Watching Doctor Shani head out the door, Victor wore a gentle, cultivated smile. He wasn't going to overthink that kiss on the cheek—just two noble souls, a pure meeting of hearts. But the moment he saw Angoulême's sleazy grin, that pristine little feeling shattered into dust.
Yes—sleazy. It was rude to describe a young girl like that, but Victor insisted, because there was no better word for the street-brat's expression. It had the exact vibe of some shady wagon driver leaning out from the roadside, shouting for passersby to hop on in.
"Can I ask," Victor said sourly, "what possible reason you have to be grinning so ugly? So… sleazy?"
"Vic! That's way too rude to say to a girl!" Angoulême shot back, wearing a face that practically begged to be punched. She jabbed a sausage at the soup bowl like she was dueling him. "What sleazy? Is that how you talk about a little angel? Is that a word you use on a little angel?"
Leaning against the cabinet, Victor folded his arms. "You still remember you're a girl, do you? And if I'm not mistaken, 'little angel' usually refers to some guardian spirit of love."
"I am the guardian spirit of you and Shani!" She took a huge, crunchy bite out of the sausage, honor nowhere to be found.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Victor knew Angoulême had misunderstood. He didn't deny that he admired Shani—he did—but he had no intentions beyond friendship.
Because of lingering impressions from his past life's games, he'd never once considered "competing" with the White Wolf where women were concerned. The women he'd courted while stepping into Geralt's boots… if he tried pursuing them now as Victor, it would feel unbearably awkward—like stealing his own girlfriend from himself.
He pulled out an oren, flicked it up into the air, and caught it as it fell.
Besides, under the bright light of reason, he wasn't lacking anything, and he certainly wasn't desperate. Being plain-looking didn't matter either—if nothing else, Foltest had proved that charisma could carry a man a long way.
Victor wanted to preserve those good memories from his past life. He wasn't going to barge in as a third party and cut in. But there was no way to explain all those tangled psychological knots to Angoulême.
Seeing Victor go quiet, Angoulême assumed she'd hit the mark and grew even smugger. "Hurry up and thank me. Last night, this little angel even helped you get rid of a romantic rival!"
Victor froze. A rival? Geralt?
He sat back down at the table, face serious. "What do you mean? What rival? Geralt?"
Angoulême's smug expression jammed like a stuck gear. She frowned. "Why are you dragging that old man into it? He's been gone forever…"
Only then did Victor remember: to most people, Geralt was a story already finished. Only Victor knew the White Wolf still had another act of legend left to perform. But if it wasn't Geralt, then who?
"Sorry—wrong assumption. So who's this 'rival' you chased off for me?"
Angoulême recovered her confidence instantly. "A guy named Thaler. I haven't met him, but when I was chatting with Shani before bed, she said he's been pursuing her lately. Asked her out a bunch of times.
"So of course I did my best to trash him and sell her on you. I heard Thaler's bald and wears a monocle. Just imagining it makes me feel like he has to be the sneaky, conniving type."
The name rang a bell. Victor rummaged through his memory and found it—"Thaler, the King's Eye," from his conversation with Ramsmeat. And also "Thaler, head of intelligence," from the knights' talk. Someone with labels like that was very clearly not the right match for Shani.
So Angoulême's slander was, frankly, praiseworthy—just not for the reason she thought. Victor couldn't let her keep misunderstanding.
After thinking a moment, Victor set a hand on Angoulême's shoulder. Blue eyes locked onto brown. He rarely spoke to her like this—the last time was back at the docks when they'd been chased to the edge of death. That was enough to convey how serious he was.
"Stop trying to force her and me together. All it will do is make things awkward for everyone. She's close to me because we share interests—and because we both like hiking around with a herb pouch on our backs. But that doesn't mean she likes me.
"The person she loves is Geralt. Your old man."
He let go of her shoulder. Angoulême stared at him like he'd just said the sky was green. "R-really? She likes the old man?"
"Really. I have a reliable source."
"…But… even if that's true… the old man is dead."
Victor realized this topic was a bottomless pit. Even if he spoiled that Geralt would return someday, she wouldn't believe it—she'd witnessed Geralt get run through with her own eyes.
"Yeah… his shadow is still in her heart," Victor said, deciding to bluff his way past the trap. "So talk of dating anyone is still too early."
Only then did Angoulême rub her nose. "What a shame. I really like Shani."
"Still," Victor added, "if Shani talks about that Thaler guy again, pay attention. He's not a good person. I've heard things from Ramsmeat."
"Got it," Angoulême replied listlessly.
Victor stopped paying her any mind and started gearing up. He'd decided to head into the forest that morning to find Yaevinn, that slippery elf, and talk about payment for the female vampire—along with the matter of the so-called "underground ruins" that were, in reality, completely empty.
…
He took a boat across the lake. The morning air was crisp and clean, a few waterbirds skimming the surface and lifting his spirit.
As for Princess Adda's banquet… after last night's brawling session, Victor had more or less made peace with it. It was just a lute performance. If they wanted something cheerful, that was easy—he'd play a rollicking harvest jig, the kind that could make even the stiffest courtier tap a foot. No lyrics necessary.
As long as he judged the balance right—not too flashy, not too timid—Victor Corion's quiet life wouldn't be ruined. If he'd managed it for the past month, he could manage it now.
Once the boat reached shore, Victor stepped straight into the forest. Before long, guided by an elven scout, he arrived at the Scoia'tael commandos' new camp.
But on the way to find Yaevinn, Victor saw plenty of wounded fighters being bandaged up. Some blades still had blood on them. And the looks they gave Victor were no longer as friendly as before.
So Siegfried—or Jacques—clearly hadn't been sleeping on the job. Last night, the knights had hit the Scoia'tael hard. Of course, even in victory, the Order couldn't have avoided losses entirely.
All that meant was one thing: another entry added to the ledger of hatred.
As Victor reached the main tent, the commando commander came out to greet him. "Ah! My friend—so glad to see you safe and healthy."
Victor sighed at the elf's black hair and sharp, phoenix-like eyes. "That's more appropriate for me to say to you. I'm not the one picking up a bow to shoot knights… or getting hunted in a night raid by knights."
Yaevinn gave a casual smile and spread his hands. "As you can see, I'm fine. For friendship's sake, shall we skip that topic?"
Victor shook his head. "Your contract has progressed. Can we talk privately?"
Yaevinn lifted the tent flap. "Come in."
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