The guards at the manor's entrance snapped to attention as we approached, their synchronized movements carrying the precision of machines built for war.

  Sweat still clung to my skin from the training yard's exertions, and Ragna walked beside me with the loose-limbed swagger of someone who'd just discovered new ways to break things. Borric trailed behind, muttering calculations under his breath about contract mechanics and theoretical applications. The man had found his calling.

  "Look at that," Ragna pointed ahead with the tip of her club. "I think someone's waiting for us?"

  “Hmm?”

  An elderly woman stood in the manor's foyer, her posture so rigid it could have been forged in the same foundries that produced the Marquis's weaponry. She wore smooth, black silks, and her silver hair was pulled back so severely it seemed to stretch her face into a perpetual expression of disapproval.

  Gray eyes, sharp as winter wind, tracked our approach with the clinical assessment of a battlefield surgeon examining wounds. What’s up with her?

  "Ah," Borric straightened his shoulders, recognizing quality when he saw it. "A professional."

  The woman's gaze lingered on Ragna's travel-stained clothes, catalogued the casual way I held myself, then dismissed us both with her brows. When she spoke, her voice carried the authority of someone who'd spent decades correcting the behavior of people far more important than us.

  "Good evening,” she said. “I am Lady Cordelia Blackthorne, formerly of the Royal Academy of Manners in Solstara. His Lordship Marius has graciously retained my services to provide you with essential instruction in proper comportment.”

  Ragna tilted her head, confusion creasing her features. "Comport-what now?"

  "Comportment," the woman repeated, cold as ice. "The art of conducting oneself with dignity and grace befitting one's station. Though I suspect we shall need to begin with fundamentals far more basic than I am accustomed to teaching. Such as how you must bow when meeting a person of higher stature.”

  The insult was as gentle as a stiletto between ribs. Ragna's grip tightened on her club, knuckles whitening.

  "Is Isolde’s uncle calling us uncivilized?" She turned to me, eyes blazing with the particular fury that preceded memorable violence. "Thorvyn, I'm going to fight that bastard!"

  I placed a restraining hand on her arm, feeling the coiled tension in her muscles. "Easy. Let's see what this is about first."

  But my own jaw had tightened at the casual dismissal, the assumption that we were crude clay waiting to be shaped by superior hands. The philosopher in me appreciated the elegant brutality of the slight I suppose, using education as a weapon was far more sophisticated than simple insults.

  But…

  How dare he?

  Lady Blackthorne gestured toward an ornate dining room where a table had been set with enough silverware to outfit a small army. Crystal glasses caught the afternoon light, creating rainbow patterns across white linen. It was beautiful, intimidating, and utterly impractical.

  "Gather here. We shall begin with proper table manners," she announced, taking her position at the table's head like a general surveying a battlefield. "The foundation of civilization rests upon one's ability to conduct oneself appropriately during formal dining."

  The foundation of civilization, I thought, rests upon people not starving to death. But please, tell us more about fork placement.

  Ragna plopped down in the nearest chair with characteristic disregard for ceremony. The ornate furniture groaned under her weight as she leaned back, arms crossed.

  "This is stupid. Food goes in mouth, mouth chews, belly gets full. What else matters?"

  "Crude. Everything else matters," Lady Blackthorne replied, her tone suggesting Ragna had just questioned the existence of the sun. "Proper etiquette separates us from beasts. It demonstrates refinement, breeding, intelligence."

  "No it doesn't," I said quietly.

  The tutor's attention snapped to me like a hawk spotting movement in tall grass. "I beg your pardon?"

  Oh shit, did I say that out loud? Well, too late. I gestured to the elaborate place setting. "This demonstrates wealth. Possibly leisure time. But intelligence? A farmer who can read soil conditions, predict weather patterns, and manage crop rotations while feeding his family on scraps shows far more intelligence than someone who's memorized which fork to use for fish."

  "The fish fork serves a specific purpose–"

  "Does it?" I leaned forward, genuinely curious now. "You say the fish fork is for fish. But what is the essence of 'fork-ness'? Is an object defined by its purpose or its form?"

  “....”

  “....”

  Ragna and Borric stared at me in silence.

  Lady Blackthorne blinked, clearly not expecting philosophical interrogation in a table of barbarians. "I… Well, the fish fork is designed specifically for–"

  "But if I eat fish with my hands, do my hands become the fork? If I use the fish fork to eat meat, does it cease to be a fish fork? Where exactly does the 'fish' quality reside? In the metal? In the intention of the smith who forged it? In your designation of its purpose?"

  Borric was making soft choking sounds, trying not to laugh into his tea. Ragna watched the exchange with a grin, with the growing fascination, like a little girl just discovering that words could be weapons more devastating than clubs.

  "The fork's design–" Lady Blackthorne began again.

  "Ah, design. So we're discussing aesthetics now. The relationship between form and function." I picked up one of the delicate implements, turning it over in my callused fingers. "This fork has three tines. The dinner fork has four. Why? What civilized principle determines the ideal number of tines for consuming aquatic versus terrestrial protein?"

  The woman's face was beginning to flush by now. "There are established traditions!!”

  I gave her a confused look. "Established by whom? What authority granted them the power to determine universal truths about cutlery? Are these traditions inherently superior to, say, eating with chopsticks from the Eastern Continent? Or are we simply imposing arbitrary cultural preferences and calling them natural law?"

  "You're being deliberately obtuse, you barbarian!"

  "Am I? Or am I applying rational inquiry to received wisdom?" I smiled, and I knew it wasn't a nice smile. "We may be from a small tribe from the Volcanic Islands, but my ancestors encouraged us to question everything, including things that seemed obviously true. Unlike yours, who taught you fork values. Tell me, is the unexamined fork not worth using?"

  Lady Blackthorne's composure cracked. "This is absurd! A fish fork is for fish because that is how civilized people behave!"

  I laughed out loud and made sure it sounded just enough insulting. "Circular reasoning. You define civilization by these behaviors, then claim these behaviors are necessary for civilization." I set the fork down with exaggerated care. "But let's move beyond cutlery. You mentioned bowing earlier as a sign of respect."

  "Of course bowing shows respect–"

  "Does it? Is bowing inherently respectful, or is it a symbolic gesture that only carries meaning within specific cultural contexts? If bowing demonstrates respect, would a deeper bow show greater respect?"

  I stood up, executing a shallow bow that barely bent my spine. "Is this respectful?"

  Then I bent further, my torso parallel to the floor. "More respectful?"

  Finally, I folded myself nearly in half, my head between my knees. "Ultimate respect? Or have I become a fool performing meaningless contortions?"

  "This is–!!”

  "And what about duration? A quick bow versus a sustained bow? Should I bow until you acknowledge it? Should we bow simultaneously? What if we create a bowing loop where we keep bowing back and forth, each trying to show greater respect than the other?"

  I straightened up, noting with satisfaction that Lady Blackthorne's left eye had developed a slight twitch.

  Oh, how I missed acting like this.

  "Furthermore, what about cultural relativity?” I continued. “In some cultures, direct eye contact shows respect. Or so I heard. In others, it's considered aggressive. Whose definition of respect takes precedence? Do we follow local customs or maintain our own cultural practices? What happens when respectful behavior in one context becomes disrespectful in another?"

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  "You're…! This isn't–" She took a deep breath, clearly struggling to regain control. "These questions are irrelevant to proper comportment!"

  "Are they? Or are they the foundation upon which all social conventions rest?" I sat back down, folding my hands with mock precision. "If we cannot justify our behaviors through reason, are we not simply following empty rituals? Dancing elaborate performances that signify nothing beyond our own conformity?"

  Ragna had long gone from furious to delighted, a massive wide smile on her face as she watched Lady Blackthorne's growing distress with unconcealed glee. Borric had given up all pretense of restraint and was chuckling openly.

  "Moreover," I continued relentlessly, "you claim these practices demonstrate intelligence and refinement. But what kind of intelligence is required to memorize arbitrary rules? Is this knowledge or mere repetition? A parrot can be taught to mimic complex sounds, but we don't consider parrots particularly intelligent."

  "Now see here–"

  "I am seeing,” it was about then that my tone grew harsher. “I'm seeing someone who has confused memorization with understanding, who's mistaken social conventions for natural law. Tell me, Lady Blackthorne, what is the philosophical basis for the claim that one method of consuming food is inherently superior to another?"

  The woman's hands were trembling now, her voice rising in pitch. "Because it separates us from animals!"

  "Does it? Animals follow instinct. Humans follow learned behaviors. But both are following patterns determined by forces beyond their immediate control. Is following complex social programming inherently more noble than following biological programming?"

  I gestured to the elaborate table setting. "Furthermore, this ritualized dining requires enormous resources, does it not? Specialized tools, specific foods, leisure time to learn and perform the rituals. Is behavior that's only accessible to the wealthy truly a mark of superior character? Or is it simply another form of exclusion? Is that truly what the term ‘noble’ entails?"

  "You're twisting everything–"

  "Am I twisting, or am I examining? Ask yourself. What's the difference between innocent inquiry of a dumb barbarian and deliberate distortion? How would you distinguish between the two? What criteria would you use?"

  Lady Blackthorne stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "This is intolerable! I was hired to teach manners, not to endure... this assault on common decency!"

  "Ah, but what makes decency 'common'? If it's truly common, why does it require special instruction? And what authority determines which behaviors are decent versus indecent? Are these determinations universal, or are they–"

  "ENOUGH!" The woman's composure shattered completely. She was actually trembling with rage. "I refuse to subject myself to this... this barbaric mockery of intellectual discourse!"

  She gathered her materials with shaking hands, muttering under her breath about the collapse of civilization and the impossibility of teaching philosophy to savages.

  "Lady Blackthorne," I called as she stalked toward the door, failing to hide a grin. "One final question. If these rules are so important, so fundamental to human dignity, why can't they withstand basic logical examination?"

  She whirled around, face flushed with anger and humiliation. "Because some things are sacred! Some things are beyond question!"

  "Now that," I said softly, "is the most honest thing you've said all afternoon.”

  The old lady glared at me. Then the door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the crystal glasses.

  Ragna erupted in delighted laughter. "That was incredible! You beat her up without throwing a single punch!"

  Borric wiped tears from his eyes. "I've seen merchants destroy competitors in negotiations, but that was... that was art."

  It felt good to hear the praises, and I was glad they felt better after the Marquis had tried to insult us like this. I picked up one of the grapes Lady Blackthorne had arranged as a demonstration of proper fruit consumption. Instead of the knife and fork method she'd tried to teach Ragna, I simply popped it in my mouth.

  "Sometimes the most devastating weapon is a simple question," I said. "Though I suspect Marius won't find it nearly as amusing as you two did."

  ****

  The evening air carried the perfume of night-blooming jasmine, sweet and cloying in the gathering dusk. I'd intended this walk as a moment of solitude, a chance to process the day's events and plan our next moves. The excessively philosophical demolition of Lady Blackthorne had been satisfying, but it was also a declaration of war against Marius's attempts to reshape us.

  The garden paths wound between perfectly manicured hedges, with the leaves trimmed to mathematical precision. Even in the fading light, the obsessive control was evident.

  Not a single branch grew where it wasn't supposed to, not a flower bloomed without permission.

  The soft snip of shears echoed through the twilight.

  [6th Ascension]

  Oh no. I’d walked too far. Those words floated above that man's head. I could have changed direction and found another path through this maze of imposed order. But wouldn't that be too awkward now?

  Plus the barbarian body rebelled against the idea of retreating, of allowing this man to dictate even my evening stroll through his territory.

  Marquis Marius knelt beside a rose bush, his silver shears catching the last rays of sunlight as he worked. The roses were already perfect – full blooms in precise arrangements of red and white. But he continued cutting, removing healthy growth with clinical precision.

  "You see. The secret to a perfect garden, Thorvyn Valteria," he said without looking up, somehow sensing my approach despite my attempt at stealth, "is control. One must know precisely which branch to cut to encourage growth, and which to remove entirely to protect the health of the whole."

  I stopped a few paces away, noting how his hands never trembled despite the delicate work. Every single cut was intentional and final.

  "A wild rose is beautiful, perhaps," he continued, finally rising to face me. His gray eyes reflected the dying light like polished steel. "But it is ultimately useless. It chokes out its neighbors in its selfish pursuit of the sun."

  Was I getting that philosophical debate that ended before it could start last time?

  What a day.

  "Some might say it's just trying to live," I replied. "The way it knows how."

  He snipped another branch with a final, satisfying click, the sound sharp in the evening quiet. "How philosophical. I heard quite the report from Lady Blackthorne about your... discourse on etiquette. It seems the reports of your unusual nature weren't exaggerated."

  "She seemed upset."

  "Oh, she was livid." His smile was winter-cold. "Apparently you reduced her life's work to meaningless ritual through relentless questioning. Quite the performance, from what I understand."

  “I stand by what I said. People should be allowed to be free.”

  He studied me with those calculating eyes, and I felt like a specimen under glass. "And that is the essential difference between a barbarian and a king. You see the struggle of the one. I see the prosperity of the many,” he paused. “Valtor thought that way too, once. Passion. Freedom. The sea as a mistress. Look where it led him.”

  “Out of this country?”

  “He sails the sea as a pirate now,” he didn’t elaborate after that, but I caught the flicker in his eyes. I’d only heard Isolde’s version of her eldest brother on the road, a loyal son turned into a monster, but their uncle seemed to think he was destined to fail.

  The words carried weight beyond their surface meaning. This wasn't casual conversation, indeed. It was a philosophical challenge, a test of ideologies as much as intellects.

  "Isolde is a rare bloom, she really is," he continued, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "One that could bring beauty and stability to this entire nation for a generation. She cannot be left to grow wild. She requires... careful cultivation."

  There it is. The possessive undercurrent I'd sensed from the beginning, dressed in the language of noble purpose. I kept my expression neutral, but my muscles tensed slightly.

  "You mean a cage," I said. "A very beautiful, very comfortable cage."

  His cold smile deepened. "No? I mean guidance. Protection. She has the passion of the Thalasson bloodline, but it is untempered. Like a fine sword that has been forged but not yet sharpened."

  He gestured toward the manor, where warm light spilled from windows. "Her time with you... it has been a necessary trial, perhaps. It has shown her the chaos that threatens our world. Now, it is time for her to learn the art of order. As the soon to be queen, she should be learning how to lead an army.”

  I let my gaze wander over his perfect garden, noting how even the seemingly natural areas followed hidden patterns. "The order you've built here is impressive. The soldiers, the city... even the sick seem grateful to you. It's a perfect picture."

  "Perfection is not a gift, barbarian." His voice carried the weight of absolute conviction. "It is an achievement, won through sacrifice and difficult choices. The very choices I am preparing her to make."

  “I see,” I took a bold step next. “You called her the soon to be queen, which is making me wonder... who do you see as the king sitting beside her?”

  He took a step closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne. It wasn't unusual that a magical world had scent of this quality, I was as impressed. His was something expensive and subtle that probably cost more than most people earned in a year.

  "I noticed that you noticed. You have very good eyes. But..." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "My feelings are my feelings. I don't know what you think of me, but a person can't be either only evil nor only good. I will present a choice to her, but even if she doesn't accept, I'll aid her regardless.”

  Interesting. An admission of complexity, or a deflection from uncomfortable truths? I studied his face, looking for tells, for cracks in the facade.

  "Man. I have nothing to say about the latter parts," I replied, "but the thing about perfect pictures is that you have to stand very still to be in them. Isolde wasn't made to stand still. Neither was Ragna. Neither am I. As for Borric? He's broken out of it. Isolde's time with a group like ours hadn't been a trial. It was a blessing.”

  He moved closer still, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur that somehow made his words more threatening than any shout.

  "Every man believes he is the hero of his own story. The wild stallion that cannot be tamed. But in the grand artwork that is human history, we are all but threads."

  His gray eyes held mine, and I saw steel beneath the diplomatic polish. "You have served your purpose. You brought my niece back to me. For that, you have my gratitude. Do not mistake that gratitude for a permanent place at her side."

  The threat was elegant in its understatement, wrapped in courtesy but unmistakable in its meaning.

  I was no longer needed. I was, in fact, becoming inconvenient.

  “According to who?”

  He scowled at my words. "Your pride alone makes you dangerous. That mind makes it worse. A queen needs councilors, not... weapons that think for themselves."

  "A weapon that doesn't think is just a tool, dear uncle," I replied, meeting his stare without flinching. "And tools can be used by anyone. Even her enemies."

  For a heartbeat, something dangerous flickered in his expression. A glimpse of the man beneath the diplomatic mask. Then the smile returned, colder than before.

  "Then we understand each other perfectly."

  He turned back to his roses, dismissing me as he might a servant who had outlived their usefulness. The shears resumed their work, the cuts still precise and merciless.

  "Enjoy the hospitality of my estate, young Valtherian," he said without looking up. "For as long as it lasts."

  The words hung in the jasmine-scented air like the scent of a funeral pyre. Beautiful, cloying, and hinting at bad endings.

  I walked away without another word, but I could feel his eyes on my back until I rounded the corner.

  Enjoy while it lasts, he said?

  I had a feeling it wouldn't be too long.

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