The party is nice. Alan’s suggested venue is nice. The music is nice. The food is very nice. So why do I feel so dissatisfied? The itching I feel is from desire, but to move away from something rather than the normal towards. It’s uncomfortable.

But why should I feel uncomfortable? Certes, there are more people than just our team as was originally planned, but they’re amicable enough. It is a bit tiring having to answer their questions about the various tactics I used during the test, but part of me feels flattered at all the attention.

A larger part of me feels irritated. They’re fawning to gain something, but what? This was the last test of the exam, so it’s not like answering their questions will help them get in. Well, maybe it’ll help in the interview, but that seems like such a vague and uncertain benefit for the interest they’re showing me.

Ser Terry is likewise surrounded by affable inquirers, but as my frown deepens, his smile grows more energetic, his laughter louder and friendly gestures – touches on the shoulder and the like that I would never know when to perform – more frequent.

I am beginning to dislike him.

But no, I lie. He’s irritating, but most irritating of all is that I can’t bring myself to fully dislike him. That charming smile, similar to Alan’s but without the seduction. In a way that’s worse. Alan is so successful in his amorous relations that he seems unable to fully erase that aspect of himself without focused effort. But with Terry… I don’t even know what he wants – what the smile is aimed towards. It’s almost like it’s a pure expression of happiness for the moment, with no anticipation of a future one which the smile is trying to achieve. As if he can’t imagine a future happiness worthy of such a smile.

It makes me envious, and then scornful of myself for stooping so low.

Fatigued by the questions growing duller and duller, I excuse myself from the circle by claiming a desire for the appetizers arranged on an overly ornate table.

The food is, as I mentioned, very good. I fill my plate mostly with smoky melted cheese on crackers, grilled vegetables with a tangy dip and little cuts of smoked salmon served on a thick crunchy slightly bitter leaf that I typically think of as a slightly effective treatment for joint pains.

I take my time filling the plate, miming consideration for each selected bite as I try to figure a way out of the friendly inquiries. Emily seems to be managing the trick. A few people asked her questions about her magic at the beginning, but now she’s alone reading in the corner.

Part of me wants to ask why she even came to a party, filling up the crowded room even more, if she’s just going to read. A larger part wishes that I hadn’t left my own book in the carriage with Alan. The biggest part wonders if her aura of solitude might be contagious. So, deeming my plate sufficiently burdened, I grab two glasses of rather watered-down wine and join her in the corner.

“Hey, I thought you might want a refill,” I say, offering the second glass on approach.

She eyes me suspiciously. “Aren’t you a good host.” The irony in her tone is thick enough for me to briefly reconsider my plan. Though it’s probably better than receiving more strange flattery.

I shrug. “Not really. If anyone is the host it’d be Ser Terry.”

“I thought your cousin owned this place. The other mage on your team… Adrian? They were surprised we could get in, much less get a private room.”

“I don’t know if he has ownership shares. My understanding is that the head chef is a client. Something about Alan discovering his cooking with his heightened senses and promoting them to his friends.”

“I see…” she says, finally taking the offered glass which she stares into in a thoughtful way that makes me feel it would be… well, not impolite, but something bad to interrupt. “Your cousin has many clients, no?” she finally says, her words given weight of meaning by the protracted pause.

I shrug. “I’m from a small isolated territory, so I don’t know what amount would be normal, but I get the sense that he’s better connected than most of his rank. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. This is just the third or fourth I’ve encountered since coming here. It might just be a coincidence. Like you, there weren’t that many competing nobles where I grew up, so I’m still getting a sense of what’s normal.”

“…I see.” Part of me wants to point out her uncharacteristic admission of ignorance, but I stop myself in time – realizing how churlish that would be.

“Yes… Now was there something else you wanted?” She gives me a brief assessing look before returning back to her book.

“Oh, no… just…” I don’t really want to admit I was hoping her aloofness might be transitive. “I guess I wanted to know why you’re reading while everyone is… chatting.” I can’t quite bring myself to say ‘having a good time’.

“…Back in Salunt, my parents would host parties. I always hated them, especially the dances which for some reason tended to be in the middle of summer when it was far too hot. It is cooler here like I’ve heard, but I’m looking forward to winter. Anyways, I’ve never gotten into the… rhythm of these things, though I do sometimes enjoy the energy. Not something to partake in directly but half-observe from the side. Mostly though I’m waiting for the servant I’ve sent to fetch my freezing chest.”

“Oh, you’re adding your frozen cream to the selection?... I’ve heard that’s good. I’m sure it’ll be a hit.”

She looks at me quizzically. “It’s odd. The sense of familiarity I had earlier intensified there. But anyways, you’re half right. I’ll be selling it to them. After all, I would hardly pass up so many rich noble customers gathered up in one spot.”

“…I’ve heard your prices are steep, and not everyone here is a noble.”

“If you’re worried about them feeling left out, then buy some for them yourself.”

Give others the frozen cream that I bought and could be eating myself? That’s not happening. Not unless she has drastically reduced her prices.

“You aren’t worried that your own advice about building resentment amongst our future classmates might apply?” I ask, hopeful that she might budge on her absurd price scheme.

She shrugs. “Maybe a bit, but my parents are being stubborn and still refusing to send me funds. Besides, my cream is so good they’ll be grateful to pay.”

A bit optimistic, though perhaps accurate with nobles. I certainly can afford more than last time – assuming her tendency for price hikes hasn’t held.

“Why would they withhold funds?” I ask. “I heard you’re practically guaranteed admittance. Aren’t they… proud of you?” That is something parents are supposed to be right? At least I’ve heard the phrase in association before.

“Yeah, well, maybe if they believed that I’ll get in. Mostly though they’re still upset that I left without telling them. They were worried about the journey, and I was worried they might do something embarrassing like impound my ship. They’ve never taken my magic studies seriously, saying that the new nobility won’t rely on it in the future. Really, they’re just jealous because of how mediocre they are. I mean, sure, some nobles these days don’t even learn magic. But they don’t understand how much more vital magic is than mere titles. They always described the inverted eye as torturous, and never mentioned the obvious beauty of it.”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

…Of course she’s one of the rumoured few who actually enjoys the eye that makes the world inverting its gaze upon them. It definitely explains why even her second most powerful spell is so much better than her competitors.

Though I suppose she’s not wrong that there is a beauty, and I wouldn’t go so far as to describe it as ‘torturous’, but it is still unnerving. I doubt I could force myself to study magic at anything close to the regularity I have been without falling back on the lavish comforts Alan has provided me. The bath, bed and food highest among them in that order.

“I think most mages would describe the eye as being somewhere in the middle.” I offer after consideration. “But I do agree that being a mage is just as important, or more so, as having a noble title.”

She gives a weak smile. “Thanks. Others in the capital, even other mages, don’t always agree.”

“But I’m confused,” I say, “I heard you fought pirates on the way here. Did that not pay well?”

“Oh, yeah. The bounty was pretty good I guess, though I went through that pretty quick on accommodations and servants.”

“What about the treasure?”

She blinks several times and looks up fully from her book to give a quizzical expression. “What treasure?”

“The stolen treasure on their ship.”

“Don’t they normally bury that or something?”

“Why would they? They typically use it to buy supplies and the like, and any stash might be divined by others. Better to keep it with them. Did you not find any when you took the ship?”

“… We didn’t take the ship. I just shattered it from about three miles out.”

“You shattered the whole ship? At once?” I stare at her incredulously.

“Yeah, just rapidly froze it, causing the water soaked in the wood to expand too quickly. But you’re saying there was treasure on board I could have taken?”

“Um, yeah. Did no one mention it?”

“… I’m sorry, I need some air.” She suddenly stands and walks out of the room.

I laugh, I can’t help it. I am jealous of her power. No doubt about half the exam takers could have destroyed a structure the size of a pirate ship, but not with one cast of a spell. The pirates would have had time to surrender before all dying. So, to see her find out she received less of a reward because she was too powerful is… funny, I guess. Not satisfying, but at least some compensation for my weakness.

“You are finally in the mood of the party?” the tall muscular bald mage who cast the sun orb says, suddenly by my side. Odd, since he was on the opposite side of the room a moment ago, and his garishly coloured robes are hard to sneak up in.

“I guess you could say that,” I say, straightening my face. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“I did not give it.” His face is as sombre as mine was a moment ago.

“…I’m Malichi Monhal,” I say as suggestion.

“I know.”

“…And you are?” Annoying for making me ask directly.

“An adherent of Mynharra, yes.”

I’m a bit taken aback. Such an obscure god. The cult barely mentioned them in my training, saying only that their contracts were strange and hard to identify. Some sources I’ve encountered suggest their contracts are all unique, both in the boons and oaths. Which is the opposite of what a deity typically wants. The reason why people take contracts is because they know what they’re getting and paying going in. Moreover, there was a story of one person making an oath with a contradiction hidden in it, and so immediately died after making it. Which, the fact that death might be on the table for the first contract would alone be more than enough reason to stay clear unless absolutely necessary.

“I see,” I say, “is not giving your name part of your contract then?”

“No.” His statement is immediate and infuriating.

“Then is there some other reason for concealing your name?”

“…My eyes see many things others do not.” He taps on the scarified symbols on his scalp. “I came here to give you a warning: Stay away from Ser Terrance.” He stares across the room at the sudden subject, and I finally see a glimmer of something behind the tranquil mask: the steady focus of a hunter.

But that’s not quite right either. If he is a hunter, Terrance is not his prey, as the expression does not change as the direction of his gaze does.

“Are your eyes your divination tool?” I ask, a bit uneasy at the implications.

“Yes.”

“That’s an advanced knight technique, is it not?”

“It’s not exclusive. In fact, there are greater benefits for a mage to use it.”

“And greater dangers too. Without a source of regeneration, it can cause permanent blindness, not to mention insanity.”

“Hence my contract with Mynharra.”

“Other gods offer regeneration.”

“My contract is not for regeneration.”

“…I see why you mentioned Mynharra then. They’re known for making things more difficult than needed. A trait you obviously share.” They laugh, slightly. “What will happen to me if I ignore this warning?”

“Nothing.”

“…To Terrance then?”

“…Nothing.”

“Then why would I heed it?”

He breaks his tranquil mask for an ominous smile. “You should not. But the you of now would disagree.”

I grit my teeth in annoyance. “You’re being absurd. If it’s true that I would change enough to disagree with myself, then it must be in the far future. But no divination method is powerful enough to counter the hundreds or possibly thousands of other divinations that one is minutely influenced by each day to see that far. No portable method at least, even if you sacrifice your eyes for it, and I would have noticed being the target of a grand ritual. Besides, if your eyes were that good, you would have killed me with your first orb.”

“…Yes, you’re probably right.”

… Unless a god is involved, he’s so obviously leading me to conclude. But prophecies are rare, or at least future ones are. They’re practically an act of war between the gods. But maybe a strange god like Mynharra could get away with one, though why I might be a worthy subject of one is a mystery.

“…Is there anything else I should know then?” I grow tired of this farce; if he has something to say he can say it or stop bothering me with this nonsense.

“Yes. You will make a sacrifice. It will be less painful to you both if you remain distant.”

Stunned by the emphasis on ‘sacrifice’ my hands instinctively grip weapons, but when I finally recover from the surprise he is gone – completely vanished from the room.

Emily walks in wheeling her freezing chest. Not wanting her to have time to gauge the depths of the room’s pockets, I use every ounce of the cat’s god’s grace to race across the room (without quite breaking into a run) and queue first.

“Ah, yes, um… how much for the frozen cream please?” I cough nervously as she looks at me in surprise at my sudden burst of speed.

“Oh, um… two small gold.”

“I’ll take three.” I beam as I pull out a medium and small gold. I know her games. It’s best to stockpile before she raises the price.

She gives me an odd look, obviously feeling her reported sense of familiarity again, but complies, handing me the scoops one at a time in the conical trenchers from before. A bit of an oversight since it’ll be difficult to hold them all at once, but by the cat god’s grace I shall manage.

“Today's flavour is…” she examines the scoop she just placed on the trencher, “some sort of nut and semi-burnt sugar.”

“You sound like you don’t know.”

“Oh, I um, experiment. I couldn’t quite remember what I loaded up. What about you? Are you trying to make friends after all?” She gestures to the third trencher as she hands it to me.

I blink. “No, these are all for me.”

“Huh… I didn’t take you for a glutton.” She no doubt is referencing my height and frame: still slight even after a month of decadence.

“Oh, I just heard they were good.”

“No doubt.” She looks sceptical, obviously trying to trace a memory again. “But you should seriously consider giving one away. I think you’ll need as much help as you can get making friends.”

I glance over the crowd considering her words. Is there anyone I would like to get closer to who can't afford a scoop? Maybe Ser Terry. He is an errant knight, and no doubt is saving up for his first magic full plate. But the Mynharran’s words ring in my mind, and I weakly shake my head.

Not feeling like socializing more, I retreat with my frozen treats outside. There’s a footbridge over a canal which I decide is the optimal eating spot. The night air is cool and brisk, and I take a moment to absorb the bustling night sounds in the distance before taking a bite of the icy orb. It’s… good. Just good, not overwhelming sacrifice-like good like the first one.

Something’s wrong. My shoulders are tense, my stomach a knot. I can’t relax enough to enjoy it.

“Is something the matter Malichi?” Ser Terry’s voice rings out behind me. “The main meal just got served.”

“Oh, I’m just tired. I think I’ll head home early.” The words of probably not prophesy rings in my mind.

Did he really mean sacrifice in the way I assumed? Surely not. If he did, why wouldn’t he just report me? The charlatan probably just heard of my penchant for getting my teammates killed and tailored his ominous warnings based on that.

But it’s not like it’s that unlikely to happen.

“Are you sure? It would be a shame if the team’s star couldn’t make a toast.” He moves closer as he asks, head tilted to get a better look at my face much closer to the ground than his.

“…I’m not really a toast person.”

He laughs softly. “Yeah, I got that. Riley will probably want to say something anyways. You don’t have to say anything, I’ll put you in a quiet spot. The food looks really good.”

“Yeah, I figured it would be. I’m just not very hungry right now.” I glance down at the two remaining trenchers. “…Would you like one? I think I got a bit overexcited.”

He smiles brightly. “Really? I was thinking of getting one, but the prices were so high. A medium gold for cart food? That’s absurd.”

“Yeah, have one.”

His smile intensifies as he bites into it. “This is amazing! It’s the best thing I’ve ever had!”

I can’t help but smile back as I bite into my own. It’s odd, this one is as good as the first one on the beach. Emily really needs to do better quality control.

“…Come on, let’s go back inside,” I say, brushing past him.

“Really?” His smile goes even deeper.

“Yeah… just, no toast, okay?”

“Promise!” He says in a way that I instantly disbelieve… but don’t mind.