On that evening, Mayor Elro hosted a rare banquet at his residence. Not only were the guests from the MI7 Seven, which was quite unusual, but more importantly, the dining table was almost devoid of fungi, let alone things like spider legs. For the people of Darkshire, accustomed to a lack of sunlight and heavy dampness within their homes, various types of wild mushrooms were a vital staple in their diet. However, these culinary ingredients rarely made it to the formal noble recipes: court-trained chefs usually favored aesthetically pleasing artificially cultivated varieties. Although Dalia had reassured beforehand that there was no need for excessive effort, and that local dishes would suffice according to customs, Elro remained cautious. He repeatedly left the dining room and entered the kitchen, urging the chefs: "Don't include these things! What did I tell you? Scrub the pots again!"
Jorgen understood Elro's excessive caution. Not to mention a small place like Darkshire, Dalia, as an authority on etiquette training, would be the subject of meticulous concern from nearly any noble in the Kingdom of Stormwind attempting to host her. Jorgen knew that at the dining table, many would scrutinize her movements, subconsciously mimic her posture, and the chefs in the kitchen would be holding their aprons, afraid that Dalia might frown the moment she tasted their creations. Any reputation-conscious host continuing to employ a chef who couldn't satisfy Dalia's palate essentially proclaimed their own lack of taste.
Four years ago, after sending away Mardias, the old man, Dalia went through a period of despondency. She began to lead a more reclusive life and during that time, Jorgen and her had suspended contact. However, over the past two years, she had become busy again, her schedule packed with a series of engagements: arranging banquets, offering suggestions for displaying art in drawing rooms, teaching noble etiquette, and even establishing a charitable organization to gather supplies for aiding war orphans and the families of the fallen soldiers. The nobles prided themselves on hosting a tea that she approved of. Copies of her portrait were in high demand in the open market. She still carried the surname Shawl, yet all those who received her forgot the significance behind that name, or temporarily severed the connection between it and the MI7 Seven. Jorgen hadn't noticed any intervention from the old man in this matter; perhaps he was also pleased to see the image represented by "Shawl" softening in the public eye due to Dalia's actions.
This time, her visit to Darkshire was prompted by a commission from the Kingdom's council: the formal recognition of the Night Watch battalion as a legitimate unit, and the arrangement of an award ceremony - the distribution of uniform shoulder patches designed by Stormwind. Darkshire, situated in constant threat and perpetually undermanned, had maintained this militia force for years. These townspeople were far more adept at dealing with werewolves, venomous spiders, and ghouls in the darkness than the Kingdom's regular soldiers. Yet, only recently did the council pass a series of ordinances officially acknowledging the Night Watch as a part of the Stormwind military and allowing them the autonomy to recruit, train, and deploy internally. The driving force behind this change was a year ago when the Night Watch, entirely on their own, fended off a group of raiders intent on plundering the town. The townsfolk lauded their bravery and criticized the slow reaction of the Kingdom's army. Furthermore, the subsequent suicide of the founder of the Night Watch, Elro's father - Gondore Everlock, added to the council's embarrassment. Even though the Kingdom demanded "training fees" without offering substantial support and labeled any conflicts between soldiers and Night Watch as acts of illegal armed violence, the mounting unfavorable facts finally led the council to seek a suitable way out.
Nevertheless, having Dalia execute this mission under the guise of a "Special Envoy of the MI7 Seven" still struck Jorgen as rather unnatural. The council was either involved in some dealings with the old man or sending a signal: "We acknowledge the legitimacy of the Night Watch, but exercise caution and don't get carried away, because the MI7 Seven is watching you." Dalia's personal charisma, detached from political power, evidently aligned with the intentions of the schemers behind the scenes.
Regardless, when the old man assigned Jorgen the task of protecting Dalia, he was more than willing. The unofficial word about Travis, the guard who died due to treachery, had been dug up by Dalia's supporters years ago, casting doubt on the old man's decision-making. Since there was no hidden agenda, Jorgen was evidently the best candidate for this mission.
The day of their reunion took place in Dalia's own garden. She personally brewed a cup of tea for Jorgen. Although he knew he held little sway in conversations of this sort, Jorgen sincerely remarked, "It tastes quite good." Even if Jorgen hadn't said it, Dalia would have noticed; as he took the first sip, his eyebrows slightly raised, pausing briefly to savor the flavor, inhaling more of the aroma, then taking another sip. Thus, on that sunlit afternoon, they conversed as long-lost friends of many years, rather than the two individuals reconnected due to the Shawl family. In the distance, a breeze blew towards the slope, accompanied by the sound of whistles from the woods. They both understood that although some things might be inescapable throughout one's life, at least they could temporarily dissolve into the air, much like a pebble sinking into a lake.
"This time, you're my bodyguard," Dalia said. "Doesn't that bring you back to your old job?"
"What? Oh." Jorgen didn't immediately catch on. He suddenly realized that over a decade ago, his first official job was to be Dalia's bodyguard. It dawned on him that she was the person he had known for the longest time, well before getting entangled in the world of the MI7 Seven. Only she had seen him before he became enmeshed in conspiracies, deceit, and vendettas. He felt a twinge of envy that she had gained a degree of independence outside the realm of the MI7 Seven. In that moment, he almost reluctantly considered making an excuse to depart and return to the gloomy spiral staircase beneath the headquarters of the Division Seven, fearing that the warmth of the sun, memories of the past, and the irresistible aroma of the tea would make him question what kind of reality he truly desired.
However, Jorgen swiftly pushed aside this line of thought.
"Last time I passed through Northshire, I saw you organizing a fundraising event. You keep yourself busy, and I think it's admirable," he said.
"Yeah, that time was to raise funds for printing teaching materials for the children."
"Well, I donated five gold coins."
Jorgen knew that donating such a sum in these small-scale charity events was somewhat unusual, but he had no better use for the coins. His stipend as a direct agent was more than sufficient for his needs, and he received additional funds during missions. Local officials often provided free accommodations when they learned a direct agent was conducting an investigation. The more he worked tirelessly, the fewer opportunities he had to tap into his personal wealth.
"Five? That's enough to print over a hundred books. Why didn't I see you? I instructed my staff to list the names of anyone who donated more than fifty silver coins. Did you use a false name?"
"Yes. It's more convenient this way, because what I do now, especially when it involves public matters, might represent more than just my personal standpoint."
"I don't understand, Jorgen."
"... You haven't heard?"
Jorgen suddenly realized that Dalia hadn't heard about his promotion to a direct agent. It could also be that the old man intentionally kept it from her. He had to briefly explain that he had accomplished significant tasks and obtained this title.
"So, he trusts you greatly now."
Jorgen avoided that statement. "There are benefits and drawbacks. The advantage is that I have more resources at my disposal, but the drawback is... I can't hide my identity while completing missions anymore."
"So, you know more than an ordinary agent?"
I steered the conversation into an area I hadn't initially intended to discuss. "You could say that."
They fell into silence for a moment.
"Listen, Dalia," since the issue had come up, Jorgen decided to address it proactively. "I've been trying to find out over these years, but I just can't figure out where he took Mardias."
"Even if you knew, it's not something you should say, right?" Dalia looked at him. "But, I know you're telling the truth. You deceive a lot of people in your work, but you haven't deceived me. I can tell."
"It's good that you can think that way."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought up that matter. Would you like another cup?"
Jorgen looked down at his tea cup, with a little left undrunk. "Sure, thank you," he said. They then shifted their conversation to matters of arranging their journey and other topics. From that moment, they had to revert back to the roles that governed their life paths, until the sun set and the tea grew cold.
On the north wall of the Everlock house's dining room hung a large portrait of Gondore. Jorgen had seen a portrait of this person in Elro's office earlier this morning, but this one was more detailed, and the painter had given him a more convincingly determined gaze. A line of small letters below the frame read: Gondore Everlock, Hero of Darkshire, Founder of the Night Watchmen, Our Father. He had passed away a year ago at fifty-four, yet in the painting, he didn't look older than forty. There were no exact official records about his early years, and it was generally understood that he left his son with relatives after losing his spouse at a young age, then roamed around as an adventurer, living an adventurous life until he returned to his hometown with a new wife about a decade ago and soon after established the Night Watchmen. The first half of this narrative didn't sound much like an uplifting story, but his heroic image nowadays prevented people from delving into that past or simply attributed it to the mystique necessary for a heroic figure that common folk couldn't comprehend.
"Lady Dalia, is the dinner still to your liking?" Elro said. At thirty-six years old, he had nearly the same cheekbones and nose as his father. He tried to smile and nervously awaited her answer.
"The barbecue sauce on the cave mushrooms is quite delicious."
"I'm very pleased that you're enjoying it," Elro maintained his smile. It was a local specialty that he had almost had the chef cancel. He then realized it would be impolite to exclude Jorgen from this topic, so he hurriedly asked, "And what do you think, Lord Jorgen?" Jorgen replied with a "It's indeed quite good," and Elro's forced smile grew even wider.
"No need to be too formal, Lord Elro," Dalia said. "You are the host, and I am just an ordinary guest, not here to pass judgment. If you are truly concerned, I can assure you that this is a very attentive dinner. You have a skilled chef."
Elro was somewhat unsure whether Dalia meant "don't worry too much about etiquette" or "being too formal itself is against etiquette." So, apart from maintaining his smile and squeezing out a few polite words, he didn't have a better way to respond. Jorgen had encountered quite a few officials who were overwhelmed by the weight of their daily duties but lacked finesse in matters of official decorum, though he could hardly remember most of their names. He didn't mind dealing with such people.
"Isn't Lady Morticia joining us for dinner?" Dalia asked. Morticia was Gondore's second wife, brought back by him a decade ago, and she rarely appeared in public.
"Well..."
"I apologize, but Mother is not feeling well today. She will visit you another day," Joseph Everlock, seated to the right of Elro, interjected. He was the second son of the family, twenty-eight years old, and the current commander of the Night Watchmen. Apart from his initial introduction at the beginning of the banquet, Joseph had remained silent. Now that he spoke, he appeared more accustomed to such occasions than his brother. Although his all-black hair color and slender nose were different from his father and brother, Jorgen noticed that the gaze in the oil painting of Gondore seemed almost directly depicted in the eyes of this young man before him.