He should have listened to Professor Thrain.
Klarion sat stiffly in his chair, jaw clenched as he stared down at the plate before him. The meal, an artful arrangement of roasted venison, seasoned root vegetables, and a delicate drizzle of sauce, should have been a feast for his senses. His fingers twitched against the fine silverware, the polished handles feeling foreign in his grip. Across from him, the assistant assigned to his table by Professor Vale let out an exasperated sigh.
“Scion Blacksword, for the third time, you do not use the fish knife for venison,” the assistant said, barely attempting to conceal his irritation anymore. The man made obvious glances at the array of utensils before Klarion, as if personally offended by the choices he had been making since he had joined him for the practice meal. Finally, frustration bleeding through a bit more, he pointed, “That is the main course knife. The one to your right. No, your other right.”
Klarion inhaled sharply through his nose and reached for the proper knife, trying to ignore the slight tremor of frustration in his hand. The cutlery gleamed in the warm light of the chandeliers above, mocking him with its sheer number. A fork for salad, another for fish, yet another for the main course. Knives of different shapes and sizes. Spoons that served various purposes he could barely keep track of. It was beyond maddening.
The assistant pursed his lips as Klarion adjusted his grip. “You’re holding it like a commoner gutting a boar in the woods. The blade is angled incorrectly. Your posture is slipping as well. Straighten your back.”
Klarion resisted the urge to angle the knife at the man and instead forced his body into the rigid posture expected of him. His hunger had long since faded, replaced by irritation that only grew with each correction that pompous man gave him. He wanted this class to end. Desperately. It was the last one of the week, and once it was over, he could finally turn his attention to what actually mattered—unlocking his class so he could start preparing for the inevitable duel with Chadwick.
While the assistant chastised him for his latest mistake, Klarion turned his attention to what he would need to do between today and tomorrow. Perhaps the most important thing on his mind was how he would need to meet with Valdre and Redrek. The possibility they might have some ideas or thoughts on what he should do was something he didn’t want to miss. Once he had spoken with them, he would officially start skipping classes and begin searching for the materials and Essences he needed. Professor Thrain’s advice had been clear—unlocking his class mattered far more than sitting through another week of these lessons, and, after this mindnumbing hour in Etiquette and Courtly Manners, Klarion was inclined to agree.
Another, deeper sigh from the assistant finally dragged him from his thoughts. “You are butchering the venison, Scion Blacksword. That is a precision cut of meat, not a battlefield ration. Small, deliberate slices.”
Klarion fought the urge to give a sarcastic response. Swallowing the unflattering words, he adjusted his grip once more and worked at slicing it as carefully as he could manage. The assistant still looked unimpressed, but at least he didn’t offer another damned critique. Klarion lifted the bite to his mouth, looking forward to trying the delicious-smelling piece of meat.
Only for the man to clear his throat sharply.
“Pause.”
Klarion set the fork back down, not bothering to hide his irritation anymore. It rolled off the main like water off a duck’s back.
“You have not properly dabbed your lips with the napkin before taking another bite,” the assistant said, nodding toward the neatly folded cloth beside his plate.
Klarion snatched up the napkin, smashing it against his lips. Not that there was anything to clean up, as he hadn’t even taken a bite yet. His face practically polished under the pressure of rubbing his napkin across his face, Klarion slammed it back down into his lap. At least he knew that from growing up with his family on Earth.
Satisfied, the assistant nodded. “Proceed.”
Klarion finally took the bite, chewing slowly. The flavor almost made the entire ordeal worth it. The venison was perfectly cooked, the flavors rich and layered. But he had swallowed it all too soon. Now he would have to go through the entire process again, only this time he was sure the assistant would find other things to correct him on. How could he enjoy a meal when every small action was scrutinized, every slight mistake pointed out with an air of superiority?
It was at that point that Klarion thought he had an epiphany.
This class wasn’t about dining—it was about control. About shaping nobles into creatures of refinement, into people who lived and breathed etiquette as naturally as they did the air.
Too bad Klarion had no patience for it.
The delicate clink of fine porcelain and polished silver filled the air as the class continued its grueling ordeal of refinement. He forced the frustration he was feeling down into cold resignation. Part of him knew he would have to master these things eventually, but for right now, with unlocking Essences and his class looming before him, it was hard to care. In the face of all that, it didn’t matter if he got this meal right—especially because he had the suspicion he couldn’t. If not the wrong cutlery, then the wrong angle, or the wrong timing. The rules seemed endless, a labyrinth of decorum meant to strangle any enjoyment from something as simple as a meal. And he knew, he knew, the assistant assigned to him was taking devilish delight in pointing each and every error out. The only bright spot to the whole class so far was how Chadwick and his sycophants had studiously ignored his existence.
And yet, despite how miserable he felt, he wasn’t the one who broke first.
A loud clang rang through the classroom-turned dining room, followed immediately by the scraping of a chair as someone abruptly pushed themselves back from their table.
“Are you kidding me?!”
The outburst froze the room. Heads turned. Instructions and corrections died off. Even Klarion, who had mostly resigned himself to the situation, glanced over in mild curiosity to see what was going on.
A human scion a few tables away stood rigidly over the assistant assigned to him, his face flushed in anger. He held a spoon in his hand—the wrong one, apparently, because the assistant at his table looked both scandalized and furious in turn. Another spoon lay on the floor beside him, though whether it had fallen there or been thrown down, Klarion couldn’t tell.
Professor Vale, who had been moving about the room with his usual air of refined authority, turned his head at the disturbance. His attention focused first on the fallen spoon and then on the flustered scion. The scion did not seem to notice or care. He threw his arms wide, addressing not just his assistant but the entire class.
“What is the point of all this?” he demanded, voice still raised in frustration. “Blood and Ash! Why does it matter which damn spoon I use for soup?” He shook the offending piece of silverware he held in his hand as if daring someone to justify its existence. “This one, that one, the other one—they all do the same thing! Who decided that one spoon is more correct than another?”
A hushed murmur swept through the room in response to his words. Some scions watched with wide eyes, scandalized by his outburst. Others exchanged glances, clearly sharing his frustration but lacking the boldness—or foolishness—to say anything aloud. Klarion saw nearly immediately, however, that it was only the scions speaking. Every assistant that the professor brought in for the class dining practice sat silent and watched.
Stolen novel; please report.
The assistant at the angry scion’s table had gone pale with horror, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Before he could manage a response, Professor Vale’s voice cut through the silence.
“Scion Woodcrest.”
Scion Woodcrest stiffened, some of his defiance faltering at the professor’s tone. His hand lowered slightly, but he did not yet back down.
“Professor Vale,” he acknowledged, his voice more even but still tense with the frustration he had just been expressing.
Professor Vale strode toward him with measured, deliberate steps. He did not hurry, nor did he look particularly angry. If anything, the professor’s expression remained the same—cool, controlled, and vaguely disapproving.
If the professor was like some of the people Klarion had grown up with, however, that could very well be far worse than outright rage.
As he approached, Professor Vale reached down and retrieved the fallen spoon from the floor. He held it between his fingers, considering it for a moment before lifting his gaze back to the scion who had caused it to languish on the floor.
“You asked a question, and so I shall answer.” His voice was steady, but more than one scion flinched. “What is the point of this? Why does it matter which spoon you use? Why do we adhere to these customs, these rules of etiquette?”
Scion Woodcrest didn’t respond, but he did nod once.
Professor Vale lifted the spoon slightly. “You see this as nothing more than an eating utensil. A trivial distinction. But that is because you are thinking like a soldier, not a noble.” His dark eyes sharpened. “Tell me, Scion Woodcrest—what happens when you sit at a banquet with high-ranking officials, where every gesture, every action is an unspoken language? What happens when you reach for the wrong utensil and insult a foreign dignitary whose people hold such things as sacrosanct?”
Scion Woodcrest hesitated and ultimately chose not to respond. To be fair to the man, however, Klarion didn’t think any scion in the room would have been able to find the words to protest what the professor was saying.
Professor Vale took a step closer into the silence of the scion’s lack of response. “What happens should you be invited to dine with the Emperor himself, and your lack of refinement brands you as unworthy before you even speak?”
By the last word, every scion in the room was keenly aware of the anger beneath Professor Vale’s words. A few of them shifted in their seats, backs stiffening as if preparing for rebuke. Others, more composed, simply lowered their eyes to their still mostly full plates, unwilling to risk meeting the professor’s now angry stare.
“Every detail matters,” Vale continued, his voice carrying across the room. “Etiquette is a weapon. The ability to navigate the social battlefield is just as critical as any skill with a blade. You may not think much of which spoon you use, but to those who wield power, these distinctions are everything. The Empire does not suffer those who cannot rise to its expectations.”
His point delivered, and Scion Woodcrest abruptly sitting — perhaps more falling — back into his chair, the professor turned his attention to the rest of the class, his presence now a towering force despite his composed demeanor. As he did so, he turned the spoon he held between his fingers, treating it as if it were an artifact of great consequence.
“Your frustration is understandable,” he said, his voice cutting across the room. “Shortsighted and foolish, but understandable. Many have thought as you do. That these rules are trivial. That etiquette is a game played by those with nothing better to do. That these distinctions—between one spoon and another—are meaningless.”
Professor Vale strode back to the front of the room, tapping the spoon he still held lightly against his palm.
“Allow me to tell you a story,” he said, coming to a halt where the entire class could see him. “Some years ago, there was a noble of considerable standing: Lord Hadrian Ciermont of House Ciermont. His lineage stretched back over five centuries, a family with an unblemished record of service to the Empire. Loyal, respected, and unwavering in their duty. One evening, Lord Ciermont attended a banquet, seated beside another noble—a man named Lord Marcius Vaelor of House Vaelor. Both were men of influence, but Lord Vaelor was known for his cunning, his ability to navigate the treacherous waters of courtly life with an ease that others envied.”
Professor Vale’s fingers closed around the spoon, and though his next words were softer, every single scion heard them.
“It was during the second course that it happened. Lord Ciermont, in a moment of absentmindedness, reached for the wrong spoon. The error was small,” Professor Vale continued, spoon now spinning deftly between his fingers. “Perhaps to you, it would seem insignificant. But Lord Vaelor saw it for what it was—an opportunity. He paused, allowed just enough silence to settle before he spoke. And then, in front of the entire gathering, he remarked—loudly—on Lord Ciermont’s breach of etiquette.”
Scion Woodcrest, as if prompted by some tiny devil sitting on his shoulder, couldn’t help himself and asked loudly, “All over a spoon?”
“Yes,” Professor Vale said simply, though he did direct the scion a look that suggested that he better hold his tongue. “A spoon. But more than that, it was an insult delivered before witnesses. Where it could be interpreted as a calculated, public slight. And, as a result, Lord Ciermont, for all his years of loyal service, had no choice but to answer.”
He lifted the spoon in his hand slightly.
“The challenge was issued before the banquet was even finished. A duel to first blood—or so it was said.” Professor Vale’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It had too many teeth for that. “But Lord Ciermont never left the field that night.”
“Lord Vaelor killed him?”
Professor Vale nodded at the question that came from somewhere else in the classroom. “Indeed. You see, Lord Vaelor had been waiting for such an opportunity. He needed a reason to remove Lord Ciermont—a justification that no one could contest. And Ciermont handed it to him on a silver platter. And so the duel was held at dawn the following day, and it was witnessed by lords and ladies, sealed in honor. When it was over, Lord Ciermont lay dead, and House Ciermont—after five hundred years of service—was left without an heir. Its holdings were soon dissolved, its banners lowered, its name spoken only in whispers as a cautionary tale of the dangers of court life in the Empire. And what punishment was handed down for this? Anyone care to offer a guess?”
The professor paused, giving the opportunity for any scion to venture a guess. Most simply stared at their plates harder, cowed under the lesson Professor Vale was seeking to teach them. Scion Woodcrest looked like he was going to speak, but perhaps that devil on his shoulder had moved on, because he ultimately closed his mouth.
“None.”
The word left Klarion’s mouth before he even realized he had spoken. The silence that followed made it clear that others had noticed too. He felt a flicker of surprise—not at the answer itself, which he believed to be correct, but at the fact that he had been the one to give it.
Professor Vale’s eyes snapped to him, appraising. For a brief moment, there was something unreadable in his expression. Perhaps it was acknowledgment. To Klarion’s further surprise, the professor gave him the smallest nod—so subtle that he almost missed it. It was gone in an instant.
“Indeed, Scion Blacksword. Because Lord Vaelor had been insulted, and he had found a justified reason to strike.”
The weight of those words settled over the room like a blade at one’s throat. Some students swallowed hard. Others sat stiffly, understanding at last the lesson Professor Vale had been trying to teach them.
It was never just about the spoon.
Without warning, Professor Vale moved.
A blur of motion—so fast it was almost imperceptible—before the thunk of metal embedding itself in wood rang through the chamber.
Scion Woodcrest flinched so violently that he almost fell from the chair he was sitting in. His hand had been resting on the table—mere inches from where the spoon was now embedded, its handle still quivering from the force of impact.
“That,” Professor Vale said, voice finally returning to what it had been, “is the spoon you should be using with that soup.”
Scion Woodcrest did the only thing he could do.
He nodded and pried the spoon free from the table, and proceeded to use it with the indicated soup.
The professor’s arms fell back to his sides, satisfied with the lesson he had taught, and returned to his measured stride through the room. “Now,” he said, as if nothing had happened, “return to your meals. I expect you all to have mastered fine dining prior to your final exam.”
Every scion present obeyed, and the room was soon filled again with the sound of silverware on dishes and low admonishments from assistants as their assigned scions continued to make errors. Though, perhaps, there were now a few fewer corrections than there had been before Scion Woodcrest’s outburst.
Klarion glanced at his own cutlery. He had been frustrated before—impatient for this class to end, eager to move on to more important matters. But now…
Now, he understood something else.
He would try.
He would not like it, nor would he ever enjoy it.
But he would not let himself be caught unprepared, either.
Not when Professor Vale had so well made his case that this was simply another battlefield he would be expected to fight on.
Just as he took up another knife, the assistant at his table cleared his throat pointedly.
“Scion Blacksword,” the man said, exasperation once again heavy in his voice, “that knife is not for this dish. You should be using the other one.”
Klarion did not even resist the urge this time.
It might have been the deepest sigh he had ever made.
But he did, slowly, deliberately, set the offending utensil down and pick up the correct one.
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