly, and somehow managed to look even more convincingly on the verge of tears. My vision went dark at the edges. Wonderful. Not only was I a banished bastard—I was now apparently suspected of being human trash as well.

"I have never, in my entire life, met anyone more shameless than you." I ground the words out through clenched teeth. Her tears vanished instantly, completely—replaced by a grin like a fox that had just raided the henhouse. The speed of that transformation honestly deserved applause.

"Now you have," she declared cheerfully. Then, as if nothing had happened, she pointed ahead.

"Besides, since little lordling is so heartless, at least buy your plaything a bowl of hot soup before you abandon her. Look—there's someone over there who looks even more cursed than you." I followed her finger. Not far ahead stood a ramshackle waystation, its wooden sign hanging at such a precarious angle it seemed ready to brain the next passerby. In front of the entrance, a young man in a blue robe stood awkwardly before a job posting, clutching what was presumably a staff. Presumably being the operative word.

The thing was almost offensively shabby. Mud-spattered shaft, cracked crystal at the tip—dull and gray, nothing like the gleaming instruments I remembered from the imperious mages of my childhood, whose very breathing seemed more expensive than a commoner's life. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. He looked ready to collapse from hunger.

Several minutes later, with the man pinned face-down in the mud beneath me, I was forced to conclude that fate had a very specific and personal sense of humor. A memory surfaced unbidden from childhood. Back when Father was still alive, when our domain still clung to some semblance of noble dignity, the castle had welcomed a Royal Mage one winter. A genuine one—spotless silk robes with gold embroidery, soft light dancing at his fingertips. He had conducted aptitude assessments for all the children.

I still remembered the atmosphere that day. Even my eldest brother—who normally carried himself like he'd been born to stand on everyone's necks—had shown restraint. Father received the mage personally. In this world, those who could touch the supernatural simply existed on a different level. The mage had explained that the gifted were beloved of the gods. Some could command fire and lightning, shatter fortress walls. Some could bind demons, tear enemy formations apart from within.

Others could work healing miracles, dragging the dying back from death's threshold. But the prerequisite was talent. And it almost always manifested before twenty. If it didn't—that was your answer for life. Unfortunately, House Rosa had never produced so much as a sprout in that direction. Our bloodline seemed far better at cultivating arrogance, prejudice, and the fine art of stabbing each other in the back than any form of magic.

So now, staring down at this self-proclaimed mage with hunger-glazed eyes, caught mid-attempt at stealing moldy bread from the waystation keeper, I could only reach one conclusion.

"This guy is an absolute fraud." I twisted his arm and pressed him deeper into the mud, then glanced at Jessi, who was crouched nearby enjoying the show with focused interest.

"What is wrong with my life? Why do I keep attracting thieves?"

"Sir! I am not a thief! I am a mage! A mage of distinction!" The man thrashed desperately beneath me, voice cracking toward a shriek. His cracked staff lay in the mud beside him, looking like nothing so much as expensive kindling.

"Oh, really?" I let out a cold laugh, discovering I'd picked up a very undignified sense of satisfaction from somewhere in Jessi's direction.

"Did you hear that, Jessi? He says he's a mage. By that logic, I suppose I'm the king."

"Indeed, Your Most Gracious Majesty." Jessi matched my energy instantly, executing a perfectly crooked bow with complete sincerity, then studied the young man pinned in the dirt with the calculating look of someone pricing livestock.

"As for this great mage... he looks pretty tender. If we turn him in for a bounty, we might get at least one hot meal out of it."

"Thank the gods." I snorted.

"No more bread that could shatter teeth." Then I reached over and unhooked the hemp rope from my saddle. Yes. That rope. The one my family had thoughtfully pre-knotted for my convenience. Thinking about it now, its practical applications were really expanding. I bound the self-proclaimed mage with practiced efficiency and prepared to drape him across Bruce's back like cargo. The smoothness of the whole operation gave me a deeply complicated feeling.... When did I get this good at tying people up?

"Sirs! Wait! Please, help!" The man wriggled against the saddle leather, still refusing to give up.

"I really am a mage! Check my pocket! There's proof!" Jessi raised an eyebrow and reached into his robes without hesitation. To this day I don't know how she does it. The movement was faster than wind, cleaner than anything I'd seen—professional precision that inspired a very complicated form of respect. She produced a small metal plaque from the folds of his robe. It caught the light with a cold, pale gleam.

"Holy shit." Jessi's eyes went wide.

"This thing reeks of money. Cedric—did we just strike gold?" It was forged from pale platinum, giving off that fine, cold metallic sheen that doesn't belong in ordinary hands. Even without knowing the market value, I could tell this wasn't something most people ever touched." Read it!" The bound man wailed with tragic dignity." Please look at the inscription! That's my identification!" Jessi flashed her teeth in a wide grin.

"Do I look like I can read?"

"... Your commitment to honesty is genuinely impressive." I pressed fingers to my temple and took the cold plaque from her hand. At the center, a finely engraved hexagram beneath an imperial crown—symbol of the empire's magical hierarchy. My chest tightened as I read aloud.

"This document certifies: Lucas Ponti, Apprentice Mage. Imperial Royal Academy of Magic." Three seconds of silence. I looked down at the young man I'd trussed like a market pig, currently squirming with an expression of profound grievance. Then I looked at the credentials in my hand—impressive enough to make my own bloodline feel embarrassed. Finally, I turned slowly to Jessi.

"... Cut him loose." I could feel my cheek twitching. This expedition to the capital was evolving in a direction that was simultaneously very bad and inexplicably, chaotically lively. One banished bastard. One sharp-tongued, light-fingered slum girl. And one Imperial Academy apprentice mage who'd been caught stealing moldy bread.... Was this really going to work? Honestly, I had serious doubts. That evening, we sheltered in an abandoned farmhouse.

"Farmhouse" was generous—what remained were a few scorched earth walls and a roof that had partially surrendered to gravity. Rotting beams jutted toward the gray sky at broken angles, like the open mouth of a dying man who hadn't yet managed to close his eyes. Rain tracked down the timber edges in thin streams, mixing with ash, mud, and the lingering stench of old char. The whole structure breathed out damp, cold misery. But on a night like this, anything that blocked wind qualified as luxury accommodation.

Lucas crouched before the ruined fireplace, face so pale he looked halfway to joining the spirits, sweat and soot sliding together down his forehead. He gripped a cheap fluorite focus with both hands, grinding his teeth through another attempt to coax fire from thoroughly waterlogged firewood. The fluorite was already emitting fine, high crackling—like advance mourning for its own structural integrity."

Cough — cough cough —damn it, this wood is soaked like someone pulled it straight from a river—" He hacked and forced fire elements into motion. A small orange flame nosed upward—only to be killed instantly by surface moisture with a sharp hiss, dissolving into acrid white smoke that hit all three of us in the face." Cough—cough cough—!" I jerked my head away, eyes stinging. Lucas simply collapsed backward, fingers shaking. Third failure.

"Top of his class at the Academy," Jessi drawled from where she leaned against a support beam that was visibly losing its will to support anything.

"If your plan was to smoke all three of us to death, congratulations—you're almost there." Her mouth was merciless as always, but I noticed her eyes kept drifting toward the gaps in the walls, scanning the darkness outside with quiet unease. Understandable. In a place like this, no fire meant no warmth. No warmth meant a night spent enduring darkness, hunger, and whatever might decide to wander in from outside. I shrugged off my rain-soaked cloak and dropped it to the ground.

The wet fabric hit with a dull, heavy thud. The old injury in my shoulder bit back in response to cold, sharp and rhythmic. I clenched my jaw against it and dug the last of our black bread from my coat, drew my knife. The feeling of the blade going in was, honestly, not much different from splitting firewood. Every cut required focus—I was terrified of losing even a crumb to the mud. At this point, a dropped fragment would have been genuinely tragic.

"Leave him alone, Jessi." My voice came out rougher than intended, scraped raw by cold wind and thirst.

"This is the last of our rations. One share each, washed down with rainwater. At least we won't starve tonight." I held out a portion to Jessi. She didn't say thank you—just took it and bit in fast, like she expected someone to snatch it back. Less eating than combat. But even so, her eyes never strayed far from the doorway. This woman had a very specific kind of alertness in dangerous places. Or maybe that was simply what survival looked like.

"Tomorrow, if we pass through a town—" I frowned at her while cutting the last piece.

"You should change out of those rags."

"Hm?" She looked up. My gaze moved over the edges of her clothing—tears that had long since stopped serving any practical purpose—and caught sight of mud-caked skin beneath, chilblains on her legs, and—"And—and your undergarments as well." I jerked my head away almost instantly. My ears went hot. Damn it. Why had I said it like that? Like I was reading off a shopping inventory? Jessi's laugh came right on cue, exactly as stomach-dropping as I'd learned to expect."

Oh—" She stretched the syllable out with deliberate malice.

"So you did notice, little lordling. That interested in the details, are you?"

"That wasn't details —that was indecent exposure!" I snapped back before I could stop myself, which immediately made everything worse. Jessi laughed harder and deliberately angled herself slightly my way.

"So you were looking."

"I was not looking—you just weren't covered —""Which means you looked."

"..." Damn it. I had never once won an argument with this woman. Then Lucas, who had been silently curled by the dead fireplace, slowly raised his head. Through the soot and exhaustion on his face, genuine, earnest confusion had taken shape.

"Um... are you two... like that?" One beat of silence.

"Yeah," said Jessi, without hesitation, like she'd been waiting for the question." No," I said at almost the same moment, loud enough to startle myself. Jessi turned to look at me with perfect innocence. I glared back with the specific fury of a man who wanted to stuff bread into someone's mouth. Lucas's gaze moved between us, expression growing increasingly complicated—the look of someone who thinks they understand but is afraid to think about it too hard.

"Stop looking at me like that," I said irritably.

"She's just—" I'd been going to say trouble. But the word caught in my throat and wouldn't come out. Jessi made a small sound through her nose, bit off another chunk of hard bread, and chewed like she was grinding a grudge. Then—running her rust-spotted knife idly along its own edge—she said, in a tone that was half self-deprecating, half teasing, threaded through with something she probably wouldn't admit under interrogation:"I must owe him something from a past life.

Got caught by him in this one, so I guess I'm paying it back slowly." I glanced at her. Just then, Lucas turned the platinum identification plaque over and over in his hands. The dying embers in the fireplace cast wan light across his bloodless face, deepening every shadow. I thought for a moment, then asked anyway.

"How exactly did you end up like this?" Lucas looked up. I frowned, taking in his mud-spattered academy robes and that pathetic excuse for a staff.

"Even the lowest-ranked apprentice mage should have a mentor, an institution. You shouldn't be starving to death in the wilderness unless this isn't bad luck—unless you actively worked your way down here." Jessi chimed in helpfully from the side:"Or debt."

"Or sleeping with the wrong person."

"Or burning down your mentor's house."

"Or all three."

"... Could you two please stop writing my eulogy?" Lucas offered a weak protest, then fell silent. He dropped his head, thumb moving in slow circles over the platinum plaque. His eyes sank into that particular hollow stillness of someone being dragged back to a memory they'd rather leave buried. I watched him for a few seconds, then looked away.

"If you don't want to talk about it, don't." I slid my knife back into its sheath.

"As long as you don't slow us down or put us in danger, I have no interest in your past." Lucas said nothing. Just gave the faintest nod. I looked up toward the darkness that had swallowed the second floor.

"You check upstairs?"

"It'll do. The floorboards haven't completely rotted through yet, anyway." Jessi swallowed the last of her bread—dry enough to be a choking hazard—and brushed crumbs from her hands with studied casualness.

"Though you'd better test the boards before you trust them, little lordling. I'd rather not wake up to the sight of you crashing through the ceiling."

"How thoughtful of you."

"Don't mention it. I mostly just don't want to be woken up by screaming."