The candles on the ceiling flickered brightly.
Their light spilled across the room, illuminating the delicate silverware and porcelain plates on the dining table. The duke's feast hall was spacious and lavish. Portraits of generations of the house's members hung on its walls.
The air was thick with the scents of roasted meat and rich wine. It should have felt warm and pleasant, but tonight, the atmosphere was delicate.
"Truly, you must have misunderstood what I meant." The duke was still seated at the head of the long table, holding a glass of red wine, his face stiff.
His fingers unconsciously rubbed the rim of the glass, and his eyes flicked toward Ian every so often, a hint of unease gleaming within them.
The duchess sat beside him, seemingly graceful as she cut into a piece of roast lamb. However, her movements were far slower than usual. The sound of knife and fork striking porcelain rang unnaturally loud in the quiet feast hall.
"Heh." Riddle sat nearby, the corners of his lips curling slightly into a smile. His eyes glittered with amusement as he savored the duke's nervous, timid demeanor.
One could say that Riddle's psychology was the embodiment of Voldemort's deep delight in others' fear.
Some of Voldemort's nature was already beginning to reveal itself.
"Um…"
Seeing Ian remain silent, sweat began to bead on the duke's forehead. He couldn't help it. Even though he already regarded Ian highly, he had just received a shocking revelation from his daughter, Young Morgan.
The forest where the terrifying destruction had erupted earlier in the day was caused by her teacher battling the legendary wizard Merlin. And the result? Supposedly, it was an even match.
In five minutes, he had struck Merlin five times, scarred him in five places, and sent him fleeing five furlongs away.
Upon hearing such news and realizing the person in question was Medivh, how could the duke not panic?
This was not an emotion that noble composure or trained restraint could suppress.
"In truth, it's all just hearsay. Yes, all the information I mentioned was given to me by others, by Count Leon, and from the rumors spread by Uther Pendragon's side." The duke's words carried the air of someone desperately shifting blame, clearly trying to dump responsibility onto his rivals.
One must admit, this was perhaps the peculiar cunning of an old-line noble. His heart may have been in turmoil, but, as the saying goes, he sought victory amidst chaos. Clearly, he was also entertaining the idea of using Ian's hand to strike at his enemies.
"..."
Ian was a little speechless.
His silence wasn't born of anger. He simply had no idea what to say.
'Should he rebuke him?'
Should he give a performance of The Dragon King Returns?
That didn't seem like his style. He enjoyed pushing his luck, but when it came to Morgan's family, he worried that the young "bad woman" might hold a grudge against him.
After all, that was exactly the kind of person he was. How could he judge others by any standards but his own? Birds of a feather flock together, and when it came to holding grudges, he and his black witch teacher were cut from the same cloth.
Since Morgan lived in the Twilight Zone, specifically in this castle, Ian reasoned that the place must carry special meaning for her.
"Father, stop making excuses." Morgan still stood there with her head lowered, her cheeks faintly flushed. She was clearly still embarrassed about what had just happened.
A few minutes earlier, the duke had flown into a rage upon discovering her secretly stashed work by Medivh and had mocked Medivh right in front of Ian.
Yet, the instant Morgan blurted out, "My teacher is Medivh," the duke's face turned deathly pale, and the goblet in his hand nearly slipped to the floor.
Which led to the scene Ian was now witnessing.
"Cough, cough..." The duke cleared his throat, attempting once more to dispel the awkward atmosphere. "Your distinguished self, about what just happened...please don't take it to heart. I have a limited understanding of Master Medivh, and I was misled by vile men into forming misconceptions. I sincerely apologize."
As he spoke, he rose to his feet and gave a deep bow, displaying a level of dedication that was almost ahead of its time.
"Duke, there's no need to be so tense. I haven't taken offense." Ian weighed his words carefully, deciding not to smirk. His gaze remained calm and profound.
"The name Medivh naturally draws controversy. I've long grown accustomed to it." This was true, though he was also deliberately leading others to believe he was different from the rumors.
Whether or not the duke and duchess truly believed him, they both wore expressions of agreement, at least on the surface. The duke even drew upon some of his own "scandalous rumors" to draw a comparison to Ian's situation.
Old nobles really knew how to seize every opportunity.
Sensing the duke's emotions, Ian was certain that if even a shred of the "scandals" were true, the man would be bold enough to perform a feast in Hogwarts' lavatory on the spot!
Clearly, the duke was trying to affirm his belief in Ian's words while suggesting to his wife that the rumors about him were baseless.
"These old men really know how to play mind games!" Ian inwardly gave the duke a thumbs-up in admiration.
Of course, perhaps Lady Igraine didn't believe it either, or maybe she was uneasy for other reasons. While her husband kept droning on, she cut in, deliberately shifting the topic.
"Speaking of which, the common folk in our area lead such interesting lives. During the Harvest Festival, the farmers hold grand celebrations. They dance around bonfires and weave straw into all sorts of shapes for decorations. They hang these decorations on their doors to pray for an abundant harvest next year."
Lady Igraine spoke as if she were genuinely fascinated by the festival.
"The Harvest Festival is one of the most important holidays here. After working hard for an entire year, the farmers can finally relax and enjoy the fruits of their labor on this day."
"Of course, seeing the farmers' harvest is also beneficial for us lords." The duke immediately followed up with a sigh of appreciation.
Morgan joined in at that moment. "Those wandering bards walk through the streets during the festival, performing acrobatics and magic tricks while telling stories of all kinds."
"Their skills may not compare to those of real wizards, but they still bring plenty of joy to ordinary people." Morgan had clearly experienced those common folk festivals firsthand, and she seemed to have enjoyed them quite a bit.
The duke nodded, indicating that Morgan could sit down. His tone carried a trace of nostalgia. "Yes, those bards. Though their lives are harsh, their performances always made people forget their troubles. I remember once when a bard transformed a rope into a living dove."
What was ordinary to wizards would indeed seem extraordinary to commoners, and clearly, the duke had a deep impression of such performances.
Riddle, sitting to the side, maintained his outward graceful posture, but a flash of disdain crossed his eyes. He muttered to Ian in a low voice.
"Those so-called 'magic tricks' of bards are nothing but cheap deceptions. True magic is not meant to amuse commoners."
Beyond his disdainful tone, Riddle's voice conveyed an arrogant sense of his wizarding identity and a blatant contempt for ordinary people, exactly matching Ian's image of Voldemort.
"Tom, the lives of ordinary people are not without value. If you cannot understand the beauty within them, I fear that no matter how many chances you're given, you will never stand among the legends."
Remember, this world does not rely on wizards, but on the common folk you look down upon." For once, Ian spoke with rare earnestness, lecturing another.
Riddle's worldview was something he could not accept.
(To Be Continued…)
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