Aunt Libel, after finishing her laugh, settles down across from me with that ever-present expression—a blend of amusement and indulgence. She clasps her hands on the desk, a gesture that's probably meant to convey some level of seriousness, though the sly smile tugging at her lips gives away her true intentions.
"Well, Nash," she begins in a tone that's light but barbed, "I think we can agree on one thing: you've perfectly, irrevocably, and indisputably screwed up. And you did it all on your own. Bravo."
I roll my eyes, already tired.
"Thank you, Aunt Libel, for that brilliant and completely unnecessary analysis. Because, clearly, I really needed that to feel better."
"Just doing my part," she replies with a slight shrug, feigning innocence. "Sometimes, you have to spell things out to make them sink in."
I let out a loud, exaggerated sigh and sink deeper into the chair. The situation is completely spiraling out of my control, and Aunt Libel doesn't seem the least bit inclined to help. This isn't just a bad day—it's one of those days, where everything goes wrong, and the universe seems determined to push you further into the mud. But of course, all she sees is the "entertainment" value in it.
"Seriously," I say after a moment, "what do you want me to do? A monster stampede isn't exactly something you handle with a smile and an inspiring speech. And the fact that the king is a dragon…a dragon, Aunt Libel…doesn't that complicate things just a little?"
She doesn't lose her smile, as if I'm some kid whining about an insignificant problem. Honestly, that just makes the whole thing even more unbearable.
"It's not impossible, Nash," she says gently. "Difficult, sure. But not impossible."
"Great, thanks for that vague dose of confidence," I shoot back sarcastically. "But while we're at it, why not just send a squad to handle it? No, better yet, ten squads! Isn't the guild supposed to specialize in this sort of thing?"
Aunt Libel chuckles softly, shaking her head as though my suggestion is the most naïve joke she's ever heard.
"Oh, that would be so much easier," she admits. "But this isn't about manpower."
I frown, confused.
"So, what's the problem? We don't have the funds? The resources?"
She leans forward slightly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. At that moment, I know I'm not going to like her answer.
"The problem, Nash, is your bet."
I blink.
"Your bet," she repeats, emphasizing the words. "Remember? You said—and I quote—'I bet I can handle a monster stampede with my eyes closed.' Apparently, Magister Drazel took you at your word."
I stare at her, mouth slightly open, my mind swinging between disbelief and despair.
"All I said was 'okay'…"
"Oh, yes," she confirms with far too much enthusiasm, nodding vigorously. "And the terms were crystal clear. You're handling this crisis entirely on your own. No reinforcements. No assistance. Nothing."
"This has to be a joke…"
"I assure you it's not," she replies, her smile growing even wider. "In fact, it's almost admirable, you know. Not many people would attempt something this… spectacularly idiotic."
I slump back into my chair, throwing my hands toward the heavens as if begging for divine intervention.
"And what exactly do you want me to do? Go get myself eaten by a dragon and a horde of monsters?"
"Of course not," she says, straightening up. "I want you to use that big brain of yours that you're always complaining about. If anyone can turn a hopeless situation into a brilliant victory…"
"…it's probably not me," I mutter, defeated.
"But that's still to be determined," she counters with a wink.
I let out another long, resigned sigh.
Aunt Libel suddenly pauses, an enigmatic smile spreading across her face. I narrow my eyes suspiciously. That kind of smile, on her, is never a good sign. Then she says a single word—a single, loaded word—that makes my heart skip a beat:
"But…"
I jolt upright, as if struck by lightning. "But?" I echo, with the enthusiasm of a condemned man offered an unexpected reprieve.
My voice betrays my rising hope, but just as I'm about to burst into a tirade of gratitude, Aunt Libel raises a hand, commanding silence. Her gaze, though amused, makes it abundantly clear that she isn't finished.
I close my mouth reluctantly, crossing my arms. She takes her time, weighing every word, which only deepens my frustration.
"Let me finish, Nash."
"Fine. I'm listening," I grumble, slumping back into the chair again.
"Good. Now listen carefully, because this is important," she begins, her tone measured and deliberate. "A magister, especially someone as high-profile as you, can't afford to travel alone. You understand what that means, don't you?"
I raise an eyebrow, trying to follow her train of thought. "Uh… that I'm afraid of monsters?" I offer innocently.
She shoots me an exasperated look but carries on as if I hadn't said a word. "It means you need an escort. Or, at the very least, an assistant. Someone to accompany you, support you, and make sure everything goes smoothly."
I blink, and slowly, a grin spreads across my face. Finally, a glimmer of hope in this sea of chaos! I sit up straight, pointing a triumphant finger in her direction.
"Well, that's settled! You're coming with me, obviously. Makes sense, right? You're my assistant, after all."
My tone is decisive, as if the matter is already closed. I even allow myself a smug smile, convinced that this time, Aunt Libel won't find a counterargument.
But instead of agreeing, she shakes her head slowly.
"No."
Her refusal is simple, sharp, and brutally final. I freeze, the words catching in my throat.
"What do you mean, no?" I finally manage to sputter, indignation rising in me like a tidal wave.
But Aunt Libel, unshaken, raises a single finger to silence me again. She takes a deep breath before dropping her bombshell:
"This is a golden opportunity for you, Nash."
I narrow my eyes, suspicious. "An opportunity for what? To die a heroic idiot?"
She rolls her eyes—a gesture that, coming from her, is practically second nature by now. "An opportunity to find your own assistant."
This time, it's like a hammer blow. I stare at her, wide-eyed. "My own… assistant? But why? You're here! Why would I need someone else?"
Her smile softens, almost nostalgically, and with theatrical flair, she pulls out a massive stack of documents from who-knows-where, slamming it onto her desk with a loud thud.
"Because, Nash," she says with maddening serenity, "technically, I'm your late father's assistant. Not yours."
Her words hit me like a cold bucket of water. I gape at her, utterly incapable of forming a coherent response.
"It's time for you to step up," she continues, her tone a mix of amusement and sternness. "And that includes finding someone to support you."
I shake my head, still in disbelief. "But… but… you're already here! It makes no sense! Why look for another assistant when you're perfectly capable of helping me?"
Aunt Libel doesn't falter, looking at me with that infuriating expression that practically screams: You'll get it eventually, but on my terms, not yours.
"Because, Nash, either you take the time to find yourself an assistant, or…" She pauses dramatically, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "…or you go alone."
I swallow hard, finally grasping the weight of her ultimatum. My gaze darts between the towering, menacing stack of documents and Aunt Libel, whose satisfied smile makes me want to bolt out of the room.
"Damn," I mutter at last, defeated.
Aunt Libel bursts into laughter, a clear and light sound that feels annoyingly triumphant. I slump back into the chair, arms crossed, pouting like a child. Another chore, and not just any chore.
I glare at the stack of documents with an intensity that, in a perfect world, would make them vanish into thin air. But no. They remain, towering and mocking. Aunt Libel watches me with a vaguely entertained smile, as if all this were some kind of game.
I let out a heavy sigh. But wait a second... She said an escort or an assistant, right? My brain latches onto this technicality like a lifeline. If I choose an escort, that counts, doesn't it? A heavily armed escort ready to handle all the monsters for me... That's perfect.
Before I can flesh out this brilliant plan, Aunt Libel raises a finger, her smile widening in an unsettling way.
"Don't even think about it."
I blink, thrown off. "What? I didn't do anything!"
"No, but you were thinking about it," she counters, her eyes sparkling with insufferable amusement.
I sink deeper into the chair, crossing my arms and pouting even more. "Maybe I was thinking about it... but it's a good idea, isn't it? An escort makes way more sense than an assistant! They could handle the monsters while I… supervise."
"Oh, really?" Aunt Libel raises an eyebrow, feigning intrigue.
I grimace. Touché. "But you're already here… And honestly, you're doing an amazing job. Why change a winning team?" I try, flashing an innocent smile.
She bursts into laughter again. "Nash, you're incorrigible. But no, I'm not coming with you. This is your responsibility. Find an assistant, an escort, or, for all I care, a band of armed troubadours. Whatever you choose. But me, I'm staying here."
My gaze drifts back to the stack of documents. They sit there, impassive, as if mocking me with their unmovable presence.
"Damn..." I mutter again, with little enthusiasm.
Aunt Libel shakes her head, still smiling, and gives me a light pat on the shoulder. "Come on, Nash, you'll be fine. You've got everything you need to succeed."
Everything I need? Seriously? At this point, I'm wondering if she even knows me, or if she's confusing me with someone else entirely...
To be continued!
Next Chapter: A cliché warden