The restaurant was alive.
Not with noise. With comfort.
Warm amber lanterns hung from polished cedar beams, bathing the hall in a glow soft enough to dull the edges of the outside world. Rich mahogany tables stood in neat rows beneath intricately carved rafters, while the air was a complex perfume of roasted herbs, aged wine, and something metallic—the faint, clean scent of high-grade artifacts being used to keep the air fresh despite the bustling kitchen. It was an environment designed to make a person forget that the world outside was trembling.
Somewhere deeper inside, cutlery clinked rhythmically against porcelain, accompanied by quiet laughter and the occasional delighted gasp from patrons experiencing one of Chef Vaughn's creations for the first time.
For all the tension in Aerthos—the Revolutionists gathering in shadows, the succession crisis simmering in House Zeppelin, the rising cost of goods that made common folk tighten their belts—none of it seemed to exist within these walls. Here, people could forget. Here, they could simply eat.
Families laughed over shared meals. Businessmen negotiated over wine. Young couples spoke in hushed voices. For a few precious hours, food allowed people to forget the weight of the world.
Perhaps that was Chef Vaughn's greatest talent. Not cooking. Hope.
It was said that every dish he served reminded someone of home. Alaric found himself smiling faintly.
"...Still no branch in Blackhaven."
Across from him, Heidi chuckled.
"You ask that every time."
"I remain optimistic."
"You remain stubborn."
"They're closely related."
Alaric and Heidi were seated in a semi-private booth draped in heavy velvet. At a nearby table, Gyan and Heidi's assistant, Ensu, sat perfectly upright. Gyan was holding a teacup with the precision of a surgeon, while Ensu seemed to be counting his breaths. They were being so aggressively polite—nodding in unison, refusing to take the last bite of the shared appetizer—that to any random observer, it looked like the most awkward first date in the history of Aerthos. Alaric made a mental note to grill Gyan about this later. The mental image of her flustered was a rare treasure.
Unlike most restaurants, Lord Vaughn's establishments possessed a strange elegance. Luxury without extravagance. Nothing screamed wealth, yet every piece of furniture had clearly been handcrafted. Every chair was perfectly balanced, every plate spotless, every flower fresh. Perfection without ostentation. It suited its owner.
Chef Vaughn had become something of a legend across Aerthos. Though his home remained in Noctis Vale, he rarely stayed there. Instead, he wandered the country, opening restaurant after restaurant before disappearing once more in pursuit of another recipe. Some claimed he traveled simply because he enjoyed cooking. Others insisted he was chasing flavors no ordinary chef could comprehend. Alaric suspected both were true.
A young hostess approached with practiced grace.
"My Lords," she said, bowing deeply. "Welcome."
"Thank you," Heidi replied warmly.
"Is Vaughn around? The Chef, not the Lord," Alaric asked.
The host's face twitched. It was a subtle, pained contraction of the muscles around his eyes. "Chef Vaughn is… away, my Lord. He departed three days ago."
Heidi blinked.
"...Again?"
"Yes, my Lord."
Alaric tilted his head.
"For another region?"
"Another continent," the hostess replied.
Silence.
"Pardon?" Heidi asked.
"He traveled overseas."
"Why?" she asked.
The hostess maintained her professional smile with almost supernatural discipline. "He wished to procure a certain ingredient."
"Surely the Rustmark Trading Company could acquire it for him," Alaric suggested.
"Apparently not."
"Is it in that high demand?" he asked again.
"No. He said it takes ten years to mature. Chef Vaughn insisted that he kill it himself, so..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"I see. And Wendy didn't object to him going?" Alaric asked.
"She did."
"And?"
"He said..." She cleared her throat.
"'If I'm trusting someone else to stab my dinner, then I might as well season disappointment and eat that instead.'"
Silence. Then, Heidi burst into laughter. Even Alaric couldn't suppress a chuckle.
"I suppose," Alaric mused, "being one of only three Paragons in Aerthos gives one certain liberties."
"It certainly makes traveling easier."
Heidi wiped a tear from her eye. "Quite romantic, isn't it?"
"Hm?"
"Two of Aerthos' three Paragons are married."
Alaric smiled. "I imagine their household arguments are... memorable."
"I pity the furniture."
The hostess nodded solemnly. "So do the carpenters."
The three shared a laugh. Heidi leaned back.
"Where is Wendy, anyway?"
"She departed earlier today."
"She left too? Where?"
"The Museum of Ages. After which she said she would proceed to Fazhan Island, returning here briefly this evening before heading back to the city of Noctis in the Noctis Vale region."
The hostess bowed again just as another server arrived carrying an elegant wooden tray: crystal glasses, fresh fruit, honey pastries, and a chilled herbal infusion. Nothing extravagant. Everything exquisite.
The Hostess and the server then excused themselves, and as they disappeared deeper into the restaurant, Heidi sighed dramatically.
"So close."
"You wished to meet Chef Vaughn that badly?"
"I wished to ask him how one convinces an entire kingdom that vegetables deserve applause."
"I'm certain knives are involved."
"They usually are."
Alaric laughed quietly. His gaze drifted toward another corner of the restaurant. Gyan and Ensu had still not made any conversation.
Ensu politely poured tea. Gyan thanked him. He nodded. She nodded.
Silence returned. Alaric almost snorted. He almost looked forward to Gyan's inevitable deadpan denial. Heidi noticed his expression.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"That smile says otherwise."
"I simply observed something amusing."
She followed his gaze.
"...Ah."
"They look miserable."
"They do."
"Should we rescue them?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I'm curious how long two professionals can continue being professionally uncomfortable."
Heidi laughed.
"You really are awful sometimes."
"So Elara tells me."
"I believe her."
The laughter slowly faded. Heidi reached for her drink. "You know..."
"Hm?"
"I sometimes wish I'd reached that level. To be a demigod like them."
Alaric looked at her.
"So I could simply..." She gestured vaguely. "...go wherever I wanted. No borders. No permission. No schedules. No council meetings. No corrupt rules telling me what I can or cannot do."
Heidi's smile didn't reach her eyes. She leaned back, her gaze flickering toward the table where Gyan and Ensu were currently engaging in a terrifyingly polite contest over who would pour the water first.
Alaric smiled. "At least you still have something to aspire toward."
The words escaped before either realized their implication. In her musings, she had inadvertently said something she shouldn't have. A Pact—the heavy shackle that kept Alaric from ever touching levels beyond the Saint-level, a cage forged by House Mellou in exchange for allowing the son of House Dukker to marry their daughter.
She opened her mouth.
"I'm—"
"It's fine."
His voice remained gentle, completely genuine. He really didn't seem bothered. After all these years... She quietly abandoned the apology. Power had never defined Alaric, perhaps because he'd spent most of his youth without any.
"Power isn't everything," he said instead. Heidi's eyes drifted around the bustling restaurant.
"You're right. But things aren't that simple. If you want the world to move, you need power to make it move. That's just the way of things."
Alaric watched her. Heidi had always been like this. She had always been the kind one. The sentimental one. During the Aerthos-Kemet war, when the three of them—himself from Blackwood, Genji from Hoshikawa, and Heidi from Kartsfall—had met and become acquainted, their dynamic had been clear. He was pragmatic, calculating, always looking for the most efficient path. Genji was laid-back, taking things as they came, never letting the weight of the world press too heavily on his shoulders.
But Heidi... Heidi was different. She was empathetic to a fault, trying to understand her enemies until the very end. And when she discovered it was necessary, she dealt with them swiftly and without mercy. It was ironic, really; people misunderstood the tears she shed after battle. They thought she mourned killing.
No. She mourned the fact that someone had forced killing to become necessary. She'd once wept over a general she'd executed... only because she'd spent three weeks trying to convince him to surrender first.
Heidi gazed out a window, absentmindedly rotating her cup.
"...Do you remember?"
Her voice interrupted his thoughts.
"The capital of Kemet, ten years ago?"
He nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. "Genji remained outside, holding back the army with our forces."
"I dealt with their generals, and you..."
"...fought the Usurper Sultan."
The memories lingered between them. Different. Heavy. Older than either wished to admit. Alaric took another sip.
"Well, you're oddly nostalgic. You only get nostalgic when something is troubling you."
Heidi didn't answer immediately. After a while, she sighed and let her Presence expand—not as a weapon, but as a shroud.
Presence was the accumulation of existential mass; the heavier one's soul, the more they could exert their will upon reality. It was not Flow. Flow was a manipulation of energy to use Traits, the authorities of the world. Traits could be countered with artifacts or skill. But Presence... Presence was the self imposed upon the world. There was no artifact that could counter it. No technique that could deflect it. When a soul of sufficient weight was applied so that the world would be a certain way, the world bent.
Heidi's Presence wrapped around them like a blanket of dulled sound. Nearby conversations grew distant, as though submerged beneath deep water. The clink of glasses, the distant laughter from the kitchen—all of it faded to a distant hum.
Satisfied, Heidi finally spoke.
"I don't want Aerthos to become another Kemet."
Alaric's expression changed instantly. Concern. Real concern. He leaned forward, gently placing a hand upon hers.
"The reason I went to the cathedral today," she continued, "is to pray against misfortune."
He frowned.
"Misfortune?"
She leaned in so close he could smell the faint scent of dried petals on her skin.
"Auro..."
She met his eyes. There was no humor left. No teasing. Only quiet fear.
"I had a dream."