Imitation Ravioli and the Witch’s Cottage

Though Ivano had requested that Dahlia’s carriage drop him off at the Merchants’ Guild so he could finish some work, the Rossetti Trading Company was unbudging about sending him straight home. Now, only Volf and Dahlia remained in the carriage as it headed for the Green Tower.

“Do you have plans for the rest of the evening, Volf?”

“No, not really. Had I remembered to bring a change of clothes, I would’ve asked you out to get some food.”

“Oh, no, it’s my fault for summoning you even though you were so busy today,” Dahlia apologized, surmising that he must’ve rushed out the door after training with his squad. It was already past dinnertime too. “Would you like to come over and test out the new camp stove? Mr. Fermo and I made a few modifications to its materials to lighten it further. I’ve got a meal prepared already as well.”

“I’d love to! Thanks for having me again,” Volf said readily. Perhaps talk of the new and improved camp stove had caught his attention; he was much less reserved than usual today. But whatever the cause, Dahlia was just glad that he was coming over, and she began going over tonight’s menu in her head.

Back at the tower, she lit up the magical lantern at the entryway before Volf offered to carry it. He took careful steps as they headed up to the second floor, and the light illuminated the stone stairs from a higher angle than Dahlia was accustomed to. She’d only realized just how dark the staircase was since the day they’d made the Creeping Blade, so she was glad to have his help.

The living room was more than bright enough once the two magical lamps were lit, though now another problem was apparent—even with the windows open and the cooling fan switched on, the hot, humid air clung to the room.

After offering her guest a damp towel and a glass of white wine, Dahlia hurried to her room to change into something more comfortable. After all, her businesswear was ill-suited for cooking but especially so given what would be on the menu tonight. Then, she suddenly remembered something buried in the back of her closet, dug it out, and returned downstairs. “Hey, Volf, you probably shouldn’t get that shirt dirty, right?”

“It’s no biggie if I do; I’ve got more in the barracks.” Though he’d taken off his jacket, the shirt underneath was white. No need to give the launderers a hard time by getting tough grease stains on the bright white fabric.

“Here, try this on if you’d like. I haven’t worn it before,” she said as she handed him a breathable black T-shirt, perfect for the sticky summer weather. It should have fit him loosely, probably one up from his usual size.

“Erm...whose is this?”

“It’s mine. It’s nice and cool wearing it to sleep,” she replied with some hesitancy. “But like I said, it’s brand new! I haven’t even tried it on before!”

“Much appreciated. Truth be told, I’m dripping in sweat right now...” Volf lifted up his arm, revealing his soaked-through shirt. It was no surprise, though, as neither his shirt nor his trousers were appropriate for the weather.

“You really ought to have a summer uniform.”

“Well, it’s not often we wear our dress uniforms when it’s this hot out. When we have ceremonies in the summer, we usually slip towels down our backs and try to look as unfazed as possible.”

“What’s that? Some sort of training?”

“Something to build composure, I suppose. After the ceremony, whoever loses their composure has to buy drinks for whoever sweated the most. We get pretty excited over it.”

“Oh, so it’s like a bit of competition?”

“Yeah, exactly. Hard to stay sane without some kind of reward in sight.”

Dahlia feared the knights would get heat stroke in those clothes under the blazing sun. “If only there were some kind of tool that could keep you guys cool.”

“I’ll say. I’ve heard that before my time, someone tried stuffing an ice crystal down the back of his shirt, only to get frostbitten instead of cooled off.”

Some people went to extremes to fight the heat. It was hard using an ice crystal on its own like that; the stronger the output was, the shorter it lasted. Dahlia still felt sorry about freezing Volf’s hand with the last shortsword experiment. “Does your order run on a fairly tight budget?”

“We’ve got some leeway, but like anyone else, we’re always told to cut costs. Instead of ordering clothes that we seldom wear, I’m sure they’d rather spend the money on things like weapons or expedition supplies.”

“I hope the camp stove will come in handy, then.”

“Thank you very much for improving the meals on our journeys, Ms. Rossetti,” he said in his best business voice, and the two shared a giggle.

Dahlia moved to the kitchen, leaving Volf to get out of his damp clothes. Along with a pair of the newly improved camp stoves, she retrieved from the refrigerator a platter and a vessel of quick-pickled vegetables, making sure to drain the brine from the mixture of cabbage, radish, and carrots before plopping them onto a plate.

Just as she was taking some ale out from the fridge, Volf came by and helped bring everything to the table. “Are these some kind of ravioli? I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“Um, yeah, they’re something like meat-filled imitation ravioli? It’s ground pork and vegetables in a thin flour wrapper.” The truth was that they were gyoza, but she gave him a roundabout explanation, as the pan-fried dumplings she knew from her previous life didn’t exist in this world.

Ravioli culture flourished here in the royal capital of Ordine. Its most ordinary form had a meat, vegetable, and cheese filling. However, many varieties were available, like seafood ravioli, healthier ravioli stuffed only with vegetables, and even dessert ravioli stuffed with fruit and jam. Sauces were just as plentiful. Tomato and cheese was the default choice, but more adventurous options such as chili sauce with basil and sweet tangy drizzles were also popular. The ravioli was such a staple that grocers always stocked jarred sauces and premade pasta sheets.

However, only gyoza were gyoza. As Dahlia had found herself with a free afternoon, she had decided to make them from scratch. She had mixed plain flour, water, and elbow grease to form a dough. After flattening balls of dough into discs, she had rolled them out as thin as possible to get wrappers. Gyoza had been a favorite of her father’s, and that being the case, Dahlia knew the process by heart.

Her plan had been to serve gyoza if Volf were to join her for dinner. If he hadn’t, she’d have stocked up her freezer. With the possibility of dinner with Volf in mind, she’d made two varieties: one standard—with pork, garlic chives, and cabbage—and the other seafood—a mixture of shrimp, onion, and cabbage. However, as she’d toiled away and filled the tray, she’d realized she had made so many that there wasn’t even enough space in her freezer to store them all. She would’ve had to eat gyoza for days if Volf hadn’t decided to come, so she was most grateful for his presence.

“Meat-filled imitation ravioli? Huh. Well, whatever they are, I’m excited!” he enthused, unwittingly putting pressure on her.

Before they ate, though, Dahlia set two camp stoves on the table. Based on their discussion last time, the improved model now featured a larger pot but was still much smaller and lighter than the compact magical stove. The day after they’d spoken, Dahlia had set about using scrap magisteel and making a pot with those S-shaped linkages the four of them had talked about.

After Fermo had designed the lid, which doubled as a frying pan, he’d also applied a coating to the cooking surface. Dahlia had tested it thoroughly and had found that, not only was it perfect for grilling meat, the non-stick surface was so slick that she could even make the most delicate omelets with ease. Fermo’s wife, Barbara, had tried it out as well and had given an absolutely glowing review.

Though they weren’t obvious, the stove itself had received some major improvements as well. Its center of gravity had been lowered so it would be even harder to tip over. That, combined with eight tacky pieces of gumfoot on the underside, ensured that the stove would be stable on uneven terrain.

Dahlia had also learned an important lesson in safety when the Frozen Blade had encased Volf’s hand in ice. She knew she had to account for users with particularly powerful magic and for the possibility that they might camp near dry brush, and so the special material that reflected the heat from the fire crystals had been thickened as well. The lockout mechanism had also been strengthened so the stove couldn’t be turned on if it got bumped while in transport. As far as Dahlia could tell, she had done her utmost with the camp stove.

“Let’s get cooking, then.” She placed a layer of gyoza on the bottom of the pot and turned on the stove. After the pot heated through, she added about half a cup of water and covered it with the combination lid/skillet.

“Is that enough water?”

“Yes, just enough to steam up the ravioli before frying them,” Dahlia explained. While Volf was staring intently at the pot, she filled his mug full of ruby ale. “We have about five minutes to wait, so why don’t we raise our glasses in the meantime?”

“Good call. I think it’s your turn today.”

“Then, um, to memorizing all the castle etiquette and for good luck tomorrow.”

“Here’s to a prosperous future for the Rossetti Trading Company and good luck tomorrow. Cheers!”

The ruby ale had a distinct tartness that cut through its rich body. After the refreshing bubbly sensation cleared, a hint of fruity acidity remained on the palate. The nose was somewhat subdued—the ale had been chilled a little too long—but there was nothing that quenched thirst quite like a frosty beer. Dahlia figured that she could take her time to enjoy the subtleties of her second or third mug after it had warmed up a little, only to realize she was thinking like a heavy drinker.

Enjoying the beer afforded her enough time to progress to the next step of the cooking process. After making sure the gyoza had been steamed thoroughly, she removed the lid to let the water cook off and finish the dumplings. “Now we let them brown a bit.”

Volf eyed them suspiciously. “Erm, Dahlia?”

“Trust me, this is how it’s supposed to go.” The water had drawn out some of the flour from the wrappers and formed a slurry, and after the moisture had evaporated, the gyoza were now bound together by a crispy layer of starch, like little wings that sprouted from their backs. Paired with that beautiful golden-brown surface, these were signs of utter failure in ravioli but perfection in gyoza. She plated them up and placed an assortment of condiments before Volf, including salt, pepper, vinegar, chili oil, fish sauce, tomato sauce, and grated hard cheese. As Dahlia hadn’t had enough time to make a dipping sauce, she’d brought out all the condiments she had on hand, even if not all of them were appropriate. “They should be well-seasoned already, but feel free to dip them in whatever you like.”

“Oh. Uh, sure.”

It was obvious that Volf was a little apprehensive, so she decided to lead by example. After separating one dumpling from the batch with her chopsticks, Dahlia plunged one end into a dish of vinegar, chili oil, and fish sauce and bit it in half. The delectable aroma of pork and vegetables filled her nose and overwhelmed her senses, while the juices scalded her tongue ever so slightly. Meanwhile, the tender wrapper yielded gently, contrasting with the crackly “wings” and crunchy fried bottom—the textures were an experience of their own. And though the wrapper was on the thicker side, it was actually ideal if one were treating the gyoza as the main course rather than as an appetizer.

After Dahlia finished savoring the dumpling, she downed her mug of chilled ruby ale in one go. There was hardly a better pairing, and she knew that from two lives’ worth of experience. Before she reached for another piece, she turned to Volf. His eyes were shut tight as he chewed his food; bliss was written all over his face. As his glass had naught but lacing left, she silently topped him up with more ruby ale.

“This is fantastic. Were they made with a fancy cut of meat?”

“No, just cheap minced pork and regular veggies.”

“Do they serve these in restaurants?”

“Uh, perhaps abroad. I’m not too sure about anywhere local, though, sorry.”

“Wow. Whenever I come around, if it’s not a classic done well, then it’s a completely new dish. This must be the witch’s cottage in the woods.”

The Witch’s Cottage in the Woods was a well-known children’s book. The story was about a hungry young boy who couldn’t wait for supper. He wandered into the woods, though his parents had warned him never to set foot there, and soon came upon a small cottage. The boy knew better than to invite himself into a stranger’s home, but he just couldn’t resist the delicious scent coming from inside. There, a witch who he had never seen or heard of before offered him all the food he could eat. When the boy was full, he thanked the witch before heading home, only to realize he couldn’t leave. What was supposed to be the moral of the story? That one should listen to one’s parents or that gluttony is a sin? The less-than-happy ending had always been a bit of a head-scratcher for Dahlia.

“If that’s the case, are you going to end up all round and plump?”

“Monsters are going to have me for lunch if I get that big.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have to worry about that—you wouldn’t be able to get out of the tower in the first place.” The last scene in the fairy tale had the boy swell up into a sphere so that he was unable to fit through the cottage door. It seemed less like the consequence of overeating and more like a hex of the witch’s.

“So you’re saying it’d be better for me to get to that size?”

“Too bad you’re the type that doesn’t gain weight no matter how much you eat.” The two of them shared a laugh as they finished their first round of gyoza. “Here, try some of this while I fry up some more.”

“Thanks!” Volf said as he helped himself to some of the quick-pickles. He always seemed younger than he really was. The way he was chewing so thoroughly suggested how much he enjoyed the pickled vegetables as well. “Oh, these are great too. I eat a lot of preserved vegetables, but they’re nothing like these. There’s a hint of...citrus that works really well.”

“I think that’s the yuzu you’re tasting.”

“That’s what it is? I’ve never had it used like this before. Whenever I think of yuzu, I think of it steeped in spirits.”

“Oh, like yuzu liqueur? I enjoy that too. What about you?”

“Yeah, I like to cut it with a bit of hot water. Really warms you up in the winter.”

That gave Dahlia an idea. She could mix up some yuzu, neutral spirits, and a good deal of rock sugar soon to have it ready for winter. Yuzu liqueur with hot water would be great paired with miso stew. Unfortunately, in all the years since her reincarnation, Dahlia had yet to see any miso in this world, and so her second idea was to pair the hot cocktail with flounder preserved in oil.

As she was frying up the second batch of dumplings, Volf contemplated the pot and stove. “Do you think I could dehydrate these and take them on an expedition?”

“I don’t think that’ll work. Frozen, yes, but dehydrated, no.” There was no way they’d dry properly, and bringing frozen gyoza on a trip was a different kind of camping altogether.

“Now that I think about it, calling them ‘imitation ravioli’ seems almost disrespectful. With the way they’re folded up, do you think ‘leaf wraps’ would work?”

“The problem with that is there are already dishes that are made of stuffed leaves.”

“Oh, that’s true. Hmm...”

Volf seemed like he was truly racking his brains over this issue, which made Dahlia feel a little guilty. Maybe it was time for her to come clean. “What about ‘gyoza,’ like my father used to call them?”

“‘Gyoza,’ huh? That’s a fun and exotic-sounding name.” Dahlia served up a new plate of dumplings and Volf thanked her before taking a bite into one. Once again, he took his time chewing and reveling in every bite, as if he had put the world around him on pause, then washed it all down with big gulps of ale. He let out a satisfied sigh as he basked in the flavors, then burst out laughing for some reason. “Dahlia...”

“What is it, Volf?” She paused with her chopsticks still in her right hand and her mug of ruby ale in her left.

“These are amazing too. What’s in them? Shrimp?”

“That’s right. I made two versions today. These are the shrimp and vegetables. Which ones do you like better?”

“That’s a seriously difficult question to answer.”

“If that’s the case, then let’s alternate between the two. We’ve still got tons left.”

“They’re both so good. How can I possibly choose between them?”

“All right, all right. I’ll make other varieties next time. We could do chicken, or just vegetables, or even one batch with cheese.”

“Do you think you have any easier questions for me?” Though he furrowed his brows, there was a slobbering grin on his face.

The next tray of gyoza were spiced up with a bit of chili pepper, but she chose to keep that a surprise. She also contemplated deep-frying them or boiling them.

“I didn’t know I’d stepped into the witch’s tower in the woods,” Volf mumbled and then heaved a sigh, drawing a roaring laugh from Dahlia.

Volf must’ve been very fond of the gyoza and beer—at least, so it seemed from the way he was lounging on the sofa with a slightly bulging belly. “Bite after bite of dumpling, mug after mug of ale—boy, what a meal,” he said. The knight looked like a lion tuckered out after devouring his prey.

“I’m so glad to hear you enjoyed yourself.” Dahlia couldn’t help but giggle at the sight.

“At this rate, it really will be just a matter of time before I’m rotund.” Life might have been a little more peaceful for him if that were the case, given that he wouldn’t have to go out into the field. Otherwise, the monsters that he’d be facing would get a good nibble on him.

The scent of gyoza lingered in the room, so Dahlia turned the cooling fan on higher before going to retrieve the red- and navy-striped cups they’d bought together. She put a large chunk of ice and a big splash of estervino in each of the squat, translucent glasses, then set them on the coffee table before taking a seat on the sofa herself.

“Hey, Dahlia? Are you still feeling a bit down?”

“Oh, um...just a bit.” All the eating and drinking had helped, and it wasn’t as if Dahlia was consumed by her emotions, yet Volf saw right through her.

His golden eyes narrowed ever so slightly, casting a look of concern upon her. “You’re still thinking about what Oswald said earlier, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I now know full well just how little I know. I’d dreamed of being a better toolmaker than even Father was, but, well, it seems I’ve got a ways to go.” Dahlia had felt the utmost gratitude to Oswald for pointing out her overconfidence, but that didn’t mean it had hurt any less. She couldn’t stand the ache she felt when she wished her father were still around to teach her more; thinking that way wouldn’t help Carlo rest in peace and, frankly, was a little disrespectful to Oswald.

“You kinda jumped at his offer as soon as he made it, but are you sure about Oswald?”

“I’m extremely grateful to have this chance to absorb his knowledge, since there was much Father had yet to pass on to me when he died.”

“What about any other magical toolmaker?”

“Hmm. My father was the best toolmaker I knew, but now Oswald is the best I know. Besides, I doubt there is anyone out there willing to teach their craft to a complete outsider.” There were undoubtedly powerful toolmakers in the castle, and mages who crafted tools as well as spells must have had some very special techniques. However, Dahlia was acquainted with none of them, and even if she were, there would be little chance that any of them would teach anyone other than their own apprentices. “And there’s something that I really need to learn too.”

“What’s so important?”

“If I can learn how to apply multiple enchantments to one tool, then I’ll have a better chance at making a magical sword, right?”

“Oh, you’re right!”

“And if I learn to raise my magic level, not only should I be able to make even more powerful swords, there will be so many more tools that I can make—that’s why I instantly said yes to him.”

Volf’s expression darkened as he lowered his gaze. Oswald’s asking price of fifty gold was indeed no trifling sum, and Dahlia planned to take it from her own savings, but nevertheless, it was something she should’ve discussed with Ivano as a fellow member of the trading company. She couldn’t blame them for thinking her rash. “Dahlia, you’re not stretching yourself too thin, are you?”

“Don’t worry, I made sure to get all the details from Oswald. In the meantime, I’m not going to attempt anything out of my reach, and I’m not going to try any dangerous enchantments. That’ll mean that your new glasses will have to wait, though. Sorry about that.”

“Never mind that; I’m in no rush. More importantly, what I’m trying to get at is that I’m worried about Oswald...”

“It’s true that he’s getting up there in years, and he did say that enchanting had taken a toll on his body, but I’m certain that he has much more mana than I do.” Though Oswald was still active in the profession, he had bemoaned the fact that his vigor was not quite what it once was. Dahlia presumed Volf was worried about the dangers involved if Oswald were to teach her how to enchant with rare materials, so she revealed the request Oswald had made of her. “There’s also, um, something he asked of me, you see. He said that if anything were to happen to him, he would want me to pass on his craft to his son, who is currently studying our trade in high school. Just to prepare for the unexpected, like what happened with my father, he said.”

“I see...”

“With the way Father passed away so suddenly, I...”

“I get it. Not to mention, that’s something only a fellow toolmaker can do for him anyway,” Volf sympathized. “Wait. Doesn’t Oswald have his own apprentices?”

“It seems like he only has an assistant at the moment.” Dahlia couldn’t bear to tell Volf that Oswald’s first apprentice had run off with his ex-wife or that he’d fired the other two for coming on to his current wives. She wondered for a moment if Oswald’s luck with apprentices was inversely proportional to his luck with women, but she quickly erased the cruel thought from her mind.

“I suppose he wants his son to succeed him.”

“That’s what I think too. My own father left us before either of his apprentices was in a position to succeed him...” Her cube of ice clattered as she spoke, and she reached for her glass. Condensation trickled down the side, chilling her lips as she took a sip. The estervino had become both thinner in body and more muted on the palate—the result of the ice in the estervino—but that in turn made it much smoother and more satisfying after a hot day and a big meal.

“Huh. I vaguely remember my mother saying that she had more to teach me too,” he said, lost in thought as he likewise sipped his drink.

Seeing his tired smile as he reminisced, Dahlia blurted out a question before she’d given it enough thought. “Do you know what it might have been?”

“Though I trained to fight monsters, I didn’t learn a lot about bodyguarding or sword fighting against other people—which, ironically enough, was what my mother specialized in. Maybe I should brush up on those disciplines.”

“Are those important too?”

“I’d say so. I put off training in personal combat since I figured I don’t normally fight people, but now that I think about it, it might help since some monsters are humanoid in shape.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Like zombies and ogres, for example. Dullahans are humanoid too, but I haven’t fought one before. Oh, and cyclops, although they are quite a bit bigger than humans.”

Volf certainly had a point in that these monsters were all humanoid, though Dahlia wasn’t convinced that training to fight against people would help. How would he turn the undead into the truly dead? What weak spots did a headless suit of armor have? And surely cyclops towered too tall for tactics meant for use against people. “There certainly are all kinds of different monsters...”

“Don’t forget all the mutant forms either. Some aren’t even obvious to the naked eye.” That was what made monsters the terrible force that they were. They were prone to adapting to their environment and circumstances, evolving into ever more formidable forms. Some were easily distinguished by sight alone, but just as many only revealed their true nature in battle or when they cast spells. It was that uncertainty that made monster hunting so dangerous. “Like the purple bicorn the other day. That had an incredible resistance to magic. Oswald might be able to make full use of it as material. I’ve actually got the Adventurers’ Guild butchering the whole thing right now since you mentioned that you wanted some bicorn horn last time.”

“Volf, don’t tell me you bought the whole darn thing.” He’d mentioned the fact as if it were a trifling matter, but bicorns were rare—a mutant bicorn exponentially more so. It must’ve cost him a pretty penny.

When Dahlia stared straight at him, Volf began crunching on the half-melted chunk of ice that had been in his glass. And when her eyes bulged out at him, he gulped everything down. “I know you said you wouldn’t so much as open the gates for me if I did so, but, well, I slew the thing, you know? Do you think you could make an exception just this once?”

Only now did she recall their conversation. It was right after Volf had come back from his titan frog expedition that she’d mentioned there were some materials she wanted, including a bicorn horn. She had known how guilty she’d feel if he actually went out and bought one for her, so she had made sure to let him know he wouldn’t be welcome in the Green Tower if he were to do so. However, she hadn’t expected him to take her words to heart, and she most certainly hadn’t expected him to repeat them back to her here and now. “Um...fine, I’ll take back what I said. But only if you tell me how much you paid for it.”

“Oh, y’know...they gave it to me for a steal as a reward for my services.”

“How much was it?”

Volf hesitated, but he knew she wouldn’t let it go. “Eleven gold.”

“I shall pay for it.”

As she did a quick mental check of whether she had that much saved up, Volf interlaced his fingers. He sat up straight, looked directly at Dahlia, and said in all earnest, “Could you consider it experimental material?”

“Explain.”

“Well, if I’m getting you to make a magical sword, I should supply you with these bicorn parts for you to experiment with. You can use whatever is appropriate for toolmaking. And if you make a profit from it, you can use the money to pay the tuition fees from Oswald.”

“You wouldn’t stand to gain anything from this.”

“On the contrary, I’ll be happy if it helps you to develop a magical sword. Plus, the technical knowledge you learn from Professor Oswald will also help in making swords, so I’m more than willing to pay for that. You’ll be the judge of whether it’s true, but I think he’ll make for a good teacher.”

“Professor Oswald” had a nice ring to it, Dahlia noted. Mutant bicorn horn was undeniably enticing, and Oswald might well know all about it. It’d be swell if she could use it for the sword as well. If she were to make a profit on the bicorn enchantments, then she could secretly add a few more enchantments to the sword as a way of returning Volf’s favor. Who knew? There might even be a quick return on the investment.

Dahlia relented, mostly because she knew Volf wasn’t about to budge either. “Very well. I’ll take advantage of your generosity just this time,” she said as she bowed. Volf absolutely lit up and laughed to himself in obvious relief, and she added, “It’d be great if you could find someone who could teach me a thing or two about swords as well.”

“That’s a great idea! I’ll check with my buddies,” he said. Dahlia knew nothing about sword fighting or martial arts, but it wasn’t as if a knight like Volf could train a commoner like herself. “Still, you’re able to craft such wonderful magical tools even without any instruction. In my eyes, you’re a proper toolmaker already.”

“No, it wasn’t until very recently that I learned to craft like I do now.” Dahlia added a fresh piece of ice to her empty cup before slowly filling it with unfiltered estervino, causing the ice to swirl and make a pleasant clinking sound against the sides of the glass.

“Did your father not give you a lot of freedom?”

“I suppose both my father and ex-fiancé wanted me to learn to be levelheaded before I got myself into any serious danger, but I think they were just protective of me.”

“I can sympathize with them.”

“Well, look where this newfound freedom has gotten me.” Dahlia had brought to fruition every idea she’d had, which resulted in as many failures as successes. But despite causing a bit of trouble not only for Volf but for everyone around her, she had been able to continue producing tools that improved the lives of so many people. That in itself brought fun and boundless joy to her own life. “Still, I must say freedom is a nice feeling. No matter how wild my ideas may be, you never dismiss them and instead stay by my side.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt either, but of course I’m not going to dismiss your ideas. You’re the pro, not me.”

It was a comforting sentiment, but Dahlia realized she needed him to make his own judgments too. When she worked, she often thought of her previous life, and she couldn’t say for certain that those memories didn’t influence her for the worse. “It’s fun being able to make whatever I want, but in the event that I inadvertently come up with a bad idea that could hurt myself or others...”

“I don’t think you’d create anything like that.”

“I certainly hope not. But if I do make something that I shouldn’t, I ask that you stop me in my tracks.”

“Okay, I promise that I will if that ever happens. But if I think you’re on to a good idea, then I’ll be sure to let you know as well.”

Dahlia didn’t doubt that Volf would stick to his word, though she had a feeling that he’d disregard potential problems and encourage her if it were something to do with magical swords. “I’ll do my best not to create a magical sword that’ll make us enemies either.”

“You don’t seem so sure...”

“Hey, you had a hand in it too!” The two swords they had made together—the Blade of the Dark Lord’s Minion and the Creeping Blade—could hardly be considered safe to handle, so she knew she had to study under Oswald in order to ensure that her next one was. However, these were the first man-made magical swords in history. There were no references or research materials to draw upon. She was a trailblazer, and along with that status came a certain danger. “If I can help it, I won’t make any magical tool or sword that would wrong anyone. The last thing I want is to be the victim of a witch hunt.”

Volf cackled with cup in hand. “Rest assured—the Dark Lord protects all his minions.”

Cloudy with a Chance of Monsters

“Looks like it’s about to pour.”

Though the sun was just setting, the skies remained gray, the air humid, heavy, and hot. Beside the highway were members of the Order of Beast Hunters making camp after an expedition. It was hardly the best of locations in which to do so, what with the rugged terrain providing barely enough room for everyone. But at least there was space for tents, and discomfort would soon yield to fatigue once the soldiers lay down.

They began pitching tents but made sure never to leave themselves too vulnerable while doing so. Although there were fewer knights than usual on this expedition, the tents nearly touched one another. The steeds commanded a great deal of real estate, but they, too, needed to rest. All in all, it was undeniable that the campsite was cramped. Volf dreaded the inevitability of hearing his neighbors’ snoring throughout the night.

The tents went up not a moment too soon, and Volf and the others were able to head inside and get out of their armor. But before he could get into fresh clothes, he needed to peel off the shirt that had been underneath his armor, as it was drenched in sweat. He knew, though, that a dry shirt was but a fleeting comfort—in merely hours it would be clinging to him again. It would soon rain and get cold, and his shirt would get wet. Or, if the rain stopped, the weather would turn hot and muggy; he’d sweat through his shirt and it would get wet. The men could have showered if they’d been back in the barracks, but they had no such luxury here.

“Hey, Dorino, the back of your left arm is bleeding. Not a deep cut, but it’s rather long,” Randolph called out to the knight.

“Damn, I thought I was just dripping with sweat. Now that you mention it, it does kinda sting.” Dorino grimaced. He had just been about to get out of his shirt too.

Their designated targets today had been fangdeer. At first glance, they looked harmless, but there was always more than met the eye. The brown deer were capable of strengthening magic and commanded a mighty kick. Of course, the name wasn’t for naught, as they also possessed terrible fangs that gave festering bites. Worse still was the fact that they fought in herds, and if they won, they trampled their defeated opponents. It was said that this behavior served to assert their dominance; the losing party was guaranteed to feel it.

“If you assume they’re as cute as they look, you’ll be in for a surprise. Their hooves are narrow and stabby, and you’ll be sure to feel them if you lose a fight to them, so avoid losing,” the vice-captain, Griswald, had once said to a bunch of fresh recruits. All parties had looked awfully dispirited throughout the conversation, and Volf could understand why.

Luckily, Dorino hadn’t been bitten by the fangdeer but rather just banged up during the tussle.

“I’ll go get the priest to look at you. You don’t want that to get infected,” Randolph said.

“Nah, I’ll go to him myself. The priest is a new guy, so he’s probably dead tired from the trek.”

“All right. I’ll grab chow for you, then.”

“Thanks, pal.”

Volf and Randolph made their way to the chuckwagon. After they’d received their portions, the knight on duty turned to Volf with two extra sacks of rations in his hands. “Hate to bother you, but you think you could take these to the officers’ tent for me?”

“Sure thing, but what’s up?”

“See, the ice crystals got jostled out of the two cases of cheese, so the cheese is a goopy mess now. As luck would have it, they sat on top of everything else. And guess who’s cleaning it up?” The three worst enemies of any expedition: heat, moisture, and mold.

“Ah. I’ll come give you a hand after I drop off the rations.”

Randolph volunteered as well. “I’ve got time to spare too.”

“First you guys take care of the fangdeer all by yourselves, and now you want to scrub the wagon too? Hey, save some work for me here. Go enjoy your downtime,” the knight jovially quipped as he shooed the two of them away. They genuinely wanted to help, but the knight wouldn’t have any of it. That left them with only the delivery to make. A moderate breeze blew as the sky started to drizzle.

“Your evening meal, sir.”

“Oh, Volfred and Randolph, sorry for the trouble. I appreciate you bringing the rations here, but we’ll only be needing the vice’s portion and the wine. Please, help yourself to the rest,” said the elderly Captain Grato between hacking out coughs. The vice-captain had yet to return to the tent; word was that he was checking on the horses.

“Are you all right, sir? Let me get the priest—”

“No, no, I’m fine. It’s just that the back of my throat is a tad swollen, so I’ll have a hard time swallowing food. Nothing but a common cold. A stiff drink and a night’s rest will do me wonders.” Evening rations consisted of cheese, jerky, and rye—none of which had much moisture content to speak of, making them ill-suited for someone with a sore throat. The wind was picking up as well, meaning that cooking up a pot of soup outdoors was out of the question.

“We have a fire mage with us, so I’ll see if there’s anything warm we can cook up.”

“I appreciate your concern, really, but I’m fine. Cooking in the rain is a miserable task, and I’m not about to have someone use fire magic inside a tent. Remember how someone nearly burned down his tent when he tried using a fire crystal inside it?” Attempting to use a magic crystal on its own could instead result in the crystal manipulating the user’s magic, and it was especially difficult to control the strength of a stand-alone fire crystal. It would be ideal to have some sort of magical tool that was built for that specific purpose, but extra weight in a pack was every soldier’s common enemy.

The senior knight continued his coughing fit, yet he shook his head and refused treatment from a priest. He explained that a sore throat could only be healed temporarily, as that stemmed from an illness and was not a wound. Not only that, but the captain would rather save the invaluable healing magic for their journey home. His reasons were sound, but Volf still worried for Grato; he looked as sick as he sounded, but no amount of persuasion changed that shake of his head to a nod.

When the two subordinates returned to their tent, Randolph rummaged through his sack for a small jar of honey. “If not for his cough, then for nourishment,” he said before heading out once again. As soon as he’d left, though, the rain came down harder. The strong breeze whistled through the branches and leaves now too, as if the forest itself was howling.

“Damn weather. Too hot in the afternoon, and now frigid,” said a voice. Replacing Randolph was Dorino, whose new shirt was sodden from the rain. And after a sneeze or three, he wrapped himself in a blanket.

Randolph wasn’t away for long, and when he returned, the three of them ate their evening fare of dried meat, hard rye, and heavily salted cheese. They gnawed and gnawed, but it took wine to wash it all down. Their dinner filled the stomach but hardly the soul.

Afterward, they went through their nightly routines and got in bed as soon as possible. There was no night watch, so instead, the men would have to wake up early and scout out and secure their surroundings before setting off. They might have already finished the hunt, but vigilance was still necessary as the way home promised no safety either.

“It’s coming down even harder...” Dorino muttered to himself, but just then—a moment as bright as the midday sun. Trailing a few seconds behind was the deep rumbling boom. A terrified trumpeting came from the knights’ mounts. Footsteps followed, and then came voices pacifying the animals.

“Sure hope the horses are okay... Should we go check?”

“I tried earlier, but they turned me away, saying something about the Scarlet Armors having done their work already and that we should hit the sack.”

The Scarlet Armors were the front liners who risked life and limb—quite literally—to break through enemy forces, earning them extra respect even from fellow knights. Their day had indeed been tough. Heavy were the arms that had fought against the fangdeer, and even their bodies were loudly complaining of their fatigue. The other knights might have had a point in telling Volf and the others to seek rest.

Still, whatever was happening outside elicited curiosity, if not worry. The thunder and the rain, the coughing and sneezing, the frightened whinnying of horses and the soothing voices in turn—tired as Volf was, the sandman kept at arm’s length.

Whether because the sweat from the afternoon’s labors still clung to his body or because of the rain in the evening, the cold had seeped into his bones. Just as detestable to consider was the fact that if it stopped raining, he’d be in a pool of sweat again.

A sliver of light from a magical lantern seeped in from the entrance of the tent, and Volf stared at the barely lit ceiling with half-opened eyes. He recalled how, back when he’d first entered the order, he’d had to doggedly brush melted wax into the canvas of tents and wagon bonnets to keep them waterproof. Ever since Dahlia had invented her waterproof cloth, though, he could sleep soundly at night knowing that no water would ever seep in, and neither would their rations spoil or mold from moisture.

Volf wanted to spur on another major improvement like that, but for their meals this time. The first time he’d used a compact magical stove, he’d simply thought it was conducive to making good food. The next time, he’d thought about how practical it would be for expeditions. Hot food could prevent illnesses and discourage people from leaving the order, he’d thought. Now, though, experience had truly driven home the fact that the portable stoves were a necessity for these trips.

Their current rations were unsuitable for anyone having trouble swallowing food. But with a stove, they could at the very least have boiled some water to warm up in the cold rain—an impossibility up until now. After having used the camp stove, his eyes had been opened: there was a better way.

Dahlia’s camp stove wasn’t yet perfect, or so she claimed. She wanted it to cost less and had been revising the materials used through trial and error with the help of Fermo, the small goods craftsman. As far as Volf was concerned, it was already fine as it was. In his eyes, rather than reducing costs further, the important thing was to make an improvement to their expeditions by presenting the stove to his captain.

As a guarantor, his name was attached to the Rossetti Trading Company. Some might have said that he was using his position to promote his own product or to make a profit for himself, but so be it, he thought. His reputation was a negligible sacrifice for a much greater good.

If the price of the camp stove did end up exceeding the order’s budget, then he would make up the difference from his own pocket while keeping it a secret from Dahlia. He was sure that once his fellow knights tried the product, they would come to see the light as well.

Though it might be quite some time before the Order of Beast Hunters officially adopted the camp stove, Volf wanted it to be field-tested as soon as possible. At the very least, they would be able to cook some soup to soothe colds.

As he closed his eyes once more, he decided he would present the camp stove to Grato the moment he returned to the royal capital.

Interlude: The Master of the Tailors’ Guild & the Noble Way

“I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Luini.”

“Worry not; I haven’t been waiting long. Besides, I’m hardly being reasonable asking you to come here like this.”

Stopped a distance away from the carriage station, there was yet another black-painted coach. This one had Fortunato of the Tailors’ Guild waiting inside. He was dressed in a darker shade of blue—almost ultramarine—that accentuated his baby blond locks. Once Ivano sat down, the vehicle set off.

“Mercadante, I ought to thank you for the shoe-dryer. After receiving it this morning, I tried it out right away and it worked phenomenally.”

“I am very happy to hear that you enjoyed it.”

“I would’ve given all of my time had you come to me to mass-produce them.” Though Fortunato was all smiles, his icy tone made it apparent that his smile was the polite business kind.

“I apologize for the short notice. I was not sure whether it would be my place as a mere employee to do so, but I shall take your offer and come to you for advice regarding any future dealings with the Tailors’ Guild.”

“I look forward to it. Speaking of which, has your company decided on the next product already?”

“We are in the midst of discussing several proposals.”

Fortunato’s glare alone was almost sharp enough to cut through the thick summer air, yet his blue eyes were trying to dig deeper. “Have you thought about registering the Rossetti Trading Company with the Tailors’ Guild as well? You’ll find us very accommodating.”

“Thank you kindly for the offer, but we’re still a very small organization.”

“What was it? Two employees and two clerks? Your work must be quite demanding.” He was right on the money, but that wasn’t so impressive; as the company rented a room within the Merchants’ Guild to use as their office, it was information easily accessible with a simple inquiry. Ivano took it as a sign of just how interested the man was in their business. “Perhaps I could refer you to some people. I can personally guarantee as many as you need and have them sign contracts at the temple too, if you’d like.”

Ivano needed a moment to process all of that. There weren’t many people who had personal guarantors and were bound to their honor by magical contracts, making this quite the appealing proposition if not for all the obvious strings attached. “I am very grateful that you would offer to do so for us, but as our company has yet to pass the two-month mark, we still have teething troubles to resolve first. I’m sure we shall need your help in the future, so thank you in advance.”

Ivano continued to evade Fortunato’s blandishments, and the coach came to a halt, allowing Ivano to catch his breath. He stepped outside and found himself at an intersection somewhere in the nobles’ quarter. The restaurant in front of them was rather small for the neighborhood but rather large compared to what a commoner like himself was accustomed to.

Ivano and Fortunato scaled the stairs to the second floor. Standing in the back corner were a knight and a waiter, marking their room. On a table inside sat an anti-eavesdropper, totally undisguised, as though it were as commonplace as a table-side cruet set, which reminded Ivano he was just a touch out of place amongst nobles such as his host.

“Since you’ve already eaten, I think we ought to try some unusual wines tonight,” Fortunato said, indicating the charcuterie platter in front of him. “The white here is the youngest bottle they have. This red here is more mature and is infused with medicinal herbs. I recommend starting with the young white.”

After clinking glasses with him, Ivano took a sip. The white wine was fresh and grapey, quite the unfamiliar flavor. Its initial juice-like sweetness was soon overpowered by a hot, harsh bite of ethanol. The sharpness was different but not to say unenjoyable, though it was obvious why the bottle was deemed young.

“It’ll be much better after ten years, I’d say.” Fortunato looked less than pleased; he furrowed his brow. “The three of us should go out for lunch sometime—you, me, and Chairwoman Rossetti.”

“I would love to. My only concern is with our schedules.”

“In that case, let’s do just you and me, then. I want to hear all about your new products.”

“Thank you for the invitation, though I can’t help but think that our products have less to do with the Tailors’ than with the Merchants’ Guild. Our most recent product, the shoe-dryer, was derived from everyday dryers. I fear that our products wouldn’t be very profitable for you, Mr. Luini.”

If Fortunato could see the direction their company was headed, then he could get his finger in the production and trading pie. The only trouble was that the Rossetti Company was not a member of the Tailors’ Guild, meaning that they owed Fortunato absolutely nothing. And if the company wasn’t to go through his guild for mass production, then there was little that he could do to help. In short—why would the Rossetti Trading Company cooperate or compromise with Fortunato if there was nothing to gain from him?

“I know I’m dredging up the past, but when the waterproof cloth first debuted, everyone came after the Tailors’ Guild asking why we weren’t involved. They threw us a bone with the raincoats, but even so, you know? It was quite vexing for the guildmaster at the time.”

As much as that was simply Fortunato moaning to himself, Ivano did empathize. The current guildmaster had a point; the waterproof cloth should have had everything to do with the Tailors’ Guild—it was in the name—but Dahlia’s invention had been registered and sold through the Merchants’ Guild. However, that was because the previous chairman of Orlando & Co. had taken control of its production and marketing to make things easier for the Rossettis. Nevertheless, doing so had apparently impacted the Tailors’ Guild to quite an extent, although this was news to Ivano.

“Anyway,” Fortunato continued, “it would be terribly rude of me to come empty-handed to ask the ever-busy Mercadante on a lunch date. Rather than offering you a bouquet of flowers, I’ll offer my services soliciting footwear-related businesses registered with my guild to see what they can do about your shoe-dryer. And of course, those letters would be sent in my name.”

“It would be very generous of you to spread the news to your largest clients as well.”

“That wouldn’t be generous; it would be the least I could do.”

“In that case, I will do my best to fit into your busy schedule.” Ivano’s smile belied the sweat dripping down his back. Fortunato’s offer was simply too good to be true.

Fortunato cracked on with the second bottle of wine and filled both their glasses. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Last I remember, you were still with the Merchants’ Guild. Since when do you work for Ms. Dahlia?”

“Only since the meeting about the drying insoles. I asked the chairwoman if I might join the company.”

“That speaks volumes about your good judgment of character and your willingness to take the initiative.” He raised his glass to touch Ivano’s.

The red wine had a beautiful bouquet and was clearly well-aged, judging by the perfect balance of sweetness and acidity. There was much complexity to discover, and yet it was immensely drinkable. The slightly bitter finish was herbaceous rather than vegetal.

“Mercadante, if you ever leave the Rossetti Trading Company, you let me know right away before you decide on anything else. I’ll do whatever I can to cater to you.” His sudden bluntness stopped the gears inside Ivano’s head from turning for a moment.

“You flatter me, sir. But that would only happen if either our company collapses or I do.”

“Is that right? Well, if you ever change your tune or run into trouble, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you very much. Our company may be still inconsequential and insignificant, but we hope we can consult you for help in the future, Mr. Luini.”

“Of course. And call me Forto—please tell Chairwoman Rossetti to do the same. The garment trade has brought us closer, after all.”

“That’s very kind of you. Call me Ivano as well, if you please.”

Ivano had done some digging before coming here tonight. He’d been shocked to learn that he was about the same age as the man currently sitting across from him. However, Fortunato looked younger than Ivano—and yet he spoke as though Ivano were the younger man. Fortunato was objectively attractive and it was immediately noticeable—he was not unlike Volf in that respect—but despite his flamboyance, there was a veil that shrouded him. To put it curtly, his attractive exterior must have been concealing something.

“Once your company gains renown, I’m sure there will be many flies buzzing around Miss Dahlia. Though I’m not sure if I should have said that to you, now that I think about it.”

“For what it’s worth, I wholeheartedly agree. If it were Ms. Lucia, she could easily swat down any fly with her words alone.”

“How true. It’ll be interesting to see if Miss Dahlia pays heed to the buzzing or if she punishes the flies.”

Ivano took another sip of his wine, and just like that, his second glass had disappeared. “In any case, I hadn’t expected you would be so invested in our company.”

“It’s merely that I can see how useful the Rossetti Trading Company is and will be. If it weren’t for Sir Volfred by her side, I might even entertain the idea of taking Miss Dahlia as my second wife.”

There was something about Fortunato’s jesting words that sounded all too serious. Take her as a wife because she’s useful? Ivano wondered if that was simply how nobles thought, but it did not sit right with him at all. The once-smooth wine now left a terribly acrid taste in his mouth. “We certainly do have strong support from our guarantors. Sir Volf and Viscountess Jedda both take very good care of our chairwoman.”

“That’s quite the impenetrable defense you have erected. Still, Miss Dahlia’s brilliance seems to have shone forth rather suddenly, considering her lackluster past. Prior to her waterproof cloth, she hadn’t produced anything of note, had she?”

“...That was because Ms. Dahlia’s father, Carlo, was protective of her.”

“Was Miss Dahlia really the inventor of the waterproof cloth?”

“...Yes. It was something she came up with entirely on her own. She has been with the guild since she was a student... She even personally undertook to gather all the materials for it.”

“What about the socks and insoles? Are those Miss Dahlia’s inventions as well?”

“...Yes, of course.”

“So her father passed away, her damfool of a fiancé left her, and now Sir Volfred has picked her up? Was it Madam Jedda who introduced them to each other? Or was that you?”

“...It was neither of us.”

Hold on. What in the hell am I saying? Why the hell am I blabbering like this? Ivano came to his senses and realized he wasn’t in control of himself, and he bit his lower lip with all his might. The jolt of pain was enough to prevent him from speaking further as he stained his handkerchief with his blood. Fortunato extended him a bottle of potion, which Ivano didn’t hesitate to take. The wound on his lower lip was instantly erased.

“Forgive me. I suppose the effects of the wine were stronger than I had intended. It’s to relax the lips, you see? Since this is our first time discussing business, I thought it would help us speak freely with one another. And, of course, I’m having the same wine myself,” Fortunato said, pointing to his own empty glass.

Ivano was in high dudgeon—not only because he’d been drugged, but because he’d fallen for someone’s tricks so blindly. If this was the noble way, then he wanted nothing to do with it.

“Here—by way of apology, this is something for you,” Fortunato said.

“A ring?”

“For your personal protection. It prevents poisons, confusion, and even aphrodisiacs from affecting you. These are indispensable when you have business with nobles—from now on, you’ll need to be careful around food, drinks, and even women who approach you. Perhaps Madam Jedda isn’t as well-versed in matters like this?”

Ivano knew at once that behind Fortunato’s polite facade, he was insinuating that Ivano’s former master had failed him. The Merchants’ Guild dealt mostly with merchants, naturally, but now that Ivano was with the Rossetti Company, he knew he would be dealing more with the aristocracy. There was much he didn’t know and much he needed to learn.

“Thank you for the gift,” Ivano said. He slipped the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand and then took a deep breath. He didn’t have much magic, but the ring didn’t require much. It cleared his head of the fuzziness from earlier, although it could not wash away the lingering hint of blood in his mouth.

“I hope you’ll join me for drinks another time. I’d like to think I know a thing or two about dealing with the nobility, besides which I know a few noblewomen. So, if you have any new products soon to debut, let me know right away and I’ll be able to help you out.” Again, his words were very kind on the surface, but the truth was that he was more or less strong-arming Ivano. Fortunato was telling Ivano that he didn’t understand the people he would be dealing with, and that he’d find himself in trouble if he fell for another trick of this kind. Fortunato would teach him all about the noble way in exchange for some insider information. Fortunato was irritating but undeniably effective; he would have made for a good teacher.

As the saying goes: if you can’t beat them, join them. “Very well. I shall consult our chairwoman about it,” Ivano replied.

“I’m looking forward to our next outing, then.” Fortunato’s smile was absolutely aggravating.

“Mr. Forto, I have brought a present for you as well. It’s from our chairwoman.” With a straight face, Ivano passed him a white envelope—with permission from Dahlia, of course.

After visiting the castle for the first time, Dahlia had returned to the guild haggard and almost in tears. Ivano and Gabriella had worried that something had gone terribly wrong, only for Dahlia to recount the athlete’s foot ordeal. Despite the woes that she had gone through, Ivano had used her knowledge to defeat the problem that had plagued him for five years. He had compiled her notes into cards and placed them in said white envelope.

“These—I...” Fortunato stumbled over his words trying to get his thoughts out. The smile on his face had been natural and effortless, but now it appeared markedly forced; it hadn’t taken very long for his control to falter. “Not that I would know, but these tips ought to be extremely helpful to those afflicted.”

“Oh, they will be. It might be good information to know even if it does not pertain to you. You could help your lady friends in the aristocracy.” Athlete’s foot affected women just as much as men. It was doubly as bad if it circulated within a family; there had been cases in which one sufferer infected a spouse and thereby created a terrible rift between the parties.

“It’s quite the sensitive topic, don’t you think?”

“It is. It requires a delicate touch to broach the problem with a significant other, so discretion would be ideal. If you fear revealing your own problems, you could always use the pretext that you learned it all from a friend. Imagine a lover who cared for you so much that she would do this much research to aid you. Any man would be happy, would he not? With this information, I’m sure you can buy a few favors.”

Fortunato paused for a beat. “I’m not saying this to flatter you, Ivano, but you are an incredibly talented man.”

“Thank you for the kind words.”

“Just one problem, though. If you’re going to take that route, you should’ve left Miss Dahlia’s name out of it. What if I thought you were implying that she was the lover who cared for me so much?”

Ivano had been trying to needle Fortunato, but now Fortunato had turned the tables on him. “Forgive me; I misspoke. The chairwoman gave me permission to bring this to you.”

Fortunato chuckled at the way Ivano had thrown in the towel. “Nobles have a language all their own. They love to catch you when you slip up. I’d say you had best warn Miss Dahlia as well, but I’m sure Sir Volfred has already helped her out.”

“Had our chairwoman said something to cause offense?”

“When we first met, she said, ‘You have my trust, Mr. Forto. I leave everything to you.’ That was quite something.” It almost sounded as if he were pining for his lady love.

Ivano tilted his head quizzically. “That was when we were discussing the toe socks, correct?”

“Quite right. But you see, when an unmarried noblewoman says such a thing to a knight, it means that she wants him to be her knight—a very strong declaration of love. I can guarantee you that it’s a line any knight would like to hear once. As a man who left knighthood behind, I’d thought I would never see that dream fulfilled.”

“I apologize on our chairwoman’s behalf. I am sure she made the remark unwittingly.” It had to be a coincidence. The nobility had too many roundabout sayings, and this was apparently one of them. Ivano considered whether he should speak to Dahlia about this matter, but then he recalled how hard she’d tried to memorize her flash cards. How could he possibly tell her to step her efforts up when she was already giving it her all?

“Don’t worry; I understand full well. Oh, there’s more, by the way. Some time ago, there was a popular opera in which the woman said that line to the man on their first night together. In fact, that was how the opera became so famous. For better or for worse, anyone would know the connotations of the line if she were familiar with the opera.”

“I’m not quite sure what to say exactly, but...nobles sure can be a pain in the neck,” Ivano said with a weary chuckle.

Fortunato’s laughter was much less restrained than Ivano’s; indeed, he guffawed. “You took the words right out of my mouth. The socializing, bywords, manners—there are just so many rules to trip you up. But it’s simply unavoidable for me. Three-quarters of the Guild’s profits come from these aristocrats, so it’s worth the trouble.”

“I suppose it must be.”

“There is just so much more money to be had, and that’s what you need to grow your company too.”

It might not be such a bad idea to maintain a relationship with Fortunato after all. Just as Dahlia had Oswald as a mentor in magical toolmaking, Ivano needed Fortunato as his mentor in the intricacies of the nobles’ world. His personal feelings about the man were secondary to what he would gain from him.

“How about I take you somewhere with a better view after this? My treat, of course,” Fortunato suggested.

“Thank you for the invitation, but I have three lovely ladies at home already.”

“That I didn’t know. You’re truly a man of many talents, Ivano.”

“Yes, a wife and two daughters can really keep a man busy.”

Fortunato looked almost confused by his response. Ivano wondered whether Fortunato was as unfamiliar with the ways of commoners as Ivano himself was with the ways of the nobility.

“Do you intend to take a second wife, Mr. Forto?”

“My wife often urges me to do so. More hands around the house, she says. And what of you, Ivano? Once your company expands, perhaps it might be beneficial.”

“My beloved three are enough for me. Having a second wife just sounds like twice the trouble anyway...”

“You have a point there. One is trouble enough...” Perhaps the herbed wine was making Fortunato spill his true thoughts, but for once, the two of them agreed on something. “Let’s put a stop to all the shop talk. What say I order us some wine made from nothing but grapes? Then you can tell me more about your wife and daughters.”

“Likewise, Mr. Forto, I would love to hear more about your missus.”

Fortunato stepped out of the room, presumably to find waitstaff to bring the next round of drinks. When he returned, he sat back down with a roguish smirk on his face. Soon the waiter came with their order, and Fortunato said, “This bottle says all there is to be said about my wife.”

Ivano burst out laughing when he read the gold label on the bottle: O Ephemeral Goddess That Hath Stolen Mine Heart, ’Tis You, My Dearest Wife.

Pasta Noodle Soup to Round Off the Night

“You didn’t eat too much tonight, did you, Volf?” Dahlia asked as they rode in the carriage back to her home. During dinner, they’d debated whether the white wine, the stout, or the dry estervino paired best with the red bear steak.

“Well, I came straight from training, but I had my fill of meat and drinks.” His response hardly answered her question. He could normally eat enough food for three people, but on this occasion, he hadn’t even ordered seconds.

“Was training tough today?”

“No, not especially so, but I took a shield right to the solar plexus. I’m fine now, though, in case you were worrying.”

“Oh. They weren’t, like, picking on you again, were they?”

“No, it’s not like that. I just got smacked by Randolph’s shield,” he said. Dahlia was under the impression that the knights sparred with each other, but her uncertainty must have shown because Volf apparently felt compelled to explain further. “We were practicing last-minute dodges, with Randolph playing the role of the monster. The man’s built like one, moves like one, and the way he flips his shield up is just like the way a giant boar swings its tusks. Anyway, I was trying to counter him but instead ate his shield.”

“That sounds extremely painful...”

“I got the wind knocked out of me. But even so, I managed to retreat into the safe zone thanks to the sköll bracelet.”

“Erm, and if you hadn’t managed to escape?”

“Normally, Randolph would gently send people flying, then someone else nearby would catch them before they hit the ground. And anyway, we always have a priest on standby. All the same, I’m glad nobody got hurt today.”

Though she wasn’t sure how large giant boars were, Dahlia knew how large Randolph was, so it made sense to her: to evade someone that large charging at you full speed couldn’t be an easy feat; to do so and then counterattack sounded even harder.

“Hey, um, I was planning on making myself a snack after I got home. Would you like to join me?” she said, knowing he was likely still hungry.

“Honestly? I’d love to. It’s just I feel guilty knowing that every time I come over, you’ll treat me to a delicious meal.”

“If you think about the fact that you’re taking me home in your coach and giving me those bicorn parts, I’m the one ripping you off.”

“‘Ripping you off’? Those words are hardly befitting of you, Dahlia.”

“Well, neither was ‘Shake me down for all the coin you like’ befitting of you,” she argued. That was what Volf had said the first time he’d taken her home—not that Dahlia expected him to remember.

Apparently he did. “Oh, that’s right. ‘You’d never,’ right?” Volf put his hand under his chin, looking like he was thinking rather deeply. “I’ve given it some more thought, Dahlia—if you’re looking to turn the Green Tower into a diner, I’ll definitely invest my money. Plus, I did tell you to shake me down for all the coin you like.”

“And just how did you come to that conclusion?” It was astounding how Volf could make these over-the-top jokes with a straight face, but Dahlia supposed he’d been like that since day one.

After they returned to the tower and ascended to the second floor, Dahlia threw off her coat and began preparing their meal. She had Volf sit down on the sofa and then brought him a glass of sparkling water and some shortbread. Though he had repeatedly said that he was fine, getting hit in the solar plexus might have caused hidden injuries that even he wasn’t aware of, so she wanted him to sit back and take things easy.

Once she had a pot of water boiling, Dahlia took the thinnest dry pasta in her pantry and put it into the pot with a pinch of baking soda. The basicity helped transform the pasta into something akin to ramen. It wasn’t a perfect match in terms of mouthfeel, but it was the best alternative there was in this world. Next, she heated up some chicken stock and salted it heavily. Once the noodles were cooked, she placed two servings into shallow bowls and poured hot soup over them. From the refrigerator, she took some steamed and shredded chicken, boiled eggs, and green onion as a garnish. It wasn’t exactly the clear chicken-based ramen that she knew from Earth, but here was her pasta noodle soup.

Dahlia surmised that Volf would prefer to cap off a night of drinking with a savory dish rather than something sweet. In her previous life, when she’d worked in an office, people around her age had tended to be in the ramen camp, while her female seniors had tended to be in the ice cream parfait camp. She had drunk with people from both factions and enjoyed snacks both savory and sweet, but either option meant waking up the very next day having gained weight. With that wisdom born of experience, Dahlia knew to exercise restraint, and so limited herself to half a portion tonight.

“This is pasta noodle soup. Feel free to add white pepper to taste.” She returned to the living room with the food and chopsticks along with a fork and a rather large spoon. Try as he might, Volf couldn’t hide his excitement as he sat down in front of his meal. “You can eat with whatever’s easiest for you.”

“Thanks for cooking!” He watched Dahlia sitting across from him to see what utensils she was using and took up a pair of chopsticks in imitation of her.

The delicious scent of chicken broth wafted up from the steaming bowls. With the addition of baking soda and a longer cooking time, the softer-than-usual noodles imitated ramen quite well. While the broth wasn’t flavored with much other than chicken, the pronounced saltiness was perfect as a soup for the noodles. Originally, she’d eaten the steamed chicken and eggs as cleaner foods to aid with her diet, but they were also perfect as ramen toppings. Reflecting that pork in ramen was usually roasted, Dahlia made a mental note to roast the chicken next time.

As she ate, Dahlia was flooded with nostalgia, likely because of memories from her previous life—and memories from this life of times when she’d had this same dish with Carlo. After she had finished the noodles, she scooped the yolk out of her egg with her big spoon, mixed it into the remaining broth, and swallowed it in a single spoonful. As the yolk dissolved into the salty soup in her mouth, she turned to Volf to find him inhaling his bowl of noodles instead of slowly chewing his food as was his wont. She worried it wasn’t to his taste, but perhaps the noodles were simply easy to slurp down.

“Oh, that hits the spot,” Volf sighed contently after finishing off every last drop in his bowl. His golden eyes were filled with bliss and his brow was beaded with sweat that he had yet to wipe away. It seemed that her worries had been unwarranted. “Why is the pasta noodle soup not pasta noodle soup?”

“I didn’t take you for a philosopher, Volf,” she quipped. “I just added a bit of baking soda to the pasta water is all.”

“Is this regular ol’ pasta? Or some special imported stuff?”

“It was the cheapest bulk pack I could find. Cost me about seven copper.”

“Wha—? I don’t get it! Why does everything magically turn delicious here?” he said, thinking long and hard.

Way to exaggerate things, Dahlia thought. Her methods were a little unconventional, but there was no magic involved. “Shall I make a bit more, then? I still have some chicken stock left.”

“I’d appreciate that. And if you wouldn’t mind, could you please show me how you cook the pasta?”

“Of course! I didn’t think you made your own pasta in the barracks.”

“No, I was thinking of doing it in the field.”

“That might be a little difficult. It takes a lot of water, after all.”

“We’ve got mages and water crystals, so I’m not worried.”

He looked serious about it, but Dahlia couldn’t help but think that imitation ramen might not be the best dish to make during an expedition. The soup and noodles had to be cooked separately, so that might be quite a hassle. It wasn’t as though there were instant noodles in this world either; at least, it didn’t seem possible with the existing technology. “Maybe we could come up with recipes that can be cooked up quickly—or rather, recipes for the camp stove? It’d mainly be simple dishes, though, like grilled meat and dipping sauce, dried seafood, cheese fondue—basically, things you’ve had here before.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but, well...I don’t know if I want to teach the others.”

“Oh, would that be a bad idea since it’s not your responsibility?” It had slipped her mind that there were probably knights in charge of kitchen duties and that she might not be in the position to tell them what to make. Instead, it might have been better to talk to Volf through her methods and give him a few recipes for reference.

However, Volf shook his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. We wouldn’t even have the ingredients a real cook would need. It’s just... I know I’m being irrational here, but if I shared your recipes, then our Green Tower specials would seem less special.”

“Hey, that’s not true. It’s because we make and eat them here that they’re Green Tower specials.”

“Huh. It’s because we make and eat them here...” Volf muttered to himself, seemingly somewhat pensive, but he turned weirdly cheery as Dahlia showed him how to make their second bowl of pasta noodle soup.

After they finished their seconds, Volf did the dishes and then sank back into the sofa. He must’ve been tired after a long day of training, and so Dahlia tried to persuade him to let her do the dishes, but he was all smiles as he refused to compromise. Perhaps it was customary in the Order of Beast Hunters for the person who did the eating to do the cleaning as well.

“It sure would be nice if there were a restaurant that made all your recipes. Preferably close to the castle too.” Volf rested his lime-spritzed club soda on the coffee table, looking a bit sullen.

“What’s this all of a sudden?”

“The meals in our mess haven’t really been great as of late. There are a lot of mouths to feed and not a lot of time to cook, so a lot of what we eat tends to be shelf-stable. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful to have food at all, and I know I’m acting spoiled, but I was just thinking how nice it’d be to have a decent meal.”

“It has been rather hot lately, so I suppose it wouldn’t be wise to keep food out for too long.” The castle was a big place, and so there were many knights and soldiers there who needed to eat. Cooking that many portions couldn’t be easy, but neither was safely storing food and ingredients. Dahlia wondered if there weren’t any magical tools that could help. “Does the mess have industrial-sized magical stoves or refrigerators?”

“From what I can tell, the stoves are a smidge bigger than regular magical stoves, and there are dozens of them lined up. We’ve got a larder for meat and other perishable ingredients, but they don’t keep any prepared meals there.”

“It would help to have large stoves and large refrigerators, but you’d need a magical toolmaker or mage from the castle to craft something like that.”

“A royal toolmaker, huh? Word is that they focus on tools for scientific research, but I’ve got no concrete idea of what they actually craft.”

Tools for scientific research? Now those were enticing words. They had to be inventing fantastical things like rings of invisibility, or flying carpets, or bottomless storage chests, right? Or maybe they were researching dullahans or cursed swords? Or even mobile continents? Something grand like the Philosopher’s Stone, perhaps? Dahlia had a feeling this speculation was going to stick in her head for a while.

“Would you be able to make large-scale tools, Dahlia?”

“No way. I wouldn’t have enough magic, considering that I’d have to make the tool and then enchant it too. Besides, anything that size couldn’t be transported easily, so I’d have to make it on-site. Could you imagine how much concentration that would take?”

“But you concentrate well, don’t you?”

“Sure, as well as anybody else does normally, but we’re talking about working at the castle here!” Dahlia had been twice and it had been nerve-racking each time. With all that had happened during her visits, she would like to avoid the castle in the future if she could help it.

“Well, once you work there long enough, you get used to it.”

“That idea alone is terrifying...”

He chuckled along with her. Volf had lived and worked at the castle while Dahlia was still a commoner; she didn’t expect him to understand her feelings.

“Speaking of the castle, that bacon we had after the formalities was delightful. Where is it from?” she asked, changing the topic.

“That was giant hog bacon made at a pig farm along the eastern highway. Remember the assistant manager at The Black Cauldron? He was the one who introduced me to it. The order’s even going to buy from them now too.”

Dahlia recalled that The Black Cauldron had offered a wide and tasty variety of offerings, so it came as no surprise that they’d have quality bacon as well. The meat was likely going to keep very well, considering it was a recommendation from a former Beast Hunter. “That’s wonderful news! I’m glad you’ll have something so delicious on your expeditions from now on.”

“Oh, the squad will be happy for sure. After we had the bacon, Captain Grato brought the camp stove to the duty room and did the same thing for the other knights. Believe me when I say they followed their noses.” With how good that bacon had smelled, it was no wonder it had attracted everyone. The only concern had been whether the captain had brought enough. “Thanks to that, everybody was gung ho about the giant boar exercise today.”

“Because of the similarity between boars and hogs?”

“You could say that. Lots of boars in the mountains out east, but each sounder only has one male. The alpha chases all of the other younger males away, but that means that they try to get at the pigs on the farm.”

“Is it because they’re trying to get their own territory?”

“Well, they only raise giant gilts for the sake of easier management and higher-quality meat, so you can probably see why a young boar would find the farm appealing. The pig farms have their own line of defense, but in the summer and autumn, when lots of boars show up, we get summoned to help out.”

“Oh, so each of the young males is looking for his Ms. Piggy.” The scent of bacon must’ve encouraged the knights to put their best efforts into their training as well. Dahlia felt a little sorry for the young giant boars, though. Perhaps the giant sows felt a little cross-species attraction too.

“Not Ms. Piggy in the singular, I’m afraid. Since boars aren’t monogamous, a male would take a harem of twenty or more female hogs away with him, and that just wouldn’t be profitable for the farm.” His words changed Dahlia’s mind. The giant boars ought to be culled, for the safety of the order and to protect that scrumptious bacon. “The proprietor did also say that boar bacon had a certain gaminess that’s a different kind of delicious.”

“Giant boar bacon...”

“They also said if we brought freshly slain boars to the farm, they’d turn them into bacon for us on the cheap. Kinda makes me want to be extra careful not to damage the meat!” Volf’s eyes gleamed; those were not the eyes of a knight but the eyes of a predator. If the other knights heard about the prospect of extra bacon, Dahlia was sure they’d look the same way.

“Hey. Give training your all, okay?” said Dahlia as she prayed silently for the peaceful repose of the slain boars.

Volf suddenly looked up as he was squeezing a wedge of lime into his carbonated water. “Going back to what Dominic talked about earlier, are you planning to go for a barony, Dahlia?”

“He had me convinced. It’ll be good for me, but some may say I don’t know my place...” The prospect was daunting, but she wanted it. “How about you? It won’t be long until you’re eligible, right?”

“Yeah, it’ll take but a few more years. But if I beg my family for a recommendation, I might even make baron now. It’s just that...”

“It’s a bit of a bother?”

“That, and I’d also feel weird about outranking my seniors. I haven’t really contributed much to the order yet.”

“You’re a Scarlet Armor. That means a lot already.”

“Sure, the Scarlet Armors get a lot of attention, but all I do is fight at the forefront. I haven’t even suffered any grave injuries. Shieldsmen like Randolph get terribly injured so much more often, yet they get the same amount of hazard pay as everyone else. Not to mention, we get a bigger pension as barons.” Dahlia would have said that getting picked off by a wyvern had been grave enough, but she couldn’t find her voice. “Plus, I don’t know whether becoming a baron would make things better or worse for me personally.”

Would that mean more or fewer noblewomen would try to woo him? As someone who avoided any form of romance, he’d like to avoid additional trouble if he could, Dahlia presumed. “It sounds to me as though you have a lot to gain from it, so it wouldn’t be that bad an idea.”

“I dunno. Oh, maybe we could get our ranks together.”

Dahlia hesitated before responding. “With how different our lines of work are, I’m not going to hold you to it.”

She had almost told him not to bother. One needed ten years as a Scarlet Armor, but how many more did Volf have to fulfill? And in that time, would he be hurt? Would he survive to continue visiting the tower? None of these were questions she could or should ask him. Dahlia bit her tongue and forced a smile, then took a sip from her glass. Never had she thought lime and soda could leave such a terribly acrid taste in her mouth.

“If you become baroness, will you move to the nobles’ quarter?”

Volf’s sudden question came as a surprise. Barony wasn’t a hereditary title, so she wouldn’t be able to pass it on to her apprentices were she to take any in the future. She would have the prerogative of moving to the noble’s quarter, but she had never considered it given that she had the Green Tower already.

“No. Father stayed here at the tower after becoming a baron and I plan to do the same.”

“Oh, good. In that case, do you think I could keep visiting you here?”

There was a certain sense of relief in his smile, and for whatever reason, that brought her some reassurance in turn. A smile swelled up from the bottom of her heart, replacing the one she had forced. “Of course. I’ll be expecting you.”

Interlude: The Master of the Merchants’ Guild & the Noble Way

As Ivano was organizing a few files and documents, he was summoned by the guildmaster. It wasn’t long until he would be officially finished with his role in the Merchants’ Guild. The summons could’ve been a congratulatory message or it could’ve been about some noble or other—whatever the reason, Ivano put on his navy suit jacket before making his way to Jedda’s office.

“Thanks for coming by, Ivano. Are you free today?” asked Gabriella, sitting on a black leather sofa. The viscount was sitting behind his desk at the back of the room while a male attendant waited on him at his side.

“I can open up my morning; however, I have an appointment with Chairman Zola in the afternoon.”

“I see. I was wondering, do you happen to have any news for us?” Evidently, word of his meeting with Fortunato yesterday had somehow already traveled to her.

Gabriella ordered Ivano to take a seat opposite her on the sofa, and after doing so, he intertwined his fingers. “Yes, I have, but first, I was hoping to ask about Mr. Fortunato Luini, the master of the Tailors’ Guild.”

“Since you have given us the nobles’ market for the foaming soap dispensers for the next two years, would you accept some information as thanks for your generosity?”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

“What do you know already?”

“The former guildmaster retired last year due to a sudden bout of illness, leaving Mr. Forto to take the role. After training in chivalry during high school, he chose to work at the Tailors’ Guild for some reason. He was very popular amongst noblewomen. Though he was his father’s secondborn son, he was selected to be heir. His wife comes from an earldom and is well known for her beauty and strong will. Together, they have a son and a daughter. That is all I have managed to gather.”

“Impressive, but allow me to add a few details.” Gabriella closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and looked directly into Ivano’s. “Fortunato Luini comes from a long line of knights. Because his family’s fortune declined in the generation preceding his, he took a position at the Tailors’ Guild after having desperately promoted himself. He immediately found the patronage of certain noblewomen, which brought him great success both as a businessman and as a socialite. Six years ago, he married the daughter of an earl and then was promoted to vice-guildmaster. He still keeps close company with noblewomen, and I’ve heard that he still personally handles the wardrobes of a number of older married noblewomen in high standing.”

Viscount Jedda added, “Lord Fortunato has one older and two younger brothers in the royal knights. All three of them are proficient with the blade, though perhaps they are not as skilled with underhanded tactics. His elder brother wishes to be a career knight and thus yielded the inheritance to Fortunato; his younger brothers have been adopted into the family of a viscount and the family of a textile merchant, respectively.”

All four siblings had turned out splendidly and done very well for themselves, so Ivano knew better than to make an enemy of Fortunato if he wanted to have any business even remotely related to tailoring.

“May I also ask about this here? How much would you say it is worth?” Ivano asked, unfolding a handkerchief to reveal a silver ring—the very one he had received from Fortunato.

“What about it?” Jedda’s baritone voice boomed from the opposite side of his desk.

“I received this as a gift from Mr. Forto when we were drinking yesterday evening. He claims that it counters poison, confusion, and aphrodisiacs.”

“Appraise it,” ordered Jedda.

This prompted his attendant to collect the ring and then examine it with a blue-lensed loupe. “Yes, it certainly grants all three effects, though only to a moderate degree.”

“Erm, how much would it cost at a magical tool shop?”

“I would estimate around five gold, sir.”

The shocking price tag rendered Ivano speechless. Five gold was a hair over his monthly salary. He had accepted a valuable gift without giving it much thought at the time, a fact that now caused him some anxiety. “Perhaps it was not something I should have accepted.”

“Wouldn’t you say he had some reason of his own for wanting you to have it?” Gabriella argued. “I presume he either tried to headhunt you or to pry into the business of the Rossetti Trading Company.”

“Mr. Forto gave me herbed wine, then asked me some things about Ms. Dahlia. Well, neither Ms. Dahlia nor I have any skeletons in our closets, so there was little intrigue I could offer him.”

“Herbed wine, you say?”

“Yes, he said it works to relax one’s lips, though it worked too well and I bit through my lower lip. I ruined a handkerchief, but thankfully, he had a potion on hand. It was after that he gave me the ring. Not a bad trade, wouldn’t you agree?” Ivano said in a particularly cheerful tone. He was hoping to mitigate some of the wrath he might otherwise have brought down upon himself for accepting Fortunato’s invitation last night without telling anyone.

“You don’t say.” Gabriella narrowed her eyes so that her gaze, like the fine point of a needle, pierced through him. One corner of her crimson lips turned up ever so slightly as she pressed two fingers to her temple. It was at this moment that Ivano knew he had made a grave error. “I see that not only did the master of the Tailors’ Guild Mr. Fortunato permit you to call him ‘Forto,’ he even bestowed upon you a lesson in the noble way.”

“Madam Gab—” Her name got caught in Ivano’s throat as he trembled in his seat. He understood from her demeanor that she was in high dudgeon. There wasn’t anyone who could soothe her now, save for perhaps her husband if he weren’t also visibly seething behind his smile. Ivano was inclined to wave the white flag—or rather, he wished there were someone to rescue him.

“Dear, don’t you think we ought to return the favor?”

“Yes, darling, I completely agree,” said the viscount. “The Esterland silk we sell wholesale to Lord Fortunato—shall we raise the price by, say, ten percent?”

“An excellent idea.” Their icy smiles sent a chill down Ivano’s spine, now dripping in cold sweat.

“Oh, erm, I have healed up perfectly thanks to his potion. And, uh, I have even been given the ring, so surely, umm...” stammered Ivano. While the noble way of conducting business vexed him to no end, he bore no grudge toward Forto. However, what was worrying was the fact that Forto might bear a grudge toward him if the Jeddas retaliated in this manner. Ivano tried to finish his sentence, but a pair of pitch-black eyes stared his way.

“You are wrong in assuming that this is for your sake, Ivano. No, this is for me as both master of the Merchants’ Guild and guarantor of the Rossetti Trading Company. Further, an attack on my wife’s disciple simply cannot be ignored. That is not how the Jedda family operates.”

It was only after Viscount Jedda had spoken that Ivano realized how frigid the man could be. At the same time, the viscount’s words finally drove home the point that the Jeddas, too, were nobles. The three of them had worked together for so long, and yet hitherto, Ivano had only seen the faces they showed to commoners.

“I myself am not too familiar with the noble way, so I shall delegate the task to my husband,” said Gabriella.

“Yes, I shall take command. If Lord Fortunato wishes to sow seeds of discord, then war is what he will reap. The only choice in your hands, Ivano, is whether I battle as guarantor of the company or as his fellow guildmaster.”

In the past, Jedda had always seemed to keep a tight rein on his emotions, in contrast with the belligerent man now sitting before Ivano. In retrospect, it should have been obvious that a wholly calm and stolid fellow could never remain master of the Merchants’ Guild for as long as Jedda had. However, at this rate, Ivano thought it was likely that he’d have to apologize to Forto. “Oh, I’m so very grateful! But I was hoping to repay Mr. Forto personally, so please...”

He bowed his head low, but the Jeddas kept a lengthy silence in the room.

“My hand has been forced. I haven’t any choice but to raise the price of Esterland white silk by twenty percent.”

“I feel as though we are still being far too kind, but so be it, dear.”

“Um, is white silk not the fabric of choice for wedding gowns in the circle of aristocrats?” Ivano asked.

“Yes, it’s the obvious choice for elites,” she answered.

“Twenty percent is perhaps too kind, but it is as far as I shall compromise. Oh, and Ivano, address me as Leone from now on. Tell Miss Dahlia to do the same.”

“What.” Viscount Jedda allowed only a select few to address him by his given name, yet he had just told—if not commanded—Ivano to do so. Even chairpeople in the Merchants’ Guild who addressed Gabriella by her first name wouldn’t dare do the same to Leone.

“A name holds some weight amongst nobles. I see nary a problem, given that I am a guarantor of the company.”

Ivano bowed once again. “Thank you very much.” His gratitude was genuine. As soon as he thought he knew how the nobility operated, he was proven wrong. There was no way he could fight back, as he didn’t know the rules of war under which they operated. Right now, he and the Rossetti Trading company were but chicks under Leone’s sheltering wings.

“You ought not mention this predicament to Sir Volfred. Miss Dahlia would be severely hurt too. Save it for when they are ready.”

“Not even Sir Volf?”

“He is mild-mannered, but I cannot say the same of his family. The Tailors’ Guild has only had their guildmaster for less than a year; if it became necessary to replace him so soon, that would be unpleasant for all parties involved.”

It was difficult to understand the disturbing words that the Jeddas were so casually throwing around. Ivano had always found Volf’s presence calming—his good looks aside—so it was hard to imagine that the Scalfarottos could be as unforgiving as the Jeddas claimed.

“Forgive me for interrupting your conversation, Mr. Leone, but it is almost time for your other obligations today,” his attendant chimed in.

“I see. Time to visit the castle. It seems that there are yet two or three more things I need to settle.”

When Leone stood up from his desk, there seemed to be the slightest hint of joy on his face. Ivano had no way of finding out for sure, but he could tell it portended nothing good. He and Gabriella saw the viscount off.

“Madam Gabriella, um, perhaps I spoke too freely of Mr. Forto. It merely seems to me that this matter has gotten rather out of hand...” Ivano said bluntly, as though he were complaining. Perhaps he was still frightened by the Jeddas.

“I would have overlooked it all had Fortunato charmed you with his words, drowned you in liquor, or surrounded you with the finest women. However, truth serum in wine goes against an unwritten code. Not to mention, nobles have a duty to pay back in kind any damage done to their own people, so I’m sure Fortunato is already expecting all of this.”

“Nobles sure are a pain...” A persistent pain since yesterday, apparently. It was another side of society that Ivano knew too little of. Even if he learned of all of their proprieties, business and diplomacy with aristocrats seemed far out of reach.

“Perhaps. Herbed wine is a noble’s welcome, if not a warm one. I should have taught you more about these matters, but I am far from qualified. Shall I introduce you to someone through my husband?”

“I appreciate the gesture, but no, thank you. I need to graduate from my status as a disciple, you see.” Leone had just said that “an attack on my wife’s disciple cannot be ignored”; Ivano accepted their sheltering wings, but he didn’t want to depend upon their benevolence any more than he already had. Thankfully, the chick that was the Rossetti Trading Company was capable of hunting its own grub. Soon, they needed to find their wings and leave the nest, and perhaps one day, their wings would clash with those of the Merchants’ Guild. “For the time being, I will look into having Chairman Zola or Mr. Forto as my teacher. Perhaps the ultimate objective on which I set my sights will be to prosper alongside Mr. Forto as an equal.”

“Prosper as an equal, you say? Hmm...” Gabriella narrowed her eyes like a felid and buried her gaze in his flesh like a brace of claws. Ivano had learned that was a look not of skepticism but of concern.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I plan to beat him at his own game. Before I grow senile, at least.”

“Before that and while I still breathe, if you will. It would be a glorious thing to see my disciple’s decisive victory before I die.”

It was a tall order. Ivano replied with a wry smile, “That’ll be at least another twenty years or so, master.”

“You’re even tougher than you look, Marcello.”

“Right back at ya. Wanna raise the stakes? We’ll okay strikes below the shoulders, but let’s not go breaking any bones.”

It finally clicked for Volf when he saw Marcello’s near-barbarous smile: no-holds-barred was what he’d wanted all along. And if that’s what he wanted, that’s what he’d have. “Sounds good to me. Let me apologize in advance if I go too hard; if I break anything, I’ll take you to the priests.”

“Oh, I’m looking forward to the lovely ladies tearing us a new one on our ride to the temple.”

“Heh. Let’s go, big guy.”

The two men struck each other, and with their strengthening spells, the contact rang out like the sound of two pieces of heavy and dense wood striking together. Can I strike harder? Can I strike faster? Every punch hit harder and faster, both Volf and Marcello exploring each other’s limits.

Volf guarded a powerful punch from Marcello that shook his bones, smirking as he countered with a kick that Marcello blocked in turn. It felt as though he’d kicked the trunk of a tall oak tree, and his leg, magically strengthened though it was, shook to its core.

Close combat, bare knuckles, full-strength kicks—training with his squad could never offer the actual, raw fighting he was experiencing here. It was novel and positively electrifying. There were no lives on the line, nothing to protect, no onlookers, and no social standings involved. The thrill of the fight dulled the pain of every blow received—Get one more punch in. Just another good kick—only to be interrupted by the sound of cloth ripping. The two of them stopped in their tracks.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry; I got caught on your shirt and ripped it,” Marcello said.

“No worries. The fabric was really thin and all.” Marcello’s fist must’ve glanced off of Volf’s body before tearing his shirt straight down the torso. It wasn’t until now that Volf realized only moments remained before the sun completely set. “You’re real tough, Marcello. Wanna join our order?”

“Me? No, I’m a scaredy-cat. If I saw a monster, I’d probably break down and cry.”

Volf laughed as he fiddled with the loose threads. “We kinda overdid it, huh?”

Marcello checked himself over. Both of their arms were riddled with bruises. Volf didn’t want to roll up his pant legs, as he knew that dull pain couldn’t be anything good anyway.

“What the hell are you two doing?!”

The men whipped around at the sudden holler that came from behind them. There, a woman stood breathing raggedly, her temper as fiery as the color of her hair.

“D-Dahlia...”

“Oh, Dahlia, we’re just, um...”

Volf and Marcello, respectively, tried to find the right words at the same time, but her absolute fury cut them short.

“I came to see what the ruckus was all about, and it turns out you two weren’t wrestling but brawling?!” Dahlia did have a point—they’d strayed a little too far from merely wrestling.

“We weren’t brawling, but we were, uh, sparring.”

“Yeah, guys like us use our fists to do the talkin’...”

“Yeah, and look at the damage you’ve done to each other with your bare-knuckle fistfighting!”

The two men stood frozen with fear. Never before had they seen Dahlia this livid.

Just then, Irma slowly strolled up behind her. “Marcello, you’ve gone and ripped Volf’s shirt. Or did you mean to get a peek at his abs?”

“My man’s got a rippin’ six-pack!”

“I suppose it’s no surprise that a Beast Hunter stays in top shape.”

“Oh, you’d best bet. Volf’s biceps and quads are rock—”

“What are you guys on about?! Gah!” interjected Dahlia. “Dinner’s almost ready, so I’m heading back to finish up!”

With Dahlia stomping her way back up the tower, that left the couple trying to stifle a chuckle and Volf standing there in a daze.

“You know, Dahlia saw you two from the window up there and got really worried. I reassured her that you were just horsing around, but she rushed down the stairs at full speed and even tumbled down a step,” Irma explained.

“I guess she’s not used to seeing us roughhousin’ since she didn’t grow up with brothers,” Marcello reasoned.

“Yeah, so I couldn’t get through to her that you two weren’t really fighting.” She laughed softly, albeit with a slightly troubled tone in her voice.

“We messed up, didn’t we? I’ve got to apologize to her,” Volf said.

“Yeah, we totally got carried away. I’ll go too.”

Volf retrieved his sköll bracelet as Marcello slipped on his engagement bracelet. Then the three of them returned to the tower.

“See the chipped step there, Marcello? That’s what tripped her up.” Irma illuminated the way with a magical lantern.

“Gimme a tick. I’ll fix that.” He held his right hand above the step and channeled his magic into the missing chunk. With just a few moments, Marcello had patched it up with dark gray stone as if it had never been chipped in the first place.

“Oh, I didn’t know you could cast earth magic, Marcello.”

“I’m just all right at it.”

Meanwhile, Irma used the lantern to check over the other steps for any damage. “Over here too, Marcello. It’s still only a slight crack, but it’ll be bad if it spreads.”

“Sure, I’ll get it next. I guess with Tobias gone, there’s no one to—er, forget what I just said.” His expression soured as he tried to gloss things over.

“That’s Dahlia’s ex-fiancé, right? He’s the one who used to fix up the tower?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Is there anything else that needs attention since he’s gone?”

“Volf, you said you and Dahlia were just friends?”

“Well, she’s always taking good care of me, so I figured I ought to return the favor and help her out too.”

Irma turned around to the conversing men and looked straight at Volf with her garnet eyes. “You see, Volf, word out on the street is that she’s under your care.”

“It’s nothing like that. We really are just friends and nothing more.”

“I don’t know whether Dahlia needs attention or not, but Tobias used to handle the manual work, like holding the bags when they went out shopping, getting couriers to deliver materials, or finding someone to mend fences. Stuff like that,” Marcello explained as he lightly kicked the step, testing out his handicraft. “He used to tend to stuff she’d never notice, like fixing the steps or the flooring. Didn’t want her to take a spill, he said, so I told him I’d help wherever I could. Oh, Tobias would also take her place in any difficult business meetings and field complaints since he didn’t want Dahlia to have to deal with people being nasty to her. Though she’s got Ivano to help her with that now.”

“Marcello.” Either Irma was calling his name to cut short that line of talk or she didn’t want him to let Volf know any more.

Regardless, Marcello continued. “What he did to Dahlia was inexcusable and I don’t intend to excuse any of it, but he used to treat her all right. Still, if I had to say, he acted more like a protective older brother than her fiancé.”

“I see.” Volf didn’t have anything else to add, and neither did the other two. They remained silent as they searched for any more damaged steps on the staircase, then headed up to the second floor.

There, Dahlia was waiting with a black T-shirt in hand—the same one she’d lent Volf last time. “Put this on, Volf. You look like you just got mugged.”

“Thank you. And I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Me too, Dahlia. We got a bit carried away.”

“Neither of you had to go so far to tear up your clothing, you know?” Her anger had changed to concern, and that made the two men feel even more remorseful.

Volf couldn’t find a proper apology quite yet, but Marcello spoke up instead. “You’re right. We should’ve just taken off our shirts at the beginning.”

“Marcello!”

“Topless wrestling? In that case, Dahlia and I should have brought a pair of chairs and a few drinks to sit and watch,” joked Irma.

“As if! Take care of this while I finish up the cooking!” Dahlia shoved a stack of plates and several rolls of cutlery into Irma’s arms before scurrying off to the kitchen too quickly for anyone to call out to her.

“She’s mad at you,” Irma said.

“I messed with her a bit too much there. She’s just like the cat at Irma’s folks’ place.”

“What do you mean?” asked Volf.

“Dahlia really reminded me of how their cat used to hiss at me whenever I showed up back then.”

Not the most flattering turn of phrase, but it painted a picture Volf could somewhat understand. Dahlia was hardly as approachable at the moment as she was usually. Volf knew she’d either blow up in anger again or turn cold and distant; he wanted to avoid either possibility if he could.

“Our cat couldn’t stand Marcello back then since, at the time, he used to carry crates of medicinal herbs to and from the capital.”

“Apparently cats hate the smell, so what could I do, y’know? Adores me now, though.”

“You learned what to do and what not to do.”

Volf leaned forward attentively and looked at Marcello with anticipation, hoping to learn the secret to cheering Dahlia up again. “What do you do, then?”

“Good treats and good pats, I s’pose. Back of the ears and around the collar are the sweet spots,” he responded.

“I see...” It was dispiriting how little that helped.

As soon as Dahlia came back with the first plate, everyone else went to the kitchen to help carry dishes out. Volf got the wine and ale going, along with preparing a bucket of ice. Then everyone sat down at the table.

Dahlia placed a bottle of potion on the table. “Volf, Marcello, drink this before we get started. The bruises on your arms are dreadful.”

“Oh, this ain’t nothin’. Just a bit of a bruise is all.”

“Yes, it’s really no big—er, on second thought, let’s split the potion, Marcello.”

“That thing’s gotta cost a pretty penny.”

“And if you don’t drink it, it’ll cost you more. Because it’s been so long since we’ve had the chance to socialize, I’ll cover it this time. Next time, you get my drinks.”

Dahlia’s piercing green gaze was fearsome. Volf knew that if he refused her now, he’d never hear the end of it.

Marcello must’ve felt her shooting daggers at him too. “Fine. I’ll let you treat me now, but I’ll get you back next time.”

“Good. I’ll take half first.”

As Volf’s fingers made contact with the glass bottle, Irma held out a small bowl. “Before you drink that potion, would you mind sparing me some?”

“Oh, are you hurt, Irma?”

“I’m not, but Dahlia fell down a few steps earlier,” she explained. “Now, show me your palms.”

“I’m fine,” Dahlia said after a pause, looking away in embarrassment.

Rather than indulge Dahlia, Irma took her hands. “All right. If you’re not hurt, then open them up.”

Irma dipped her finger in the bowl of potion and dotted the wounds. Dahlia winced, then blew on her hands, although it wasn’t alcohol.

“Next, your knees; I bet you skinned them. Hitch up your skirt and—” Irma cut herself off. “You boys look away and drink your potions.”

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Marcello.

“Of course.” Volf obediently turned around and drank his portion of the potion. As he did so, Dahlia whimpered behind their backs. He felt sorry to think how much it must’ve stung her.

Marcello downed his half of the potion and exclaimed, “Wow, this stuff is made of miracles. My legs don’t hurt one bit anymore!”

Volf examined his own arms to find that all his bruises had dissipated. The ache in his leg had gone away too, although he hadn’t noticed it as much.

“Marcello, that means you were hurt,” admonished Dahlia.

“Right back at you.”

“I’m being serious here.”

“There, there, Dahlia. Hush now. No more. Marcello’s a lost cause. Besides, your beer’s getting warmer by the second,” Irma said to soothe her.

“My dearest wife, I thought you were head over heels for me!”

“You think there’s anything about you that’s more important than Dahlia’s cooking right now? Go on. Try me.”

“You got me there.”

Neither could Volf agree more. He found Irma smiling at him as she ignored Marcello dramatically hanging his head. Dahlia did the same and a sense of relief washed over Volf. Finally, the four of them clinked their glasses together and began the meal.

“The ale is courtesy of Volf; the fruit, Marcello; and the sandwiches, Irma. Feel free to add whichever dressing you’d like on your salad, and here are some quick pickles as well.”

Atop a big dish of ice sat cucumber, cherry tomatoes, and bite-size pieces of blanched broccoli and carrot. Next to that dish was a plate of thinly sliced radish and eggplant. Also on the table were thick and hearty sandwiches, a colorful assortment of fruits, grilled kraken brushed with fish sauce, and a variety of cheeses. However, there was a void right in the center.

“Time for the second fry,” Dahlia said as she got up from her seat.

“Want a hand, love?” asked Irma.

“No, just sit tight. I won’t be long.”

Volf emptied his glass as he watched Dahlia flash a big grin before disappearing into the kitchen again. The dark ale was deliciously chilled, yet he couldn’t sit still.

“Don’t worry, Volf. She’ll be back soon enough,” Irma said.

“I should be helping, though...”

“Just handle the cleanup afterward!” Irma giggled, but then she froze up when Volf replied that he’d been doing the dishes all along.

A few minutes later, Dahlia brought out a large platter that was still sizzling. “Here we are—fried chicken. I made two flavors, so be sure to try both.”

Fried chicken was a staple in diners and pubs, so it was hardly anything unusual, and yet Volf couldn’t stop salivating after encountering its particular spicy fragrance and appetizing color. As soon as everyone was permitted to dig in, he hastily stabbed a piece with his fork and popped it into his mouth.

“Oh, make sure to brush your teeth well tonight; I added loads of garlic,” warned Dahlia. Volf paid attention to what she was saying, but he didn’t stop eating.

Biting through the crispy and crunchy batter came the aromatics of both garlic and ginger. The rich, savory juice flowed from within the meat that nearly scalded the tongue. The saltiness made the bite so flavorful, and it directed the hand to a mug of cold beer. The drink cleared away the greasiness and the slight hoppy bitterness readied the palate for yet another bite. How wonderful that the dark ale complemented the fried chicken, and the chicken the ale.

“Oh, no. I’m stuck in a loop of beer and chicken,” said the man sitting beside Volf—a sentiment with which Volf fully sympathized.

The next mountain of popcorn chicken was a hint darker, suggesting it had been fried a little longer. However, when he bit into a piece, he was surprised by its tenderness and sweetness. It was just as juicy as the first batch but the flavors were worlds apart. After he took his time savoring the bite, a gentle sweetness remained that begged for yet more beer. Too much fried chicken might have been boring, but such was not the case with the two different flavors and dark ale.

“Dahlia, what did you season this batch with?”

“I used honey and fish sauce as well as a touch of lemon. It’s just as good after it’s cooled, so it’s perfect for a packed lunch.”

“Would you mind giving me the recipe later?”

“Of course not; I’ll jot it down for you after we’re done.”

The table wasn’t very talkative; everyone was instead focused on demolishing the chicken. Within moments, both batches had evaporated.

Dahlia looked very satisfied to see the empty plates. “Do you think you have space for more? I’ll go fry up the rest that’s still marinating.”

“Love you, Dahlia!”

“Could you, please? I’ll bring you a nice lively chicken next time!”

“Please don’t. I’m not about to raise chickens in my yard,” Dahlia answered with a smile.

However, Volf was still a little bothered. “I’d like some more as well, please.”

“There’ll be lots more just as long as you help with the dishes,” Irma said.

“You’re not going to get away with just doing the dishes. I’ll have you polish the kitchen to perfection,” said Dahlia.

“All right, I’ll make sure your walls and floors sparkle too then!” Marcello chimed in.

The two of them sounded so serious that Irma couldn’t help but chuckle. “Aren’t you glad, Dahlia? Sounds like you’re getting yourself a brand-new kitchen afterward.”

“Heh heh, I’m looking forward to it. Okay, I’ll be back in a jiffy with more chicken.” The redhead hurried to the kitchen.

Will Dahlia make both flavors? Or will she perhaps even make a totally different flavor? Volf couldn’t wait to find out. The Green Tower, Dahlia’s company, relaxed conversation, good wine and food—only in the past few months had he experienced these joys. On the other side of the coin, though, lurked anxiety. There was no way Volf could return to the life he had led before. “We should drink again someday.”

Marcello answered immediately with zero hesitation, though Volf was more or less mumbling to himself. “Seconded. You and Dahlia should come to our place next time.”

“We’ll be waiting. I’ll show off what I can do in the kitchen,” said Irma.

“I’d love to, if we wouldn’t be imposing.” It filled Volf with delight to be able to chitchat like this. At the same time, he looked down at the ground, anxious about whether the Nuvolaris were just being polite.

“Do you need us to be hush-hush? We could call you ‘Wolf’ when you have your glasses on. And if you sneak over, we’d have airtight alibis,” suggested Marcello.

“Hey, that’s not a bad plan. If the glasses aren’t enough, you can come over in the evening too.”

“You two are very thoughtful. Thank you.” Volf was embarrassed yet comforted by the way they read him like a book. The couple showed so much consideration and attentiveness.

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry down in the alleys around the city center. We’ll be able to drink to our hearts’ content, since drinks are cheap and plentiful, and no one will bat an eye if we have a bit too much—though the ladies might not care for the abundant drunks and booze-drenched seats and tables.”

“Dingy sounds fun as well.”

“Oh, you’re up for it? All right! We’ll hop from places that serve drinks mixed with gods-know-what, to dim and dirty dives, to places where only us guys can enter! Doesn’t that sound like fun, Wolf?”

“Sure does, Marcello!”

With an unamused look, Irma eyed the two men; she must’ve thought they’d gotten swept up in the moment. “Do excuse my old man, Sir Volf, for he seems to be tempting you with less-than-decent pleasures...”

“Oh, dear wife of mine, have you not heard?” Marcello responded with a straight face. “Showing him the ropes is my duty as his older guy friend!”

The Man-Made Magical Sword: Fourth Attempt—The Lamenting Blade

After dinner, Volf and Marcello more or less handled all of the cleaning in one go. It went without saying that the two men did the dishes, but they really did scrub the walls and floors as well; Dahlia couldn’t help but feel guilty that they had taken her so seriously. As Irma was booked for her hairstyling services in the morning, the Nuvolaris reluctantly took their leave as soon as the cleaning was finished.

That left Dahlia and Volf alone in the workshop on the tower’s first floor. It had been a while since they’d last had the time to artifice a magical sword together, and so she had already prepared everything in the afternoon.

“Oswald has taught me a few different ways to combine multiple enchantments. I plan to try the most straightforward method,” Dahlia explained. “Would it be all right if I enchanted the sword the same way we did previously?”

“Yeah. I hope it works this time.”

On the workbench was a disassembled shortsword along with its screws. The lead-gray blade was enchanted with self-sharpening, the guard with a water crystal for self-cleaning, the handle with a wind crystal for haste, the sheath with weight-reduction, and the screws with hardening.

Their first attempt had been foiled by magical interference that caused the parts to repel each other, making them impossible to assemble. They had coated their second attempt with yellow slime to prevent interference, but that had nullified all of its magical abilities.

This time, Dahlia would try using sealsilver to compose all the enchantments together. She retrieved a thin golden bracelet from her pocket. “Oswald lent me this bangle as protection when dealing with enchantments. He said it would prevent confusion and even the effects of poisons and soporifics.”

“Is it a thing for magical toolmakers to borrow bracelets from their mentors?”

“No, it isn’t, but he said that uncommon materials have the ability to cause ailments, so it’s for safety’s sake. Oswald told me to keep it until I can craft something like it. He even told Ivano to put it on when going out.”

“Would you mind if I took a look at it?”

“Not at all. There are a bunch of different materials on the inside. The white piece is unicorn horn, black is bicorn horn, red is fire dragon scale, and green is forest snake heart, I believe. They’re all connected by a very fine magical circuit.”

Volf silently listened to her explanation as he examined the bracelet. “Oswald probably meant it as a gift for you,” he said.

“I highly doubt that. It’s such a valuable piece; I thought I might even rent it from him.” As they were chatting, Dahlia took out a box just barely bigger than her hands from one of the cabinets. It was surprisingly heavy as a result of what it contained: liquid sealsilver. The unique metal stayed in its liquid state until magic was applied to it, which then solidified it. Its magic insulation characteristics meant that it was often used for material containers, shields, and the like. “I will be applying a layer of sealsilver where parts join up.”

“Like the stuff they use for magically sealed boxes?”

“Precisely. That’s what it’s well-known for, but sealsilver is used to keep magical tools from losing their power too. I was told it would be possible to prevent the enchantments from opposing each other in our application. It’s not possible to enchant it on top of another enchantment, but we can use it to physically manipulate the sword by applying it to the connecting parts.”

With a glass spoon, Dahlia scooped a small amount of sealsilver from the black box and poured it onto the blade, where it formed a cherry-sized bead that was a shade brighter than quicksilver. She directed magic from her finger and rolled the ball of metal around; it swiftly flattened out over the parts it came in contact with. Now the tang was clad in a thin but solid coat of sealsilver.

“This process doesn’t take much magic, so I’ll just go ahead and coat all the parts.” She continued on to coat the guard where it connected with the other parts, the inside of the sheath, and the threads on the screws. It was as if she were pushing around a roly-poly, to put it in humorous terms.

“Dahlia, you think that could be a small piece of silver slime?”

“I’m not some sort of monster tamer out of a fairy tale, you know? I’m sure it’s just liquid metal.”

“I suppose that makes sense. You are the nemesis of all slimes, after all.”

“That’s rich coming from the ‘Bane of Beasts,’ was it?”

Their banter made the process quite quick, and now it was Volf’s turn to put the sword back together. His swiftness gave off the impression that he was well-experienced. Only when he was tightening the screws back on did he encounter mild repulsion, but it was trivial enough that it did not pose any problems.

“The sheath by itself feels light, so that works for sure. Let me see if I can swing it any faster.” The sword whooshed in a manner that was distinctly odd, and Dahlia shrank back almost without realizing it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I didn’t think the haste would work that well, but at least I can say that it definitely works.”

“How is the cleaning function?”

Volf pressed on the guard and a slight trickle of regular old water streamed out onto the blade before dripping onto the workbench. It didn’t seem to Dahlia that enough water had come out to have any effect, but Volf reassured her that it was more than enough in combination with a rag. He then returned it to the scabbard. “It works perfectly! I didn’t expect we’d find success so soon.”

“All right! Compared to our past attempts, making this magical sword has been remarkably more uneventful.” Ignoring Dahlia’s choice of words, which even she herself thought strange on reflection, this was a definitive success compared to the other three that she’d made so far. At the very least, their newest creation posed no inherent risk to its wielder. It was a meager accomplishment, but the two of them were grinning from ear to ear. “What about a name for it?”

“Hmm, let’s see. It looked like it cried a stream of tears, so how about ‘The Lamenting Blade’?”

“May I ask why the names are always so villainous? You could just call it ‘The Water-Producing Blade’ or something along those lines.”

“Ehh. Some people prefer coffee, some prefer tea.” Some might have called his naming sense edgy and some might have called hers boring, but the fact of the matter was that there was no one good name. “Anyway, could I take this with me back to the barracks?”

“Sure, I don’t mind, but wouldn’t you want a proper one?”

“This is plenty good for what it is. It’s sharp and produces potable water for when I go on expeditions.”

“It would be unnecessarily bulky, don’t you think? You could use a water crystal for that.”

“When I got picked off by that wyvern, I had an emergency water crystal on me too, but the belt holster got cut and I lost it. With this shortsword, I could holster it close to me as my sidearm. It’ll offer some peace of mind.”

“Volf, you speak as though you plan to be picked off by a wyvern again...” Dahlia trailed off as she recalled the day they had first met. She couldn’t bear for him to get so bloodied and riddled with wounds ever again.

But just as she followed that trail of anxious thoughts, Volf spoke up in an unusually low tone. “You’re awfully polite to me, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“I was just thinking how differently you speak to Marcello and Irma. If it’s no trouble, I’d like you to speak to me just as casually.”

“Well, um...” Sure, she and Volf were close, but he was still the son of an earl no matter how you sliced it. Dahlia was already accustomed to speaking to him with some respect, so she couldn’t just up and speak to him as she would to Marcello or Irma. “I wouldn’t want to inadvertently speak to you so casually when we’re out in public. Not to mention that I already addressed you as just ‘Volf’ at the castle...”

“Sorry, that was an unreasonable thing to ask. Forget about it.” The corners of his lips curled upwards, but there was a look in those cold golden eyes as though he’d come to understand something.

“No, it’s not that! It’s just... Well, could I ask you to please wait until I get my barony? I think I would be able to be closer with you that way.” Volf looked at her, his eyes slightly wide; Dahlia’s words shocked even herself. “But, uh, you’d still outrank me even then, of course...”

“Well, I’ll just have to become a baron to match you then,” he said without any hesitation, his blooming smile contrasting with her panicked response. “I’ll slay a wyvern all by myself to get my rank soon.”

“Please don’t. I don’t want you to become takeout for it again.”

Her deadpan delivery got a chuckle out of Volf. He was running his fingers along the shortsword; what caught her attention was the way he did it, almost as if he were gently petting a cat. “In any case, it’s pretty amazing that you were able to make a magic sword in such a short time.”

“I couldn’t have done it without Oswald’s advice, and I wouldn’t claim it’s nearly as powerful as a real one. I don’t even know if this technique will work on a full-length sword either. Since my magic isn’t that powerful, you should ask someone with more magic—someone you trust—to test the shortsword out. Oh, and keep my name out of it, please.”

“Say, Dahlia, would you like to work at the castle? I think you’d be able to get your hands on some exceptionally rare materials. If I ask my brother, I’m sure he’d write a recommendation letter for you.”

“Thanks, but no thank you. My magic is not powerful enough, and what I want to make are tools for everyday life.” The promise of rare goods was alluring, but that wasn’t the direction in which she wanted to go. She wanted to make tools for convenience and to bring smiles to the people. Making a sword for Volf was a rare exception to those priorities. “And as Ivano said, if anyone finds out that a woman like me made a pseudo-magical sword, I might even be arrested under the pretext that I’m an aristocrat’s pet toolmaker.”

“Have you forgotten that I, too, am an aristocrat?”

“Erm, no, I have not...”

“I’m kidding! I don’t have any intentions like that as of now.”

“As of now?!” she snapped back to Volf’s hearty laughter. His teasing seemed to be just a bit more mean-spirited, so she changed the topic to protect herself. “Now that it’s so hot out, I presume it’s terrible out in the field.”

“I try to rinse myself off with a water crystal. Sometimes, I’ll even rub myself with ice made from an ice crystal.”

“That sounds truly miserable...”

“Well, it’s not like we can bring chilling fans with us on expeditions. Sometimes we’ll get people who can cast wind magic to circulate the air around, but we can’t ask them to keep it up the whole time either. If it’s hot and humid, then we’re pretty much soaking in our sweat, whether we’re moving around or lying down in our tents. We can’t take off our armor or change shirts out in the field, so sweat rash sneaks up on us if we’re not careful.” That was one thing Dahlia’s socks and soles couldn’t fix. “Still, the cold’s just as bad as the heat.”

“What do you mean?” It was summer—the idea of being cold seemed absolutely foreign.

“Not only do we get drenched in sweat and rain, but we rinse off in water when we get monster blood on us, so it can get chilly even though it’s summer. Us younger members are fine with just a blanket draped over us, but some of the more senior members really have to bundle up.”

“Knights sure have it rough...”

“One of those senior knights had a cold during our last expedition. His sore throat meant that he couldn’t swallow any of the jerky or rye bread in our rations, yet he still refused any treatment.”

“Wouldn’t healing magic take care of his sore throat right away?”

“It would have come back right away regardless since magic would only have relieved his symptoms without curing his cold, which was the root of the problem. He said it’d be a waste of magic anyway and that it should be saved in case we encountered monsters on our way home.” The hunt was undoubtedly dangerous, but their journey had been no walk in the park either. It was always a possibility that they’d run into danger on their way there or back, so it was wise to have healing magic or potions ready just in case. “That’s why we ought to hurry and adopt the camp stove. Hot food will do us wonders.”

“I hope so, for everyone’s sake.” Combat was a large and dangerous part of their duty, but it sounded as though everything else was unpleasant as well. Dahlia’s stove could alleviate both the wretched meals and the cold, so she hoped to be able to deliver the order to the order soon. She’d thought about subsidizing the stoves out of her own pocket if cost turned out to be an issue for the order, but Ivano would certainly veto that idea. That being the case, the only thing Dahlia could do was find a way to drive the cost down.

“It’s getting late, so I should probably head home,” said Volf, looking out the window. “Oh, drat. It’s just started raining again.”

It was coming down harder by the second and didn’t look as though it would stop.

“Here, take this.” Dahlia lifted a black raincoat off a hook on the wall. The outside was trimmed in sand lizard, while the inside was lined with wyvern skin. It was the very same coat that she’d lent Volf on the day they met.

However, he didn’t seem entirely thrilled by the idea. “I shouldn’t borrow your father’s coat again. You wear it too, don’t you?”

“Please, I insist. I have other raincoats I can wear.”

“But this is a really fine coat, isn’t it? Plus, it’s a memento of your father. Maybe I could borrow a different one?”

Dahlia smiled at Volf before opening a large trunk that lay nearby. “I have a pretty scarlet one, one with blue polka dots, and one with lilies of the valley—which would you like?” she asked in all seriousness, offering him a selection of ladies’ raincoats, designed by Lucia.

A look of surprise crossed Volf’s face, but then he chuckled to himself and reached out with his right hand. “On second thought, I think I’ll borrow your father’s coat again, Dali.”

It was clear as day that this man was a threat. It didn’t take someone fluent in noblesse to figure out that by calling her “lap cat,” he meant she was someone’s lover. It was true that she had no title and hardly a strong track record. She neither looked nor conducted herself well enough to fit in at the castle. But how could Gildo possibly think that the whole order would sully their honor and bend the rules because they were under her spell? How little did Gildo think of these knights who put their lives on the line defending the kingdom’s subjects?

In her previous life, Dahlia had never liked delivering presentations in front of people—not as a university student nor when she entered the workforce—but she had always given it her best. In three days, she would have to face the music. She bit the inside of her lip and watched as the man walked away.

As soon as the door closed behind Gildo, a sigh escaped from Dahlia’s lips. She tried to turn around but found herself powerless. There was a frightening chill hanging in the air around her and her body had frozen solid. She could neither speak nor look around. Even breathing was difficult, as if she were sucking in thin mountain air.

“How dare he say that to Dahlia!”

“The shameless disrespect to Miss Dahlia, who has helped us so much...”

“Oh, I’m going to stick my old insoles in his shoes! Hope the bastard enjoys athlete’s foot!”

“He sure seemed like the type to play dirty.”

Suddenly, an older knight barked at his squadmates. “Cut that out, you knuckleheads! Don’t use your intimidation skill here!” Evidently, everybody—including Volf—had overheard Gildo and Dahlia’s exchange, though truth be told, seeing the knights all riled up in her defense made her a little happy.

Finally, Dahlia was able to turn around. When she did, she found Volf pressing the bridge of his nose, almost as if he were preparing to activate another wave of intimidation. Ivano and Lucia were both white as a sheet, while Forto appeared unfazed but was watching her with concern.

“Our apologies, everyone. Knights who used intimidation or made ridiculous comments to themselves, you’ll be putting on your armor and doing five laps around the training grounds later. Needless to say, you won’t be bringing any zephyricloth with you.”

“Yes, sir...” acknowledged the crowd with regret.

One knight looked toward their leader. “Captain Grato, what Marquis Diels said to Chairwoman Rossetti crossed the line. Won’t you file a complaint, sir?”

Before Grato could answer, Dahlia did so for him. “I appreciate your consideration, but that won’t be necessary.”

“You’ve helped us so much, Chairwoman Rossetti. This won’t make things right, but it’s the least we could do,” a senior knight said, bowing.

“Thank you, truly. But I want to withdraw the invoice as well. I might not get an apology out of it, but I ask that you allow our company to deal with this matter as we see fit.” If Grato were to protest on her behalf, Dahlia would more than likely get an apology, but she would also be seen as a woman under his protection. She didn’t want to drag Grato deeper into the rumors surrounding them. As a commoner, Dahlia had no grounds to demand an apology, but she could petition for Gildo to retract his statement. Though there was no guarantee that it would work, it would at least prevent any further misunderstanding. Not to mention, the knights had just referred to him as Marquis Diels—the same rank as Grato. Any friction with the treasury would only bring trouble to the Order of Beast Hunters in the future, and that was the last thing she wanted for them.

“Sorry, Rossetti. That was supposed to be targeted at me, not you. Let me snuff out the unsavory rumors too. I just beg that you forgive his behavior.”

“Captain Grato!” Volf shouted.

But Grato ignored him and instead spoke with slight contempt for himself. “That man’s brother died by my hands, you see.” His words silenced the room. “A long time ago, on our way home from an expedition, one of our knights fell from his horse and died. The doctors said a combination of anemia and malnutrition got to him. At the time, our meals and rations were even worse than they are now. He wasn’t eating well enough, and I failed to realize that.”

“Captain Grato, that isn’t your—”

“That expedition was under my command. My friend had entrusted his younger brother to me and I accepted the responsibility. I am to blame for everything.” His voice creaked like an old man’s, and it hurt Dahlia’s ears so.

The Order of Beast Hunters not only had to risk their lives fighting monsters but had to do so even when fighting hunger and illness. Dahlia thought back to the first time she and Volf had met—how bloodied he had been—and felt sick.

He continued, “I will renegotiate with the treasury. If it doesn’t work out, then we’ll buy as many as our budget will allow. The remainder, I’ll buy with my own money.”

“Thank you very much for your commitment. May I ask that you allow me to make the appeal to the treasury?”

“You needn’t be so considerate. That man is exactly as he appears. I doubt he would make it a pleasant experience.”

“I am prepared for that. I would love to take this opportunity and turn it into a learning experience.” Researching and developing magical tools was essentially hurdling. It was Dahlia’s responsibility to worry about whether to jump over, run through, or walk around. Commerce wasn’t that far off from research either; watching Ivano perform, she knew that managing business relationships was much the same for him. Dahlia understood that, just because a product was simple, it didn’t mean the business side would be simple as well. Setting aside whether or not she’d fallen into Gildo’s trap earlier, she knew that, as an inventor and chairwoman, she had to take that step forward and do all she could.

“A learning experience, eh? If only you were a man, then adopt—wait, hold on...” Grato muttered inaudibly with a hand over his mouth. Just as Dahlia was about to ask him to clarify, the grizzled captain cleared his throat.

“Would it be possible to explain to Lord Diels the importance of field rations?” she asked.

“Even if you had the chance, I doubt it’d be easy to get him to understand.”

Hearing his pained voice, Dahlia hung her head. “My sincerest apologies. I failed to consider my words before speaking aloud.”

“No, I appreciate the thought.”

Afterward, Forto took over and returned to the topic of the zephyricloth as if nothing had happened. However, everybody else had far less to say, and the excitement in the air was long gone. After collecting the squad’s thoughts about and opinions on the fabric, there was no more conversation to be had.

As they boarded a carriage at the castle’s station, Ivano stepped out to speak with Forto for a moment, and Volf, acting as their party’s escort, tried to comfort his friend. “Hey, listen. I hope you don’t feel disheartened. Your creations are very much boons for everybody, and our squad couldn’t be any more grateful to you.”

“Thank you for telling me, Volf. I feel like I can now try even harder.” Dahlia was beat, what with everything that had happened today, but she felt she had to go over things with Ivano and get ready for that all-important presentation. If it meant a formal procurement, then the Rossetti Trading Company ought to do all they could to showcase just how good their camp stove was. The anxious thought made her clench her fists tightly.

“You don’t need to.”

“I...” She wanted to protest but lost the words to do so.

“Dahlia, I can tell you’re doing your best, and your best is more than enough. We’ll do something about it on our end too, so I hope you can stop worrying about it.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“Yeah. You looked like you were so worried that I was worried you’d get wrinkly right about here,” he said, laughing and pointing to the middle of his own brow.

Seeing that smile of his allowed her to release the tension from her shoulders. “I’ll be careful. I wouldn’t want any wrinkles just yet.”

“‘Yet’? So you’re hoping for them someday?”

“When I get to the right age, wrinkles would make me look like a wise and powerful toolmaker, don’t you think?”

“Wise and powerful, huh?” Volf’s shoulders shook as he stifled a chuckle.

He might have thought he was slick and subtle, but it didn’t get past Dahlia. She wasn’t joking, but being able to banter like this was a breath of fresh air; it was only now she realized how much she’d been holding in from earlier. Once things calmed down, it’d be nice to get a drink with just the two of them, shooting the breeze about all kinds of tools and monsters. And so she took that courageous step and asked, “Volf, after my presentation, would you like to unwind with me and a few drinks?”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll find us a real nice bottle,” he said, raising his hand only to retract it immediately. “Sorry, that’s out of habit; just something I do with Dorino and the others.”

Was he looking for a high five? A brotherly clasp of the hands? Whatever it was, she realized she was actually rather happy that he had inadvertently been so chummy with her of late. With the tip of her finger, she lightly pecked his palm and giggled. “I can’t wait.”

Interlude: Escort Duty & the First Cup of Tea

Volf stared out the coach window at the stars twinkling between the clouds. Lady Altea, a dowager duchess, was attending a soiree and Volf was waiting on her as her escort. As he had always done, Volf finished with practice, changed, then came to the venue in a coach. Until Altea decided it was time to head home, Volf had little to do but relax inside the vehicle—or at least, he would have if he could have. Volf couldn’t catch a wink, and neither could he summon up the appetite for the rather luxurious light meal that his client had arranged for him. Time ticked by all too slowly.

At evening parties such as tonight’s, Altea was always the last one to arrive and the first one to leave. Her escort when arriving was usually either a knightly noble or Volf himself. When she left the party, Volf or that same knight would accompany her out. He didn’t know, and didn’t particularly want to know, who her other chaperones were.

Dahlia had asked Volf to deliver a gift in return for the apple brandy Altea had given her. Dahlia had decided the shoe-dryer might be less than appropriate, though she hadn’t been sure if the compact magical stove she’d ultimately decided on was any better. Her reasoning was that, at the very least, Volf had some connection to the stove. Whether or not Altea would actually use it was another matter. Despite all her deliberations, Dahlia had made an effort to wrap the present nicely and had had Volf bring it with him today.

Volf, however, wasn’t worried about the present as much as he was about Dahlia, given what had happened yesterday at the castle. But before they’d parted, Dahlia had revealed that what she herself worried about was the maid who had soiled Dahlia’s skirt. Seeing just how much it was weighing upon her, Volf had promised her that he would bring it up to Grato and Guido to make sure the maid was all right. Apparently, he was the only one in the dark; Dorino and Randolph had already known about the incident. It could’ve been a mere coincidence, but more likely, they had chosen not to burden him with the matter—the thought swirled in his mind.

Finally, word came from a manservant. “Here comes Lady Altea.”

Volf double-checked his attire before stepping out of the coach. From behind the brilliant white walls and under the terracotta roof tiles came Altea. The path was lit up with nearly too many magical lanterns; the glare was hard to bear. When she arrived at the main gate, Volf smiled and extended his hand to her. “At your service, Lady Altea.”

“Thank you, Volfred.”

Volf’s task was to wait on Altea after a ball or dinner, and it was something he had done countless times already. Whether they were born of jealousy, desire, or admiration, the stares and glares others sent their way were something they never addressed. Their relationship was nothing enviable, so Volf simply did not care. As onlookers indiscreetly whispered amongst themselves, he escorted Altea to the coach. The moment they boarded and closed the door, Volf heaved a heavy sigh.

“I see you’re not fully present. You must comport yourself better in front of a lady, as it is a part of your duties as an escort,” she said with a teasing smile.

Volf apologized sincerely for his disrespect. “My apologies, Lady Altea. It shall not happen again.” He knew that as much as she was being considerate, she was also completely correct.

“Tell me, Volfred, is there something bothering you?”

“Erm, yes, I suppose.”

“Is it about work? Something classified?”

“No, it’s nothing confidential like that. The truth is that I have become a guarantor of a trading company, and the order would like to procure a product from said company. However, there seems to be a bit of a roadblock to its progress.”

“If you would like me to put in a word for you, do let me know.”

Volf deliberated for a moment before refusing. “Thank you very much. Just the thought is plenty.” Dahlia wouldn’t appreciate Altea interfering, he surmised.

“I see. Here I was worried that you were floundering because you wished to break up.”

“Break up? With whom?”

“With me, of course. Perhaps there might be someone jealous that you come to pick me up like this? If our association causes you trouble, Volfred, I would be happy to end it at any time.”

“Oh, no, Lady Altea. I do not have a girlfriend or that sort of relationship with anyone.” He couldn’t imagine Dahlia ever getting jealous. They were just friends, after all.

“In that case, would you be unbothered if that friend of yours danced with another man?”

If Dahlia were to become a baroness, there was a possibility that she would attend a ball. She would be stunning in a dress, but perhaps clumsy on the dance floor. Her safety would also be an issue, but he couldn’t stop her if that was what she wished to do. Instead, he would stand guard for her. “It would perhaps be concerning to me as a friend, but I would not stop her. I would be in no position to do so anyway.”

Altea squinted, laughing with only her eyes.

Back at the estate, Volf retired to his guest chambers after having a single glass of white wine.

The maid unwrapped the floral-patterned gift wrap in front of Altea, then presented the compact magical stove to her mistress. Included with it was a card folded in half—a very politely worded thank-you note for the gift of apple brandy. Altea placed the stove from Volf’s friend on the table in front of her. It seemed to have piqued her interest, as she rotated it around, examined it from all angles, and checked whether it had a magic crystal installed.

“Lady Altea, shall I use that to boil water for a pot of black tea?” the manservant asked in a half-joking manner. However, Altea was all smiles, genuinely in support of the suggestion. Not only that, she said that she would make the tea herself and even refused any advice on how to do so. The maid, shaken up by this turn of events, shot daggers at the manservant from his side, eliciting feelings of guilt.

“But that’s so like him, isn’t it? That boy would never accept anything he couldn’t return in kind. He simply detests any favors from me,” Altea said in a puff as she checked on the now-boiling water on the stove. Then she scooped three spoonfuls of the fine loose leaf tea and dumped them in the bubbling pot. The maid covered her mouth as she silently screamed in sorrow.

“Perhaps it is because men are afraid of feeling indebted to women.”

“Is that true? Would it be wrong of me to want him to depend on me more, then?”

“That would be a difficult proposition for him in particular.” The image of Volf in the manservant’s head was one without a hair out of place. Volf had long been by Altea’s side, and in addition to being her escort, he also stayed the night from time to time. However, never had he bedded her, accepted a halfpenny from her, or had her wield her influence for his own gain. All the man did was come here.

When Volfred was accepted into the Scarlet Armors, Altea had asked her manservant to pick out a present for him, for which purpose he’d chosen a coin purse made of crimson fox pelt. It was an intricately decorated article crafted from fine materials, making it quite the valuable item. Volfred had graciously accepted the present with a smile, and the servant had been glad to see that it was to his liking. However, the following week, Volfred had returned with a similarly priced and just as meticulously made crimson fox accessory case. In return for a gift from someone of higher status—and especially a noblewoman—a simple word of thanks or a single flower would have sufficed. But Volfred wouldn’t have been satisfied with that. For him, every gift warranted an equal reaction to keep the scales perfectly balanced.

Ever since the first time they had met, the servant had thought that Volfred didn’t act his age; he never gave off the impression of a young man, much less a youth. He was always polite and respectful, he would always return greetings from all the domestic helpers, and he never acted full of himself. When Volfred was taught how to dance or to speak with nobility, he was diligent and tried his best. The only time he would show himself just a little was when his meal or drink was particularly delicious, and even then that would be for but a few moments.

The manservant had a decent grasp on Volfred’s personal history. The distance he kept from everyone perhaps made him a little frigid. But precisely because of that, when Volfred did act his age—rather, when he did act like a boy, it was all the more special for Lady Altea. Before anyone knew it, Volfred had become a common topic of conversation around the household.

“I wish Volfred would learn to let himself accept kindness, though. I suppose I’m mistaken to think that every man enjoys a woman’s care.” Altea grasped the switch with her fair, slender fingers and turned off the stove. Then she poured the contents of the pot through a strainer and into teacups, a precarious process.

It was far from the ideal way to make tea. The color of the liquid cried of its bitterness and astringency. The manservant silently watched over his mistress while the maid—now completely pale—was speechless and powerless to help.

“For the first time in my life, I have brewed black tea from water to liquor,” Altea said with great satisfaction. It was hard for the servants not to be happy for her, or would have been, if not for the overwhelming dread they felt at the prospect of having to taste the tea she’d made. “Say, I would love to learn more about the issue that Volf mentioned earlier.”

“I was under the impression that there was a promise to not put in a word for him?”

“Certainly I said I would not put in a word for him, but never did I say that I wouldn’t pull a few strings.”

“Lady Altea...” he said sternly, disapprovingly.

“It shan’t be a problem to offer an umbrella for a pup to tide over a rainstorm.” Her captivating smile reduced him to a deep sigh. For as long as their relationship had been, the manservant knew there was no stopping her. “Now, then, how about a cup of tea?”

Though she pretended to be fickle, she strove for the betterment of her family and nation, and she showed deep compassion toward those who were close to her. For someone who had served Altea for nearly twenty years, to have the roles reversed and to be served tea by her—the very first she had ever brewed—was a great honor. Or perhaps it was a badge of great honor to be brave enough to try that so-called tea.

No sooner had the three of them tasted Lady Altea’s first cups of tea than they were all in anguish.

Interlude: The Headstrong & Well-Connected

Grato proceeded to the head treasurer’s office after the meal between the two departments had concluded. After dismissing both parties’ attendants from the room, he retrieved a stack of papers from his chestnut-brown leather portfolio. Now, splayed across the high-gloss black desktop were four letters of recommendation. “Recommendations that the Rossetti Trading Company begin dealing with the castle. The signatories are Duke Gastoni, the masters of the Merchants’ Guild and Tailors’ Guild, and the vice-guildmaster of the Adventurers’ Guild—I’d like to think that even you would be powerless to object.” The letter closest to Gildo was the one from Gastoni, signed not by the former duchess but by her son, the incumbent duke.

“Why didn’t you submit these before the meeting?” Politeness went by the wayside as Gildo returned an impassive question. “If you had, you could’ve gotten me axed from my position... Never mind; I’ll apologize to them afterward. I got to hear a few things too.” But this man sitting across from Grato—someone who, once upon a time, had been considered a friend—couldn’t hide his displeasure and refused to look Grato in the eye.

Grato gritted his teeth, steeled himself, and stood up. “Gildo, I failed to protect your brother and I apologize. I do not expect your forgiveness.”

“I received a simple apology like that in the form of a letter a while after his funeral, didn’t I?”

“I apologize for the insolence of failing to attend the funeral as well.”

“Just drop it. Sit. Oh, that’s right, you didn’t go to his funeral. What, were you afraid of my reproach?”

Grato sat back down just as Gildo had calmly ordered him, but this time, it was the captain who averted his eyes. He sat there silently, trying his best to not let out any words, but failed in the end. “The day we returned, we were forced into isolation on the outskirts of town. There we were for eight days.”

“You fell ill? This is news to me.”

“Necrosis. I was rotting from the inside out—the result of a monster’s slow-acting poison. A few other knights were afflicted too. Because it was infectious, not only were we forced to isolate, but we were kept quiet with a gag order in order to avoid causing panic in the capital.”

“Why didn’t you say anything after the gag order was lifted?”

“On the eighth day, I visited to apologize and to deliver a letter...” Grato trailed off and took a moment to collect himself. “But your mother refused it. ‘I understand that it was part of his duty, but allow us to grieve first. Let me contact you before you come to see us again,’ she asked of me. That was the promise we exchanged.”

“This is news to me too. I suppose shortly after, mother fell sick and, well...” Gildo stopped in the middle of the sentence and sucked in his lips.

Grato still hadn’t received her permission and now never could. “Yes. And I fled like a coward until today.”

“What a ridiculous promise you’ve held yourself to, you blithering idiot! You haven’t changed one bit since our school days, have you? You never express yourself properly, Grato, by words or by writing!” He spat out his words, not even bothering to affix a title to Grato’s name.

But Grato sat there and took it—there wasn’t a single word that Gildo had said that was wrong. “You’re right. If it hadn’t been for you helping me study before every exam, I wouldn’t have graduated at all. Nothing has really changed since then.” Grato was finally able to look up at him.

Gildo’s once-glimmering blond hair was now streaked with white. His amber eyes were a tone darker than they had been. The wrinkles on his face turned his formerly cheerful appearance into one of fussiness. Those changes came to the body with the passing of the years, and it was no different for Grato.

“My brother joined the Order of Beast Hunters because he looked up to you. But at the end of the day, he was still a royal knight who stepped onto the front line of his own free will; your apologies—and your pity—are unneeded.” Gildo’s words were a knight’s and not a bureaucrat’s, and they were reminiscent of the time when they had been students still sparring with training swords. He had always been serious and upfront, hence his recommendation for the position of head treasurer.

But that was exactly why there was something that didn’t quite make sense to Grato. “I have to ask: budget aside, why did you drag Rossetti into things? That isn’t like you.”

“The numbers were what they were. We looked into the market price of the regular compact stoves. If there’s room to shrink that number, then it’s the treasury’s job to do so. But as for why I dragged her into things...” Gildo hesitated for a moment. “Well, it was meant to be a final warning.”

“A final warning? What do you mean?”

“I had thought about stepping down as head treasurer. It was a good opportunity to do so.”

“At our age? We’re hardly that old. And what do you mean by a warning?”

“Tall, redhead, fair skin, itty-bitty waist—fits your tastes to a T.”

“What? Just what are you on about?” Grato’s eyes flickered. He couldn’t deny it, but it didn’t seem like the time or place to be discussing this matter.

“Dahlia Rossetti—a young woman without any titles who recently became the chairwoman of a company that all of a sudden is frequenting the castle. The Scalfarotto family’s youngest son, infamously known as the ‘Heartbreaker,’ is her company’s guarantor. When that young lady came to the castle alone, the marquis and captain of the Order of Beast Hunters ordered cake usually reserved for the royal family and had served it on Esterland porcelain usually reserved for dignitaries. He even summoned her to his office and cleared the rest of his afternoon’s schedule, despite the fact that her visit was supposed to be nothing more than the delivery of a few documents. That maid then came back to my department and kicked up a fuss with her maid friend.”

Grato’s head pounded at the unexpected answer. It meant that this was all his fault. “I admit that was an oversight on my part. But do you mean to say that the treasury listens in to even what the maids are gossiping about?”

“But of course. If our department makes a single misstep, heads will roll—and I mean that in the most literal sense. We have informants in the mix. From what our maid heard, the Scalfarotto boy has made a habit of mooching meals from the Green Tower. Things like that, I turn a blind eye. But Grato, you ought to run a thorough check on the employees and maids under you. If people have unsavory ideas about your squad, it affects more than just your squad members.”

“Sorry. I should be keeping a tighter rein.” All of the employees and maids—and their personal guarantors—had been vetted before they were allowed into the castle, and Grato had placed all his faith in the process. As far as thanking Dahlia for her efforts, he had done it without exercising due diligence and without considering outsiders’ opinions. Grato had let down his guard just because he was within the confines of the Beast Hunters’ territory. He hadn’t even considered that word of his guests and knights would travel around because of gossipy maids.

“It’s easier to control the spread of rumors when I’m the one spreading the rumors. That’s why I had the maid mess up Chairwoman Rossetti’s clothes there and then. If she couldn’t, then neither could I keep hush about her leaking such sensitive information, nor would she get her severance pay.”

“But what reason did you have to do that?”

“Twofold, I suppose. Firstly, the nasty rumor of a warning was to tip the scales in my favor with regards to the camp stove deal. Secondly, I expected her to smarten up and keep you at arm’s length. I should’ve been able to pay for it all with my resignation, regardless of what kind of backing she had or if any protests had been made through the Beast Hunters. I just hadn’t expected her to charge ahead and bring the fight to me.” That last sentence brought a smirk to his face.

But Grato couldn’t understand why. Instead, he stared. “So it was because of you that no rumors had actually circulated. Though I still don’t understand why. Why did you have to go that far? It isn’t as though any criticisms brought to me would hurt you in any shape or form.”

Gildo hesitated. “I don’t recall saying it was all just for you. The Order of Beast Hunters is our nation’s shield; bad optics on the part of its captain would make budgeting all the more a hassle. I am used to being everyone’s enemy as the head treasurer, so another grudge or two means little. I mean, not to say our past didn’t factor into this.”

“Why do it in such a roundabout way? You could’ve just warned me personally, couldn’t you?”

“I would have if I could have!” Gildo snarled.

In the years since their student days, never had he seemed more like his old self than now. As Grato thought back on it, Gildo had always been rather headstrong, but they weren’t so unalike—each man had been unable to reach out to the other, and it had haunted them both.

“Plus, you always leap to and act on wrong conclusions!” Whatever mask Gildo had hidden behind had now fallen; his frustration was written on his face. “And what was with you today, surrounding Rossetti on your high horse like that? Don’t you go doing things that could trouble Dalila.”

“What?! That’s ridiculous! Act your age!” Upon the mention of Dalila’s name, Grato couldn’t help but raise his voice too. “That was me thanking her, plain and simple! If I hadn’t done that, I have no doubt that your treasury men would have her head! And are you still so deeply bothered that your dear childhood friend is my wife?”

“Bothered?! Inconceivable! I grew up with Dalila and she’s my cousin; it would be inhumane of me if I didn’t worry for her well-being. Have you forgotten that I know all about your relationships during your college days?”

“That was ages ago...” It wasn’t as though Gildo didn’t have a point, but that was then and this was now. Grato failed to stay composed, so he instead pressed one hand to his brow. Gildo was cousin to Grato’s wife Dalila. As was so often the case among cousins of the opposite sex, Gildo was like an older brother to her and as protective as one too. Grato remembered that right before he and Dalila were married, Gildo had warned Grato that he would personally murder him if he so much as made her cry. Grato simply hadn’t expected that Gildo would still be like this after all these years.

“But now I know that I didn’t have anything to worry about—she’s too far out of your reach.”

“How rude. What, are you bitter about how she made you take back your words?”

“Not at all. I offered to resign from my position as an apology, but she simply laughed and refused it outright.”

“You did what?! So when you asked why I didn’t submit these before the meeting...”

Gildo snorted. “All Rossetti wanted instead was for the fiasco to be water under the bridge, for the treasury to correctly allocate budget for your order, for me to keep at my job because I’m still young, and for me to talk to you. Then, when I asked her what goals she had, she said she simply wanted the Beast Hunters to eat better, sleep better, and get home safely. She’s far too clever. I can’t get a good read on her.”

“I don’t blame you; I don’t even think that’s possible at all...”

“Not only do I owe her one now, she has even cut off my retreat. Just who is backing her?”

“Please don’t make me tell you.” Grato heaved an exaggerated sigh. A pair of amber eyes narrowed in his direction but turned away shortly after.

“I’ve waved the white flag already; I have no intentions of fighting her. Just thinking of all the damage I’d receive and the apologizing I’d have to do makes my head throb. Hell, resigning would be the easy way out...” He clasped his hands atop his desk and then placed his head on top as though it really was aching. Even for a viscount like Gildo, facing Duke Gastoni and the various guildmasters would be too much to handle.

“I’m inclined to agree. But remember, it’s all water under the bridge now, so use me as an excuse.”

“I’ll have to come up with something good, that’s for sure. Anyway, tell me—how does this lead back to me? Is it Duke Gastoni, or is it somebody else that we have in common?”

“You’re sure it leads back to you, then? I take you for a man of your word, Gildo.”

“Sure. I would go to the temple to sign a magical contract if that’s what you need from me,” he said offhandedly.

“Dahlia Rossetti stands alone.”

He kept his head on top of his folded hands for a moment longer. “Excuse me?” he asked as he looked up. Gildo was a smart man; his delay was less because he didn’t understand and more because he didn’t want to understand.

“Rossetti has no patrons. One could say that she has Volfred beside her as well as various guilds that she has forged connections with through the Merchants’ Guild, but that would really be stretching it. She merely said whatever came to her—that she wanted you to keep your job, wanted you to do well, wanted the Beast Hunters to get home safely... From what I can see, the woman has no ulterior motives or ambitions for any sort of merits for herself. As for wanting us to have a chat...” Grato hesitated to continue. “It’s embarrassing that someone young enough to be my daughter would offer her good offices.”

“What a baffling entity...”

“Make good on your word, Gildo,” Grato said, sneering, at which Gildo loudly clicked his tongue.

“Whatever. I’m just glad that this won’t come back to bite me. As soon as you and the vice-captain recommend Rossetti for her barony, my deputy and I will endorse her. When I go to apologize to Duke Gastoni, I’ll get his recommendation too.”

“You sure work quickly.”

“Oh, shut it. You just work slowly. I’ll get her barony in a flash to show you how well connected I am.”

“You really are just as headstrong as you always were,” Grato muttered with a grin, but Gildo ignored it. They may have been slightly closer than before, but to expect that they could still speak like old friends would be setting himself up for disappointment.

Even in elementary school, Grato had never been the studious type, but he’d made up for his shortcomings with Gildo’s help. When he fell asleep during a lesson, Gildo had been there to review the material with him. When he messed up an assignment, Gildo was there to teach him how to do it properly. Every year, Grato would barely scrape by and advance to the next grade, which inevitably led to his father chastising him, saying that he’d never catch up to Gildo.

Before Grato knew it, the two of them had become constant companions in study and play, despite their differences in temperament. When the two friends got chewed out by their teachers, Gildo would be fuming that he’d gotten dragged into Grato’s antics. And even though Grato didn’t really learn from his mistakes, Gildo had always been by his side. Gildo, by nature, was a knight. He had an innate sense of chivalry, justice, and honor. He would stand up to any wrongdoing, be it against older students or even teachers. That was the type of person he was, and Grato reckoned that’s why he had stuck with him through their schooldays.

On the other hand, Gildo would find himself clashing with others because he was so upright—and upfront. If someone was about to say something that would cross the line, Gildo would poke his nose in and stop them. When a conversation got awkward, he’d kick up a fuss and inject some energy. If someone picked a fight with Grato, Gildo would back him up. It wasn’t long before the duo was treated as partners in crime, and as a result, Gildo had kept complaining to Grato to stop dragging him into trouble.

When the pair entered high school, Gildo had enrolled and excelled in both chivalric and civil service studies. However, Grato had been good at only the practical portion of his chivalric studies—namely martial arts and equestrianism—and once again had scraped by with barely passing grades. But he absolutely wouldn’t have Gildo besting him at sword fighting, so Grato had secretly studied at home under a private instructor.

It didn’t matter how much effort Grato put into his academics; he always spun in circles and his father always reprimanded him for his grades. It was a given that Grato would be compared to his younger brother, who had been an excellent student, and if not him, then Gildo. As Grato grew older, the strife between him and his father had become all the more frequent and intense, leading him to stray off his intended path. At one point, he had even run away from home, leaving the succession of the marquisate to his brother. It wasn’t his father or his teachers who had grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back to school but Gildo. It was he, and only he, whose attitude toward Grato had never changed. As grateful and happy as Grato was, his family and instructors had ordered him not to cause trouble for Gildo. Grato had begun seeing himself as someone who held back Gildo, the model student, and as someone who only received Gildo’s kindness because he was weak and ineffectual.

One day, crushed under a mountain of guilt and self-pity, Grato had said to Gildo, “I’m sorry for everything up till now. Rid yourself of the burden that is me.” He had expected a thunderous response, but he was instead met with deafening silence. When Gildo had then turned around and walked away, Grato had thought that his wish had come true and had tried to convince himself that it would be for the better, but he knew he couldn’t possibly bear it. But just when he looked up to repress the tears—

“And just what the hell are burdens between friends, you dolt?!” With the wrathful voice came a bucket of ice water hurled from the second floor. It didn’t take long before Gildo himself had stomped back down the stairs to personally deliver a few swift punches.

Predictably, the result was a great big tussle. Both boys had strengthened their bodies, and combined with their chivalric training and youthful fervor, they had made havoc of the turf and planters in the courtyard. It had taken countless punches, kicks, a bucket of icy water, and a surprisingly powerful blast of water that sent them flying before the boys calmed down.

The water cannon—originally designed to wash the walls of the school building—had been fired by the magical tools instructor. “Behave yourselves! What are you two, some sort of garden pest hell-bent on destroying all the greenery?!” Being screamed at by a teacher who had always been a calm and gentle figure managed to shut the boys up. They were even made to sit properly in the Esterland style in the hallway while the instructor berated them for quite some length of time.

The two had expected to face expulsion, but perhaps because of Gildo’s usual good behavior, they’d been spared and were instead made to weed the garden for an hour a day for a month as punishment. In addition, each of them had to write a letter of apology. Grato had thought expulsion would be preferable, considering the eyes on them as they tended to the courtyard, but picking weeds as he shot the breeze with his best friend hadn’t been so bad after all. Plus, he had Gildo’s help writing the letter anyway.

As it transpired, Gildo hadn’t simply turned around and walked away but had instead gone looking for a student capable of wielding ice magic. Grato had said that he couldn’t believe Gildo would actually do that, but all Gildo had had to say in return was that he had to ensure Grato would “cool his head.” The bad company had shared a big smile and a heartier guffaw.

After high school, Grato had found himself with no choice but to succeed his family’s title, yet what he truly wanted for himself was to join the Order of Beast Hunters. He was keenly aware of the tragedy that monsters brought to the people, and so he wanted to wield the family heirloom, the magical blade Ash-Hand, in battle.

Gildo had been in a similar boat. He had striven to join the First Knights’ Regiment, but his civil service grade was simply too good for the castle’s treasury department to pass him over. As he hemmed and hawed, his choice had been taken from him—a letter signed by the King of Ordine commissioned him by name. There had been absolutely nothing that he or his family could do to gainsay the crown. The following day, Gildo had trudged up to Grato’s estate without so much as a warning or any servant to accompany him. What he had brought instead were two bottles of firewater of unparalleled proof—one for each of them.

“I wanted to be a knight!” Gildo had roared out as he pressed his hand against his brow, ineffectively damming his tears, which in turn made Grato bawl too. The pair had grumbled through the night about all of their problems as they drank themselves into a stupor. When they awoke to the worst hangovers of their young lives (which required a priest to cure), their mothers gave them the longest talking-to they had ever received. Worrying their mothers had been enough to teach them a lesson. The boys then discussed among themselves whether it was their fate to be nagged by women, how talking back to women would only prolong the process, and how women were all the more frightening when scorned.

After that, Grato had managed to win over his family, leave the succession to his younger brother, and join the Beast Hunters. Gildo had entered the treasury and become a rising star, surmounting the paperwork he was buried under. Even though both young men had become busier with work, they’d still found time to drink together. There had now been more topics to discuss and more problems to complain about, but their time together was still just as fun.

Before long, Gildo’s younger brother had begun to tag along with them from time to time. He was a few years younger, but he and Gildo looked like one and the same young man. He’d studied chivalric studies in high school, loved stories about monsters, and looked up to the Order of Beast Hunters too. Moreover, he was even more agreeable and obedient than Gildo. When he had first mentioned that he wished to join the order, Gildo had immediately put the idea down, leaving Grato with no room to argue for either side. However, Gildo’s brother had eventually worn both Gildo and his family down.

The day that his brother was officially to become Grato’s subordinate, Gildo had come to him with a bow most sincere, pleading, “Grato, can I trust you with my brother’s life?” Grato had responded in the affirmative and had gone on to protect the boy in expeditions against monsters. But Grato had failed to notice that Gildo’s anemic brother was not eating well enough and had failed to prevent the boy from falling off his horse.

A moment ago, Gildo had said that he didn’t need Grato’s apology or pity, but the truth was that Grato had indeed been the leader of the squad and therefore had broken the promise he’d made to his friend. That was a burden he would have to carry on his shoulders for the remainder of his life.

“I’ll just be speaking aloud to myself,” Gildo said after clearing his throat, interrupting Grato’s trip down memory lane. “I shall recalculate the Beast Hunters’ budget and we’ll find a lot of leeway in the accounts. I would also be open to suggesting at our next meeting a budget increase that would give your squad all the dried barracuda you could ever want.”

“That’s a generous soliloquy, but what are you asking in return?”

“How about a nice bottle of red?” he said, sneering. When Grato had had his help before every exam, that was all Gildo would ever ask for—always in the same words and with the same expression.

It brought the slightest pang to Grato. Ever since blacking out that one fateful day, they had drunk together many times afterward. They’d chat about matters serious, silly, and meaningless. They’d always have more to chat, laugh, argue, and fight about, but that all could be washed down with another gulp of the drink. The thought of never being able to clink glasses again with the man he had called his best friend lingered in his heart. “I can feel my wallet getting lighter if it’s to be a bottle of your choice.”

“Your griping sours my red wine, so be quiet and I’ll treat you to your favorite white.”

Seeing Gildo averting his gaze, Grato froze up for the slightest moment before breaking into a broad smile reminiscent of the time when they had still been two youths.

To see her thinking so hard brought Grato to a smile instead of tears. In fact, the campfire was far enough away that it was unthinkable that the smoke would afflict him, yet she had shown genuine concern for him and had accepted his flimsy excuse. She would do better to be more guarded and self-interested, or so he worried, for she always seemed to be so earnest and honest—this magical toolmaker named Dahlia.

With hair red as dawn and eyes green as fresh verdure, she stood firm with dignity, never forming a dependence on others yet always extending a hand to help those who needed it. Forsooth, it was she who was the elegance of summer. It was she who stood as a beacon, bright as a bright sky over those with hearts lost in bleak overcast.

“Thank you for everything so far—and for the future you’ll bring to us, Madam Toolmaker of the Order of Beast Hunters.”

Extra Story: A Father and Daughter’s Magical Tool Invention Diaries—The Voice Caster

“Take a look at these, Dahlia. They change your voice.” From a shelf, Carlo took a pair of magical tools that looked like ordinary chokers and placed them on the workbench. His darling daughter, a magical toolmaker just like himself, examined them with great curiosity; her eyes practically sparkled as she did so.

Carlo put on the black leather choker and said, “Here, like this.” The voice of a wise and majestic elder came out from his lips.

“Father, this is another one of your inventions, right? Is it enchanted with siren hair?” she asked with great interest.

“That’s exactly it. The part made of pure silver in the middle there—that’s been enchanted with a siren’s hair, which means it can change your voice on top of making it louder or softer. The band is horse leather. If needed, you can enchant the choker with more strength, add a metal lock, or enhance it with a ribbon made of monster thread. You can even hide it in the collar of a shirt.” It could change not only the volume but the pitch of the wearer’s voice. Thus, it would be possible for a man to speak with a feminine voice and vice versa. The choker wasn’t particularly difficult to craft either; it might have been a good idea to teach her how earlier, but Carlo had worried for her. It was only today that he had finally decided to walk her through the process.

“They had to kill the siren to get its hair, right?” his daughter asked in a sullen tone as she stared at the accessory.

Carlo returned to the shelf to take out the magically sealed box that contained his stock of siren hair. The golden strands glittered as if the box trapped moonlight. Ten years of lying dormant inside had done little to dull their luster. “See? The siren wasn’t hunted for her hair. She found her way onto a ship at sea, and there, a singer bested her in a singing contest. That’s where this hair is from.”

“A singing contest? You’re kidding me.”

“It’s nothing but the truth, I assure you. When that singer—who, by the way, now manages the Royal Opera House—was still young, he had a voice so beautiful, it could charm the loveliest birds in the meadows.” Carlo had been classmates with the singer in high school. It had always struck him as odd that they’d both studied magical toolmaking, but the singer had always saved everyone in school talent shows by soloing the performances.

“I’d be too scared to even try competing against a siren, knowing that my life would be on the line.”

“No, it was more like friendly sparring. The siren would have taken him as a groom if he had lost, which wouldn’t have been such a bad thing since I’ve heard that the siren was a real bombshell.”

“Father! Must you always be so crass?” Dahlia chided him furiously.

Carlo realized he had been careless; that was an inappropriate comment to make to his teenage daughter. Hoping to find an escape route, he scrambled to put on the red leather choker. “The voice caster can turn your voice into something a little like this as well, Dahlia.”

“Father, you rascal, you!” After the shock of hearing her father speak in a very feminine voice had passed, Dahlia slapped him on the back a few times. He’d thought it was quite a fine voice, but it seemed that she didn’t share the feeling. At the very least, it changed the topic.

That day after dinner, as Carlo was taking some powdered medication, Dahlia called out to him, somewhat troubled. “What is that you’re taking?”

“Just something to settle my stomach. See, I’ve got a party for barons that I have to attend tomorrow...” He strained his face; it must have been infectious, as his daughter was soon wearing the same expression.

“Is it a really big deal?”

“Yeah. There’s lots to worry about with formalities, like how one must compliment a noblewoman when meeting her for the first time. I remember last year, I said to someone that she was very beautiful. Later, I found out from a toolmaking friend that complimenting someone on their physical features was a no-no.”

“That sounds like a big pain. What should you say instead?”

“I think you’re supposed to say something nice about their clothes or accessories, but I could be very wrong. Supposedly, their musicianship or their intelligence are good choices too. But since we don’t really associate with other nobles, what is there to compliment when I’m meeting someone for the first time?”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay? If your stomach hurts that bad, maybe you should just stay home...”

“I don’t have much of a choice. I’m receiving money from my title, so I’ve got to act like a baron from time to time too.” Carlo looked away from his daughter, who seemed terribly worried for him. He coughed; the powder was still clinging to his throat. “I’ll likely be gone for the whole day tomorrow, so why don’t you try making a voice caster all on your own, Dahlia? The written specifications are tucked away in that drawer there. Feel free to use as much siren hair as we have, and we have lots of pure silver as well.”

“It seems a little hard since the tool is so small. I don’t know if I can adjust the voice well either...”

“You can make whatever kind of voice you like. How about the handsomest, most dashing manly man voice?”

“And just what kind of voice is that?!”

He couldn’t help but smile at her little pout. There was something he couldn’t tell her. The voice from the caster he’d put on earlier that afternoon wasn’t just any woman’s voice but her mother, Teresa’s. When Dahlia was still a young child, he had thought that she would’ve liked him to sing her lullabies in her mother’s voice. He’d had that possibility in mind as he made the choker, but no matter what he did, his voice came out hoarse when he sang. That’s why he had stashed the choker at the back of the shelf until today.

There was one more thing he couldn’t tell her. Though it was true that noble etiquette drove him to his wits’ end, there were also many barons of common birth. Most gaffs were simply ignored, and saying someone was beautiful was a one-size-fits-all compliment, meaning that he hadn’t caused any offense in the first place. There were other reasons for him to take medicine for his stomach—reasons that brought him to melancholy when thinking about the future.

The barons’ dinner today was hosted at a duke’s estate. The salon commanded a magnificent view of the flowers from foreign lands blooming in the garden. There were many nobles of higher rank and everyone was gussied up. As the orchestra played in the background, the guests talked amongst themselves.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Carlo.”

“Good to see you’re still kicking, Oz.” Carlo was genuinely pleased to not only see someone he knew but a friend from his schooldays. Though Oswald was younger, they both held the title of baron. However, when Oswald introduced his wife, Carlo panicked for a moment.

“It is my pleasure to meet you. My name is Fiore Zola.”

Carlo had no memory whatsoever of this person with light red hair and pale green eyes; in fact, he vaguely remembered a completely different woman as Oswald’s wife.

Then, with a gentle smile, she clarified, “I am his second wife.” Fiore must have read his thoughts; she may have been young but was still wise and clever. Standing beside her, Oswald had a big cheerful smile.

Carlo didn’t know whether to apologize or to just smile and let it slide. The manuals he had read made no mention of how to deal with this kind of situation. Carlo whispered a quiet “Good for you” into his friend’s ear and gave him a big clap on the back.

A sudden voice came from behind. “There you are, Carlo. There’s someone who wants to talk to you about your hot water dispensers. Sorry to interrupt, Oswald, but allow me to borrow him for a second.”

“By all means. I hope you have a good time here today, Carlo and Mr. Jedda.”

After Oswald’s graceful, noble-like valediction, the two other men set off on their own. It was Leone Jedda—a viscount and the guildmaster of the Merchants’ Guild—who had whisked Carlo away. Though both those titles carried a lot of weight, he and Carlo were schoolmates as well, and so Leone didn’t mind his casual address.

“You seem to be keeping busy, Leone.”

“You can say that again. Ever since I became guildmaster, I haven’t had enough time for my Gabriella.” Leone would bring up his dear wife whenever he had the chance to do so, but Carlo kept his sarcastic remarks to himself. He knew better than to bring up Gabriella in any shape or form as Leone could spend all night talking about her.

“There you are, Lord Rossetti. I was just thinking how wonderful your new hot water dispenser is with the increased capacity.”

“Thank you very much for your kind words.”

The familiar-looking chairman had a friendly smile. If Carlo remembered correctly, he was a viscount. All of his water dispensers were sold through his good friend’s business, the Orlando & Co., and it seemed that the viscount was a customer as well.

“I think it would be very handy to have an even larger version. Do you think that would be possible?” It was a common suggestion, but Carlo had no desire to make them any bigger. “A big tank that could hold enough hot water for a communal bath would be just ideal for me.”

“That would indeed be possible, but with the greater size comes greater safety risks. It would be better to have multiple units for your use case.”

Though Carlo had feigned concern, Leone followed up without missing a beat. “The Merchants’ Guild has plenty in stock and we are waiting for your business.”

After that, their conversation moved away from the topic of the dispensers and on to popular shops in the capital and best-selling magical tools. The guildmaster had to attend to other nobles, so he soon said his goodbyes and headed to where he was summoned. That left Carlo to go to a server nearby for a drink to cure his thirst.

“Are you perhaps Lord Rossetti? It is an honor to meet you.” The young noblewoman introduced herself as the daughter of a baron. For a lady attending a barons’ party like this, she had on a very low-cut dress that was perhaps too good for the eyes of men. Not to mention, Carlo hadn’t even introduced himself as Rossetti yet. As they chatted about such harmless topics as magical tools and so on, she abruptly grasped his jacket with her pale, gloveless hand. “Lord Carlo, I’d love to get to know you and your tools a little deeper...”

As beautiful as she was, the way she suddenly called out his name in such a sultry voice sent shivers down his spine. If he were ten or even twenty years younger, he might have fallen for her moves. But thinking about that only brought his late ex-wife’s smile into his mind; his ruefulness ran too deep. “Forgive me, but the alcohol is getting to me and I’m feeling rather ill. Please let me excuse myself.”

“In that case, allow me to look after—”

“No, I’m really not feeling great.” He pressed his hand to his mouth and quickly stepped away from the scene. Thankfully, she didn’t go after him.

The stalls in the duke’s bathroom were by no means cramped. There was not a single foul odor; in fact, one might even have said it smelled rather nice inside thanks to a boulder-sized bouquet of flowers. Against the wall was a luxurious black leather armchair that allowed the occupant to adjust his shoes.

Carlo took a seat and loosened his necktie before heaving a sigh, thinking about both the young noblewoman’s eyes and the chairman’s. Those eyes had hardly seen him at all; they had no interest in his looks, personality, or social standing. They had been fixed on one thing only—his skills as a magical toolmaker. More accurately, the people behind those eyes lusted after his skills. Carlo mumbled aloud to no one in particular, “He never forgets, does he?”

The first time he had gotten in touch was when Carlo had made the water cannon. His invention was designed to clean exterior walls with a powerful jet of water, but the whole Magical Tool Research Group had gotten carried away and maxed the output on the thing. As if they hadn’t already overdone it enough, they’d fired it at the school building and punched a hole straight through. The consequences were worse than they’d anticipated—as was the ire of their teachers.

Some of the older students in their research circle were from noble backgrounds and had more than enough to cover the damages done, but it was surprising that none of them were suspended from school. The following month, Carlo was called into the deputy headmaster’s office as the primary contributor to the invention. As he prepared himself for a late (but well-deserved) scolding, he opened the door to find someone else in the office.

It was a man in a black three-piece suit with leather shoes polished all too perfectly. His skin was so fair that there was no doubt he was from the nobility. He smiled like a doll. “Master Carlo Rossetti, how would you like to work in the castle and serve the kingdom as a magical toolmaker?”

Carlo had not expected a scout from the castle. What the man offered would be a dream job for many of Carlo’s classmates.

The man added, “I promise very reasonable remuneration and excellent conditions.” His words were very polite and the tone of his voice was very kind. However, the eyes that stared back at Carlo were a serpent’s—cold and, presumably, cold-blooded.

Carlo refused on the spot, nervously claiming that he had plans to succeed his father in business and to make tools for the common people. He added that his grades were far from good and that he wasn’t fit to work at the castle.

The man showed nary a sign that he’d taken offense or felt regret at Carlo’s response and said matter-of-factly, “Master Rossetti, please contact me if you ever change your mind. I shall see you again.”

Carlo then left the room and—he remembered distinctly—began sweating profusely. By the time he was home, he remained just as rattled. He was afraid that he’d brought trouble to his parents, so he had a talk with his father.

After hearing the story, Carlo’s father said, “Probably something to do with weapons or intelligence. I’m sure they’d treat you well there. You have one question to ask yourself: are those the kinds of magical tools you want to make?”

“No way. The things I want to make are for everyday life, things that will bring a smile to the people who use them.”

His second instant refusal of the day brought a big smile to his father’s face. He clapped Carlo on the shoulder. “That’s exactly how I answered him too.”

The next time Carlo met the man wasn’t long after he’d created the voice caster. It was a tool made for his mentor Professor Lina, whose voice had been getting hoarser over the years. It was to get a few chuckles out of her and his other friends that he’d added the option to change one’s voice—something that Carlo hadn’t given much thought afterward. However, upon Lina’s suggestion, Carlo ultimately put the voice caster on the market as a device for people who had lost their voices to illness.

The following month, and though Carlo had already graduated, he was called to the headmaster’s office for whatever odd reason. Professor Lina brought him there with her face terribly pale. As they walked silently down the hall, she flashed her palm at him for only a brief moment; marked on it was a single word: refuse. Carlo had a bad feeling about this, and his instinct proved to be right on the mark as the man was waiting inside.

“Your voice caster is quite the magnificent piece. I will accept whatever compensation or conditions you ask for your services. You may work wherever you wish if the castle is not to your liking; all I ask is that you tell me where you will do so. Won’t you work as a magical toolmaker for the kingdom?” His polite words were just as cacophonous as before and his gaze was no less icy.

After thanking him for his compliment, Carlo pulled no punches and answered him outright. “I cannot make tools that might be used to hurt others.”

The man’s facade broke and his smile disappeared. What was left seemed to be the face of an extremely controlling man. “Mr. Rossetti, I shall see you again.” His farewell was nearly identical to the one he’d offered the previous month; the only change was to Carlo’s title.

Another few years passed. In that time, the only jobs Carlo undertook directly from the castle were to service or repair their large hot water dispensers. However, there came an occasion on which he received an order of a different kind. The foundation had been constructed by the castle’s toolmakers, not him, but he took a contract from the Merchants’ Guild to apply a sköll fang enchantment to it to prevent overheating. That was all there was to the job. He did not meet with the man that time, which led Carlo to feel relieved; the man must’ve forgotten about him.

However, since a while before that, Carlo had been consulting other toolmakers on the development of water dispensers that could output large volumes at a high temperature, and that hadn’t been for nobles either. Leone worried for him, saying that perhaps Carlo was taking jobs that didn’t sit well with him. The first thing that came to mind was Dahlia. The second thing was the man.

Though both inventions were under his name, the dryer and the hot water dispensers were magical tools born from Dahlia’s ideas. Not only that, but her experiments with waterproof cloth had been successful. It only required a little bit more fine-tuning before it could be sent off to the Merchants’ Guild for registration. It was a promising invention that seemed to be very useful and applicable to many different situations.

Dahlia was very talented as both a magical toolmaker and an inventor, and that meant danger. When she was still very young, Dahlia had drawn metal birds that flew in the air, ships that dashed across oceans, horseless carriages that carried people over land—all fairy-tale devices that had tickled Carlo. With some difficulty but in great detail, she had described how those vehicles worked.

He couldn’t help but think it curious, and so he’d asked from whom she had learned about those things. It shocked Carlo when she’d answered with a big smile that they were things from the world in which she’d lived prior to her rebirth in this one.

Heaven-blessed—that was the term they used in this kingdom to describe child prodigies and people with unparalleled talent. Was Dahlia from the heavens or a dreamlike world? Carlo had no doubt about what she had said, but he couldn’t say that others would be as trusting if they were to learn about it. Others would cast judgment on her, talk behind her back, or worse—her talent would make her a target.

Carlo had made her promise that she’d never tell anyone else and had advised her to forget about it all. And after that, Dahlia had never spoken about the subject again. He prayed it was nothing more than a simple case of fanciful imagination of the kind that children so often had, and he had sealed those memories away.

After Dahlia graduated school, her talents began to bloom in full. Carlo wanted nothing to get in the way of that, not as her father nor her mentor in toolmaking. But the possibility was never far from the forefront of his mind that the man would tempt her as he had Carlo’s father and himself. Today, the day of the party, was one of those days that the thought plagued him.

Carlo made his way to the salon to look for his toolmaking pals and to say goodbye to them. After explaining that he had another obligation after the party, he hightailed it out of the estate for the Orlando & Co. building. Inside, Carlo’s close friend caught a glimpse of him and immediately wrapped up his work. The two men headed to their watering hole and into a private room, and Carlo began to grumble about his problems and get his friend’s advice. The hair dryer, the hot water dispenser, the voice caster—they were all inventions that could be manipulated for maleficent purposes. But magical tools should serve to improve the lives of people, Carlo reasoned.

His friend replied, “Carlo, the purpose of a tool is determined by the hand that wields it. The big knife that guts fish has a blade much like that of the small dagger that pierces a person through the heart, and the intent behind a tool’s creation does not always define how it is used.”

It took quite some time for Carlo to come up with anything to say. His friend was right on the mark.

His friend refilled his glass. “You’re a bad drunk. Don’t think too hard about what happened today. Instead, focus on what you can do from now on. If anything happens, you know where to find me,” he said to reassure him. Carlo then washed down his anxiety with another mouthful of drink.

Carlo didn’t get back to the Green Tower until after midnight. All the lights were off; Dahlia must already have been sleeping. He’d had very much to drink but didn’t feel very much drunk. Oh well. No choice but to dig out that expensive bottle of red hidden in the workshop and pour a beaker of it.

My worries were simply the result of having too much to drink. There was no logical reason to be so anxious. The men from the castle probably ask everyone the same question, so my case wasn’t special. I’ll be able to spend the rest of my days with Dahlia, quietly and uneventfully, he tried convincing himself. He realized his fists were clenched tightly.

Quiet and uneventful days—Carlo knew that to be a sickening lie. Behind all of Dahlia’s different smiles was the red-haired beauty who had been Carlo’s wife. Happily together forever and ever, she’d once said, but, lost for words, laugh was all he could do. Teresa had then responded by laughing in exactly the same manner. With her at his side, the appeal of money, titles, and reputation had paled. There was nothing else that he needed as long as he had Teresa.

But before long, she had slipped away like a fistful of sand. His wife had been wrenched away from him, and he couldn’t let that happen with Dahlia too. He would give everything he had to fight against that.

Neither he nor Dahlia made tools that could hurt others. Whatever they crafted, they had in mind the goal of making everyday life more convenient. They created tools that made others happy. Even if the forces arrayed against him were too strong and would sweep him away, he must protect his daughter. The intelligence agency, or high-ranking nobles, or—hell—even the royals would have Dahlia for nefarious reasons.

If there was one fortunate thing, it was that he was blessed with good friends. “I’ll leave her in everyone’s care...” he mumbled to himself, reaffirming his conviction. Even if, standing alone, he lacked strength, the combined power of his friends would surely keep Dahlia safe. There was so much that his own clumsy hands couldn’t do for Dahlia. There was so much left to teach Dahlia. That was why he had been stealthily making everyone his debtors in exchange for one promise: to help Dahlia out if she ever needed it.

As many people as he had asked, not one had refused. And Carlo decided to keep at it in secret. He’d made sure that if anything were to happen to him, there would be many hands extended to Dahlia in his stead. If one person wasn’t enough, then two, four, or eight people together could stand as her shield. Carlo knew all too well that it was a very selfish demand to make of his friends. It would be good if his unfounded worry were to pass. It would be better if nothing were to happen. It would be best if Dahlia never learned of the arrangements he’d made.

“Welcome home—father! You’re still drinking?!” It seemed that Dahlia had rushed down the steps as soon as she’d woken from her sleep. “You reek of alcohol... You’re drinking too much again! Haven’t I told you not to drink at home if you’ve been out drinking already?!”

There was just something about the way she was chiding him that reminded Carlo of Teresa, and it certainly stung. Dahlia’s tone and words were less like his wife’s and more so like those of Sofia, the maid who had worked for them. He was loath to admit it, but she also gave off the impression of his own mother.

“Oh, but the moon is so beautiful tonight. It just made me want another sip.” The perfect semicircle glowed a cold white outside the window—something Carlo hadn’t even noticed until just now when he was scrambling for an excuse.

But his daughter paid him no mind. She grabbed the bottle from the table. “You can have just what is in the beaker, then, and no more. I’ll be using the rest for stew!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on! That’s a really nice bottle of wine there and a perfect partner with whom to appreciate the moon...”

“Then I’ll have one glass as I stare at the damn thing too. The rest goes in the stew!”

“Hey, Dahlia? If you think about it, it’s going down the same hatch and coming out the same way. Why split hairs between drinking and eating the wine?”

“Yeah. Freakin’. Right.”

And just like that, the slightly expensive bottle of wine had been confiscated. Tomorrow’s stew should be quite fancy, then. Carlo sat there, heartbroken, as Dahlia ran upstairs to stash away the bottle. Before long, she ran back down to him. She had turned the bottle of wine into a pitcher of water. Carlo felt ashamed to have his own daughter, knowing that he had drunk too much, bring him medicine to prevent a hangover.

Ashamed as he was, though, he realized that Dahlia was a very levelheaded person. Even if the man came a-knocking in the future, Carlo had no doubt that she’d give a decisive no, and maybe it’d all blow over. She was kind but strong-willed, so there was nothing to worry about; it turned out that he really had just had too much to drink, he supposed.

“Not bad, huh?” A voice—not Dahlia’s—came from out of the blue. It was a man’s voice, slightly affected and oddly familiar. Carlo looked up to see his daughter with a big, bright smile and a voice caster around her neck. The leather was different in color than either of his casters, giving it away as the copy she had made today. “Doesn’t it sound just like you, father?”

Now that she mentioned it, he realized that he hadn’t recognized the voice because he didn’t know what he sounded like to others. It was obvious that Dahlia was even impersonating his intonation and mannerisms. Carlo swiftly slapped one of the casters around his own neck and replied in Teresa’s voice and tone, “Very well done, Magical Toolmaker Rossetti.”

Dahlia, with the choker still on, burst out laughing, and he did too. How funny it was to finally hear those two voices laugh together in the workshop—so funny, it brought tears to his eyes.

For her first go at a voice caster, Dahlia had done rather well. But her laughter was sweetest in nobody’s voice but her own. Carlo did not pray aloud either in his altered voice or in his own but silently to himself: May my daughter live a life with few tears and much laughter. He unclasped the voice caster and gingerly tucked it away in a drawer.