I smile. “The decorations on your breastplate are embossed. While that lends the craftsman a greater degree of artistic freedom, it also oft reduces the structural integrity of the armour itself, making it weaker in combat.”

She nods, visibly pleased. “Impressive, your eye for such archaic details is to be commended.” The girl then furrows her brow. “I had not thought a man of your character would vest much interest in such pursuits.”

“An open mind never does any harm. Whether it be in the realm of business, general knowledge, or traditions as honourable as yours,” I breathe in, extending my hand. “Lucius Mortius. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Jaiga al Heilewis”, She says, returning my handshake. “Likewise.”

Her face turns, and she diverts her focus to my roommate.

The elf-boy catches her meaning. “Harux”. He exclaims. “My name is Harux Y’ssanith!”

“Y’ssanith?”

For a moment, I think I catch a glimpse of indecision in her eyes. Something akin to a nonplussed glare. As a half-second lapses into two, however, it fades, leaving little trace as to its existence. I make a mental note of this detail, but otherwise, continue as custom.

“Have you two made any inquiries as to the Academy’s facilities?”

“We looked around and stuff, yeah!”

I conceal my surprise at Harux understanding the word ‘inquiries’ with a grin.

“We had a tour earlier this afternoon, alongside a crude examination by this strange teacher.”

“Ah, that must be Azama”. She says as if insinuating he would be the only one to do such a thing. “He’s my homeroom teacher.”

“For sanity’s sake, I hope he isn’t trouble.”

“On the contrary. My class receives him with warm welcome.”

Instinctively, I assume her class to be of a deranged, outlandish bunch, though say nothing of it.

“Well, I shall avail you of mine presence. I imagine you two boys must have worked up quite the ravenous appetite.”

“Why not come with? We’re heading there anyway.”

“Were it not for my duty, I would gladly. However, there are issues of responsibility that must come beforehand.”

I play it off as a shame and nod. Which Harux and I then take as an opportune moment to leave, going to our intended destination. After a minute of walking, we arrive. The sound and presence of the students send an uncomfortable tinge in my steps. There must be a few hundred students here, waiting, queueing, clamouring like desperate monkeys for food and reprieve.

“Pardon.”

I agonizingly squeeze between two morons blocking up the space with their small talk. In the process, I ‘unfortunately’ lose sight of Harux but manage to land in a line. There, I continue, picking up a tray and three bowls, stopping just short of an intersection, upon which I then take a turn left (suiting the culinary tastes of my choosing), and greet a lunch lady.

“Good evening, May I have Set 2, please.”

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I direct my query towards the brown-haired dwarf woman. A short lady that’s round of face, long of hair, and wears the attire of a barkeep in some antiquated tavern.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

The woman, who I now know as ‘Pessna’ (due to the nametag on her left breast), scoops out food into each of my respective bowls and beckons me on my way with a smile. Leaving no time for visual assessment, the torrential tide of adolescent hunger washes me away, sending me into the open cafeteria space.

“Urg-”.

A gang of goons pass me by, almost tripping me in the process. Taking the appropriate measures, I stop and lean my back against a nearby pillar.

“Hm”.

I scan the area for open seats. Increasingly vexed by the idea that there might be none, I change in course of action and, at once, begin to venture into the depths of this gastronomic jungle.

“Oh, hey.”

Almost miraculously, a voice I recognise enters earshot. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot its source. An average-height black-haired boy. He appears presently in a navy blue hooded sweatshirt and a pair of similarly coloured sports pants.

“Greetings, Yon.”

“Hey,” he says, replying with the enthusiasm of a dead fish. “Want to sit together?”

“Sure.”

United in objective, we vaguely scour our way through the crowds and after some time, arrive at an empty table at the far end of the cafeteria.

“This good?”

“Yeah,” I reply.

We sit down. Yon doesn’t say anything else and immediately sets about eating. I do the same.

“Let’s see”.

I try to gauge the contents of my supper with my spoon. At first glance, it appears to be separated into three bowls. One for steamed brown rice, the other for pickled vegetables, and the last for some kind of thick meat dish? It’s hard to tell what its contents are. But, judging by its brown colour, I can at least suppose it’s savoury.

“That’s Migramese sauce fried beef. The consistency comes from the sweet-bean paste in northern Aoelian cooking.”

“Sweet bean?”

Don’t beans belong in dessert?

“The main ingredient is wheat flour, so the bean flavour isn’t that strong.”

Yon looks up from his bowl.

“If you don’t like it, you can swap with me.”

He points to his plate after this comment, upon which I understand that he took a different set.

“So, it tastes sweet then?”

His expression remains placid. “A little. But it doesn’t overpower the dish.”

Yon relays his meaning with an approving nod. Which, contrasted against his still-glum appearance, grants me the motivation to push onwards. Digging into steamed rice and pickled vegetables with a spoon, I bring it to my mouth and bite.

“Hm.”

The taste is slightly salty and sour by way of fermentation. The mouthfeel is pleasant, too, with each subsequent chew resulting in an audible crunch of radish and rice. Not bad. I stare at my plate as I finish what’s left of the food in my mouth. Resuming my culinary journey, I then take some ‘sauce fried beef’ and try that.

“It’s alright,” I say, moderately pleased. That’s about the highest judgement I can give. My palette is a little unaccustomed to its distinct flavour, but I can objectively say that it's cooked well, with the flavours balancing each other out.

It’s a far cry from Guillaume’s home cooking and high-end restaurants, but it’ll do…

“Hey, Lucius!”

…Hm, it’s Harux. Right at my left, ready to plop down.

“I’m gonna sit next to you guys!”

“Yes, I figured.”

The elf-boy joins our merry band, now munching away. A short while passes in the same manner. The three of us engaged in our respective dinners, silent, without so much as a word. Such is a fine outcome, of course. But I cannot help but be reminded of another possibility. Having grown fonder of Harux’s presence over time, I make an attempt at small talk, hoping to reconcile relations with my roommate.

“So, where are you all from?”

Or rather, Harux and Yon. Two birds with one stone. Social relations, irrespective of how enjoyable they are, must, at times, be cultivated nonetheless. Ask any successful businessman, and they’ll tell you likewise.