Leaving the Pure White Hall, they walked along the White Stone Corridor. Through the carved columns, the entire courtyard memorial to Raffard the White lay in late-season decline—most blossoms were fading, and only chrysanthemums still burned bright in full bloom.
Following Lily Knight Roderick's stride, Victor replayed every line from the conversation a moment ago, then traced it back further—back to the night before last, to every sentence Roderick had said to him, right up until Victor had heard Triss's name and stopped paying attention.
"Is King Foltest arriving soon?"
"That's right. It's a rare honor. Temeria's ruler has finally made time to attend in person, so your 'exotic heroic epic' had better shine. It's His Majesty's favorite style."
Roderick said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It didn't sound like a setup. Besides, someone as insignificant as Victor—why would anyone bother to frame him? And Velerad had even called him over to confirm right before he went on, which hardly fit the pattern of a trap.
As he thought, Victor unconsciously slowed his pace. Roderick noticed the hesitation.
"What is it? Is something wrong?"
"Oh, it's very wrong—because he's a witcher apprentice," a familiar female voice cut in, saying something distinctly unpleasant. "He's good at bathing in swamps with drowners, fighting rotfiends for scraps in sewers, and pulling each other's hair with ghouls in graveyards. You want someone like that to step up and perform poetry? You're trying to get him killed."
Both the lily knight and the witcher apprentice stopped at once and turned toward the speaker—Keira Metz, who had somehow followed them without being noticed. She'd arrived just in time to hear Roderick's question and gleefully volunteer an answer.
She extended her left hand, covered by a thin lace glove, allowing Roderick an elegant kiss. She did not offer her hand to Victor, and Victor did not presume to reach for it.
"Esteemed royal advisor," Roderick said, "I can't pretend I didn't hear what you just said. You claim this poet is a witcher apprentice—what is the meaning of that?"
Keira giggled, her lively pale curves trembling slightly with the laughter. "Like you, I'd also love to know the meaning of it. A month ago, the Temple Quarter suffered a nighttime attack by thugs. A backwater lord from Morgon took offense at a passing witcher apprentice and hired killers to ambush him. He was the victim.
"And now, a month later, here he is—brazenly standing in this place, transformed into a poet from some far-off land. When Velerad asked me to fetch this 'Victor' so he could question him, I never imagined I'd end up finding him."
Victor could easily imagine what Roderick was feeling right now: pure, simmering fury.
And he was. The lily knight could barely believe he'd made such a mistake. "But Master Dandelion clearly—"
"If you mean that wandering minstrel who's always looking at women like he's starving, and who forgets his own name the moment he's drunk," Keira cut in sweetly, "then I must tell you: just as famous as his poems is his complete lack of responsibility."
The royal advisor was still smiling brightly. Victor kept his gaze fixed on her chin, only stealing a sliver of her expression from the corner of his eye—and then he understood.
The irony was this: Keira kept making him look foolish, but she didn't truly bear him much malice. If he dropped to the floor right now and begged her to save him—admitting he wasn't a poet at all, only a passing witcher apprentice—she might very well laugh and happily go explain it for him.
In simple terms, as long as he was entertaining enough, she didn't mind tossing him a bone. Keira was a spoiled girl. Her immense magic was the capital behind her childishness—much the same way Rose Knight Siegfried's rank and sword-arm gave him the luxury of being earnest.
With the truth peeled back layer by layer in front of him, Roderick's face turned ugly. Before he could speak, Victor stepped in.
"Allow me to explain… Victor Corion, from Bell Town beyond Zerrikania. I began learning staff notation and the lute at four, composed my first piece at five, and I'm confident I'm one of the finest musical poets under this night sky.
"Last year, when I crossed the Zerrikanian desert and first set foot on these lands, a witcher of the School of the Cat saved me from a griffin. He refused any payment, and he didn't even invoke the Law of Surprise to demand reward—he only asked that I repay the debt by becoming his apprentice.
"That is the whole story. As for how Master Dandelion and I came to share our hearts through poetry, I don't believe a sorceress—so obsessed with magic—could understand the subtleties of music and literature."
The last few lines were, without question, deliberately offensive.
Victor could understand that Keira was only looking for amusement, but having her undermine him twice still irritated him. He couldn't help adding that needless barb.
It wasn't the most rational choice—but he didn't even realize the real reason he'd done it: the flood of hormones in a young, strong body.
Faced with a beautiful woman, a man naturally wanted to show his best side. Being looked down on made him want to win back twice as much pride. And, frankly, what she was wearing was enough to make anyone's blood run hot.
If he didn't give that woman in the white, deep-V gown a clear demonstration of his ability—if he just let her sneer at him however she pleased—what would be left of his dignity?
But the moment he snapped back, even though Roderick looked a little better, Keira Metz's mood turned sharply worse.
In front of Velerad earlier, she hadn't exposed him on the spot—not only because Princess Adda was there and she didn't want to embarrass the princess, but because she'd wanted to see what this witcher apprentice would do.
Keira actually remembered the shy way he'd acted around her a month ago, and she'd noticed how politely he'd kept his eyes on her when he followed her just now. She'd been surprised to see him admit it so openly, and she'd chased after them to give him one last chance to back out.
Instead of taking it, he seemed genuinely confident in his "poetry."
Her smile faded into something colder. "Is that so? Since you're so confident, let me warn you: I know nearly every poem ever recorded on this continent. If your performance later is recycled from old work, or if you spout nonsense that can't even be called poetry, I will advise the king to punish you appropriately. Prepare yourself."
Victor lifted his head sharply. For the first time, he met Keira's eyes—his blue, hers brown.
"There's an old saying," Victor replied, calm and unbowed, stopping just short of outright insolence. "True gold does not fear the furnace. What's real can't be made false, and what's false can't be made real. I hope you'll look forward to my performance."
Keira shot him a hard glare, chin rising with arrogant pride. "I will." Then she turned and left, the faint trace of rosemary lingering behind her.
Roderick rubbed his neatly trimmed, forked mustache and cleared his throat twice. "Victor… sir. Lady Keira's knowledge of poetry is famously deep at court. Are you truly confident?"
"Relax. I'll leave them speechless—a genuine heroic epic, unmistakably exotic, a timeless legend from Bell Town beyond Zerrikania."
In truth, Roderick already half-believed the royal advisor. But he was trapped, too—what could he do now, march back inside and tell Princess Adda and Mayor Velerad that everything was a misunderstanding?
And then the solemn drumbeat sounded in his ears—the signal of Temeria's king arriving.
Roderick hurriedly waved Victor onward, pointing down the corridor. "Quickly! This way, Sir Victor."
//Check out my P@tre0n for 30 extra chapters //[email protected]/Razeil0810