"I think it would be better if we pretend to not know each other at the academy."
"…"
An uncomfortable pause is what this deserves. Not because of what was said per se, but rather the way the message is delivered—whatever that message might be. Dropping lines like "we should pretend to not know each other" without prior context would make even prime-time dramas blush.
Being true to my word, I dragged the awkward silence on. Taking note of the stiffness oozing out of Rowan's body language, I enjoyed every tormenting second of it, readying myself for when he was finally ready to break the ice.
"I…"
With my mouth primed, I instantly cut him off, putting as much tension and gruffness into my voice as I could. Unintentionally, I sounded like a mafioso coming to collect debts.
"…And the reason being?"
"Uhm, it's a little complicated right now. All you need to know is—"
"…Is that you know what's good for me, is that right?"
Once again, I rudely interrupted Rowan, cutting his momentum short.
Like a judge presiding over a sinner, that was exactly the atmosphere I wanted to create. After all, he wanted drama, and I wanted my entertainment.
Why could he not have just broached the topic naturally? I had a rough idea of what he wanted off me anyway, and it was not a big deal.
Probably feeling like he had no way out, Rowan opted to stay quiet. As he continued washing the dishes in silence, I remained seated, my eyes digging a hole into the back of his head. Fully aware that with his enhanced senses as a knight in training, he would clue in to the fact that I was staring at him the whole time.
To up the ante, I started drumming my fingers, the wooden table providing a good reverb to accompany the silence between us.
Unable to hold myself any longer, I let a smile crack.
I wondered what my son would think if he knew what I was doing to his beloved creations. To begin with, it was entirely his fault for writing characters that played into drama clichés.
Either way, this would all be solved as soon as Rowan turned around and saw the dumb grin painting my face—unless he fully intended to keep staring out the window even after he was done.
-0-
"Oh, you! You fucking asshole!"
Shouted Rowan, my devilish smile greeting him as soon as he turned around.
It was a comical shift—from a man riddled with guilt to one ready to rip me apart piece by piece. With his face rapidly building up to a shade of red, steam practically coming out of his ears, it was all too much for me to bear.
I erupted into full and unrestrained laughter, hands cradling my tummy, shoulders jolting up and down, the air wheezing out of my lungs.
Realizing he had been played, Rowan stood in indignation, watching me lose myself at his expense. This was not the first time it had happened, and it seemed to me that he had grown wise enough to know when he had lost.
Feeling a little weak in the knees, I stood from the chair and went for a cold drink, falling off the high I had just been on. Once I had composed myself enough, I turned to look at the fuming Rowan—red from anger, while I was red from laughter.
The thought of it fueled me for a few more seconds, much to his dismay.
"You know, technically, you did this to yourself," I said, feeling content as I placed the glass down.
"…"
"The atmosphere was just right too. A jolly reunion between friends. A nice home-cooked dinner. What was it again? Always break the bad news on a good day? Straight out of a breakup therapy guideline. What? Did you want your message to be more digestible?
What were you even thinking, dishing out a line like we are in some drama series?"
"You're a dickhead, you know that, right?"
How nostalgic. Prescilla used to say the same thing to me. I wonder how she even stomached me enough to actually marry me.
"The one and only."
"Fine. Maybe I should have just talked about it normally. I just didn't want you to react negatively to it, but I suppose now I at least know you will not."
"It does not take a genius to understand what you are thinking. I agree with you for the most part. Let us not give your admirers any more ammunition than what they already have. I would like to be a little low-key as well—if that is even possible, given the fuss my late enrollment alone will cause."
"Great. Then that is all I wanted to say. I will be going to my room now to start preparing for tomorrow. The top floor bedroom is the one not being used. I've changed the sheets and dusted the room. It's ready for you."
As he turned to leave the kitchen, I looked out the window, watching the sun only just starting to set—a time too early for anyone to retire, much less a youth such as Rowan.
"Hmm. Thanks. Have a good night, I hope you sleep well."
This here is a takeaway.
"Go fuck yourself."
He'll sleep it off, I'm sure.
-0-
Sitting in a meditative position in my room, eyes shut, I focused on the flow of mana throughout my body. With the warmth permeating inside me and the tingling sensation running across my skin, I directed my attention to my right arm, ignoring the building intensity that I am all too familiar with.
Opening my eyes, I uncuffed the button of the sleeve of my shirt and rolled it up to my shoulder. Uncovered were the ornate markings imprinted onto the entirety of my right arm—a secret of mine that I've kept hidden from everyone until now.
Not for aesthetic reasons, no. In my opinion, the design looks edgy—which is great. I dig the sharp contours and what I think are religious patterns. The problem lies in how I acquired it and the mystery surrounding it.
Staring at the image of an eye tattooed on my forearm, my vision began to blur. I felt my mind slowing with each passing moment. A terrifying condition—had I not done this multiple times already. As my vision turned completely dark, so did my mind.
Upon regaining consciousness, I found myself standing in front of an archway made of white polished marble. Looking around to scan the area, the never-changing scenery of the hollowed world greeted me. Withered trees scattered throughout a vast expansive plain of dark nothingness.
Knowing exploration to be futile, I turned to the one thing I came here for.
"Is the Servant awake?" I uttered the words into the arch.
At my words, the world on the other side of the arch began to fill with a dark and murky water. Once the entranceway was covered by the shadowy substance, a skeletal hand reached out, dark smoke billowing as it pierced through the veil.
The hand turned into an arm, and the arm into a torso, as a skeleton bent at the waist, wearing dark robes, stepped out. The size of the archway was clearly incompatible with its own massive frame.
As soon as it fully exited the archway, it stretched to a height easily three times my own. Three pairs of dark, feathered wings extended themselves in its wake, making its stance both imposing and proclamatory.
A creature of death. That is how I would describe it.
"The book, please," I asked politely.
The Servant's skull tilted toward me. No doubt, if it had eyes, they would be locked with mine. Its long limbs unfurled down to my level, and as its bony palms opened, a golden book appeared from thin air.
As I reached out to flip through it, the Servant spoke. Its voice was deep and resonating—very unlike what you would expect from a skeleton.
"You can take no more, for now."
"I know. I simply wish to look at the story I have claimed."
The Book of Tragedies. That's what the Servant calls it.
Looking back, it all started when I became fully able to circulate my mana. It was a breakthrough pain common among mana adapters. To feel sensations that lead to exhaustion, eventually causing one to pass out.
What is uncommon, however, is finding yourself lucid dreaming of a world such as this one.
Meeting the Servant for the first time was quite the experience too—a memory I don't hold fondly and one I wish to forget. Looking back, I daresay I handled it better than most would, given the circumstances.
The tats were such a bonus too—something the Servant said I would find as soon as I awoke.