One of the maids stepped forward once the final dish had been cleared, her movements careful and precise. She spoke softly as she demonstrated the correct posture for sitting at a noble table, guiding Euris with small gestures rather than direct touch. When the lesson seemed finished, another servant arrived, carrying a fresh dish—untouched, deliberately placed before him—not meant to be eaten, but to be observed.
"This is how you hold the spoon," the maid explained patiently, adjusting her own grip to show the angle. "The knife follows the curve of the plate. The fork is never clenched."
Euris watched with calm attention.
Inside, however, he was laughing.
The sound echoed wildly in his mind, sharp and unrestrained, yet none of it escaped. His lips barely twitched, a faint, almost invisible smile threatening to surface before he forced it down. He already knew this. Not perfectly, not consciously, but enough. The body he now occupied carried fragments of a past he did not fully possess—habits etched into bone and muscle, impressions without faces or names.
He did not remember learning etiquette, but his hands remembered.
When the maid stepped back, Euris repeated each movement exactly as shown. His posture straightened naturally, neither rigid nor careless. His shoulders aligned, his spine steady. His hands folded neatly where they were meant to rest. When the instruction ended, he did not rise immediately or look around in confusion.
He waited. That pause—measured and deliberate—did not go unnoticed.
Ethral had been observing him since the lesson began.
She lifted her teacup and took a slow sip, the steam curling faintly against her face. When she set the cup aside, porcelain met saucer with a controlled, practiced sound.
"You learn quickly," she said, her voice neutral, but her eyes sharp with interest.
"I d-did what I-I was shown and told," Euris replied, hesitation carefully threaded into his tone, his gaze lowered just enough to suggest humility rather than fear.
A faint smile touched Ethral's lips. It was not warm, nor was it cruel. It was the expression of someone who had noticed something and chosen not to comment further.
"Good," she said. "Because today, that will matter."
Euris lifted his eyes slightly—only enough to show attention, never enough to challenge.
"There's a council session this morning," Ethral continued as she rose from her seat. "And you'll be coming with me."
The words were simple, but their weight was not. Euris stood immediately and bowed with measured precision. "As you wish, my lady."
She passed him, her robes whispering softly across the polished floor. "This will be your first time outside my private walls," she added without turning back. "Meaning it will be the first time others see you."
Understanding settled in instantly. This was not about escorting her. This was about presentation.
They moved through the manor corridors together, though never side by side. Euris followed half a step behind, exactly as he had been instructed. The manor itself seemed to react to Ethral's presence. Servants quickened their pace. Guards straightened unconsciously. Conversations softened or ceased entirely.
And every time—every single time—eyes flicked toward him. Not openly. Curiosity hid behind discipline.
Ethral stopped near a tall window overlooking the inner courtyard. Sunlight poured through the glass, casting long, angular shadows across the marble tiles below. Fountains murmured faintly in the distance, their sound swallowed by the manor's vastness.
"Listen carefully," she said without turning. "The council is not a place where truth is always valued. It is a place where usefulness is measured."
"Yes, my lady."
"You will speak only if spoken to."
"Yes, my lady."
"You will not explain yourself. You will not defend yourself."
Euris hesitated, only for a breath. "And if I am accused?"
She turned then, her gaze sharp enough to cut. "Then you remain silent unless I say otherwise."
He lowered his head. "Understood."
Her eyes lingered on him, assessing. "Fear would be natural," she added. "But fear makes people sloppy. Don't be sloppy."
"I won't be." That answer satisfied her.
They continued onward, eventually reaching a quiet chamber where two attendants waited. Laid neatly upon a cushioned bench was a set of clothes—clean, tailored, unmistakably noble. Every stitch spoke of intention rather than comfort.
The suit, prepared near his bed, displayed on a polished stand as if it were an artifact rather than attire. It was a long white jacket with a high collar and an asymmetrical closure edged in red. A flowing red cape hung from the right shoulder, secured by an ornate, jewel-set clasp. A broad red sash wrapped around the waist, paired with slim white trousers. White boots rose to the knee, laced carefully, while silver chains draped elegantly across the chest and waist.
It was excessive. It was powerful. It was not meant for someone like him.
"You'll wear this," Ethral said simply. And then she went to her room.
As the attendants adjusted the final details, he noted how everything fit perfectly, as though measured in advance. This was not generosity. It was a strategy.
When he descended the stairs, servants glanced at him—once, twice—before looking away. Admiration flickered briefly before restraint took hold. They knew their place. And now, so did he.
When he reached the corridor, Ethral was already ready and waiting.
She wore the same colors. The same cut. The same chains.
As if they had been crafted together.
For a moment, she paused. Color brushed her cheeks before she composed herself, her expression sharpening once more.
"Relax," she said. "You're not a guard. You're not a knight. Just… consider yourself a knight."
The word settled heavily in his mind.
Outside, the air changed. Guards doubled. Stone replaced sunlight as archways swallowed the path ahead. A carriage waited beyond the gates, polished and emblazoned with Ethral's crest—a sigil recognized across provinces.
Before entering, she leaned closer.
"This is important," she said quietly. "Today, you do not exist as yourself. You exist as mine."
"I u-understand," Euris replied.
And he did. The carriage rolled forward, leaving the manor behind.
The road stretched wide and well-maintained, lined with boundary stones etched in old script—marks of jurisdiction and protection. As they approached the capital, the land grew denser with signs of authority. Watchtowers. Guard posts. Waystones humming faintly with dormant magic.
Through the narrow window, Euris observed the city's outskirts. Trade caravans waited in orderly lines. Merchants displayed permits. Citizens bowed as the carriage passed—not out of fear, but habit.
Power ruled here quietly. Inside the carriage, Ethral spoke again. "We'll attend a banquet first. Then the council."
Euris nodded. His eyes reflected the city as it unfolded before him.
This world was not ruled by chaos. It was ruled by structure. And today, he would step into its core.