NOVEL NEXT Chapter 55.6: Do you eat food?
He shouldn't have cared about the stupid pouch-shaped object. A silken wrapping with copper threads was nothing compared to the looming threat of Severa Montreal deciding he was her project for the day. Instead, he stared at it, and now he was being roped along like an inattentive fish that had mistaken a lure for drifting algae.
By the time he registered how far he'd been led, they were already outside of the Synod. And he was still staring at that stupid pouch.
Why was she carrying it like that, balanced perfectly in both hands as though it were too important to pocket? Was it dangerous? Fragile? Was it food?
Come to think of it, I've never seen Severa eat food before.
Fabrisse had always wondered what posh upperclass people like her actually ate. Maybe they didn't. Maybe the whole noble-caste stomach was vestigial, a rumor that commoners were meant to swallow. That would explain the posture—straight spines powered by smug caloric intake.
Just then, he realized: he shouldn't leave the Synod. He didn't even leave the campus ground yesterday and still had to bring along a certified Magus with him for safety measures. Suddenly, the space around him looked as though it could rupture at any moment, like the void itself was waiting just beyond the lampposts, ready to lunge at him the instant he stepped too far from sanctioned stonework.
The road outside seemed thinner than it had a second ago, its cobblestones no longer solid but brittle. His footsteps slowed on the pale flagstone road lined by iron lamp-posts and sycamores whose branches bent inside like gossiping clerks. Severa was still walking ahead, toward one of the sleeker black-lacquered vehicles hitched to a spotless bay mare.
"I shouldn't go," he blurted, his voice carrying farther than intended. "I'm not supposed to leave without clearance."
Severa turned her head just enough to regard him. "If you succeed with this grain analysis, Kestovar, I will pay you two thousand Kohns."
"T-two thousands?" That was like two weeks' worth of instructant pay! For a single analysis?
Her eyes narrowed. "Two low?"
"I mean—"
Before he could protest, she waved her free hand. "Then make it three."
He couldn't believe his ears. Three thousand Kohns. A single morning, and he would be able to pay off over ten percent of his tuition.
It should be fine, right? He was walking alongside the best Magus-Student in years. He should be safe.
The mare tossed his head once as Severa reached the carriage. The vehicle's surface glittered in the light, lacquered black so smoothly it reflected the sycamore branches above. And of course she had her own driver—an older man in a crisp dark coat and a posture almost as rigid as Severa's. The driver didn't so much as glance down at their approach.
Severa, without pausing, placed her hand on the carriage door. "After you."
His stomach twisted. Getting inside meant committing. But three thousand Kohns . . . Severa could be many things, but he'd never heard about her being a liar.
He climbed in. The interior smelled of cedar polish and some crisp floral oil that was probably imported at scandalous expense. Cushioned seats faced each other in the narrow cabin, and he sank into the one opposite Severa, trying to fold himself as small as possible.
The driver whistled, the mare responded, and the carriage lurched forward with smooth precision. Fabrisse clutched his knees, bracing against the movement, and tried not to look—
—but the rustle drew his eyes immediately. The pouch shifted as Severa settled it on her lap. Every sound needled at his attention.
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Of course she noticed.
"You've been staring at that for a while now, Kestovar," Severa said.
He blurted out, against his better judgment, "Do you . . . eat food?"
"Eat?"
"Uh, yes. Food."
Her eyes narrowed. "Are you mocking me?"
"What? No. It's a legitimate question. Some people have . . . regimens."
She gave him a slow, assessing look, the kind you'd give a suspiciously-shaped cake before deciding whether to cut into it. "Do you think I eat food?"
"Uh . . ."
She exhaled, long-suffering, and adjusted the pouch on her lap as though it were a relic rather than fabric. "These are the morning droplets from the last Euralei bloom on Mount Cravorre," she said evenly. "Condensed at dawn, carried down the slope by attendants sworn to silence, and rationed by the spoonful."
"That's . . . that's what you eat?"
That was either the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard, or a real alchemical regimen that only people like her had access to. That cannot be true, right? But . . . she isn't the type to joke around.
She didn't smile; didn't laugh; didn't anything.
Which meant he had no choice but to believe it. Or at least believe that it could be true.
The carriage wheels kept rolling as they fell into silence. Fabrisse had almost convinced himself not to think about droplets, blooms, or spoonfuls when another rhythm cut in—hard and urgent hoofbeats, closing from behind.
"Severa!"
Severa unhurriedly drew back the velvet curtain.
A rider pulled up alongside. The horse was a narrow-chested black roan, but it was the woman astride it who commanded attention. It was her mentor, Affar Rubidi, with a nose like a blade, eyes that glared bright and pitiless beneath the sweep of her dark hair. Even the tight pull of her mouth seemed to forbid softness.
"Have you given thought to what I said?" she demanded, her voice carrying over the clatter of hooves. "You must understand that some . . . concession has to be made if you were to seize power—" Then the rider's gaze slid past her, into the carriage, straight at Fabrisse. The rest of the sentence vanished, cut clean from her tongue.
Concession? Whatever they were talking about, he had no context for it, and therefore no foothold. 'Concession' could mean a food stall. It could mean a tax exemption. It could mean giving up something you really wanted in exchange for something you didn't. Best if he didn't overthink it like he did with Severa's pouch.
Rubidi's stare pinned him for three long seconds, sharp enough that Fabrisse wondered if she was trying to read through his skull rather than his face. Her stare carved into him, clean and merciless, as though she were already dissecting the sum of his worth. The cabin seemed to shrink around that gaze, each rattle of the wheels snapping like a struck nerve. Even Severa's composure looked thinner in its path.
Then, as abruptly as if someone had closed a book, she turned back to Severa.
"We will speak once you have time," she said, and without another glance, drew the reins. The roan surged ahead, and her figure shrunk down the road until the clip of hooves faded into the clatter of the carriage wheels.
She hadn't even acknowledged him.
Only when the roan surged ahead did the pressure ease, leaving the air ragged in her wake.
What was that? Why did she stare at me like that?
By the time the road leveled again, they had crossed into Ayburn Borough, a district Fabrisse had only ever heard about in passing, spoken of with the same mixture of envy and irritation that his classmates reserved for noble privilege. The difference was immediate: streets widened into smooth lanes, lined with gaslamps of wrought bronze rather than plain iron, and the houses no longer leaned or jostled for space but stood apart in orderly rows, white façades gleaming, windows curtained in silk. The entire borough was probably arranged like a showroom to demonstrate what wealth could buy.
And Severa belonged here. He knew it with absolution.
The realization made his throat dry, but he forced out the question anyway. "Are you sure I'll be here for aetheric grain analysis?"
Her eyes didn't move from the window. "Is there any way to misinterpret what I asked of you?"
"No, but . . ." He gripped his knees tighter. You literally just said rocks are a waste of time yesterday. What changed?
Severa's reflection in the window faded with the turn of her head. For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer at all. Then her voice came heavy, as though dragged from her against instinct, "I know what I said yesterday, Kestovar. Consider this your chance to prove me wrong."
He wanted to think he didn't need to prove anything to Severa, but . . . he did. He had to prove it to her; to Hajin Min; to himself, that he was ready for the next step up.
He could, and would, conduct the grain analysis.