"A what?” Earleon's eyes widened, and he looked around the place. “...what kind of wicked—”

  “That's not the worst part,” Zethir glanced at Hans and Julien. The two heard not a word of their talk.

  “I heard him talking about serving them as a meal. The woman and infant are dead,” Zethir placed his cutlery down, his mouth feeling rather foul.

  “I guessed,” Earleon clicked his tongue, also losing his appetite. “What do you plan on doing? We're here to scout the place, we don't even have weapons.”

  “I'm going to kill that man. Earleon, our goal here is to kill the king, right?” Zethir whispered, and Earleon's face paled.

  Without anyone noticing, he casted a spell.

  

  Zethir blinked slowly, feeling a bit dizzy. Picking up his knife and fork, he sliced a thin piece absentmindedly.

   He thought, when Earleon's voice echoed back.

   Earleon asked, his voice solemn.

  Zethir took a deep breath, cold sweat pouring down his neck.

  

  Zethir gritted his teeth.

  

   Zethir's knife scratched the plate, which attracted Julien's gaze.

  “Zethir?”

  “Don't mind me,” Zethir didn't even spare him a glance.

  

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Earleon sent out a hum.

   Zethir scoffed.

  

  

   Earleon sighed on his seat.

  

   Earleon countered.

   Zethir grabbed a glass of water.

  <... Who's paying?> Earleon's face stiffened.

   Zethir closed his eyes, before circulating his energy around his mind. Not a moment later, the heavy feeling disappeared.

  ‘That… was easier than I thought,’ he peeked at Earleon, who seemed startled.

  Shaking his head, Earleon wryly smiled at him. “Tell me before you do that,” he sighed, “it's a fragile spell. It only works when the target isn't resisting.”

  “I see,” Zethir stood up. “I'm going to the restroom.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned around. The restaurant only had the ground floor, but it was larger than most houses. Each seat had a wide gap, separated by numerous decorations.

  Despite this, navigating the place was simple—and the restroom was near the entrance. But, as he was walking, his gaze drifted to one of the occupied seats.

  There, a man and a woman were sitting together, wearing luxurious outfits. The man was wearing a dark blue suit with gold embroidered on the lapel, his pants matching them. On the other hand, the woman was wearing a white and scarlet dress, which showed off her supple, snow-white skin and her topaz-like eyes, which seemed like gold instead.

  On the contrary, the man's eyes were a dull blue.

  ‘A noble and a royal?’ Zethir quickly averted his eyes. Most people would say that the eyes were a portal to the soul—and they weren't entirely wrong.

  The brighter someone's eyes were, and the more intricate they looked, the greater their potential was. Him, for example, was praised for his ruby-like eyes.

  It was also his pride, even though he couldn't become a spellcaster due to unknown reasons.

  Ridding himself of unnecessary thoughts, he kept walking, just in time for a chef to turn around the corner. He was pushing a cart toward him, his head lowered down.

  “Careful,” Zethir frowned, moving out of the chef's path.

  “Ah,” flinching, the chef raised his head, locking eyes with Zethir. “Excuse me, my sir,” he bowed, and kept pushing the cart.

  On the other hand, Zethir couldn't move his eyes away from the chef's back, his eyes narrowed to slits. His gaze lingered, all the way until the chef stopped in front of the man and woman from earlier.

  ‘Could it be…’

  He turned around, walking briskly toward the restroom.

  “My dearest patrons,” the chef bowed toward the man and woman.

  “Oh, please. Don't be like this,” the man smiled, waving his hand to try and stop the chef.

  The woman, however, narrowed her eyes at the chef.

  “Then,” the chef showed off a bright smile. “If the sir and madam are ready, shall I prepare your meal?”

  “Please do,” the man nodded, while the woman moved her eyes away.

  “Ah,” the chef's smile grew a bit wider. Then, walking in front of his cart, he lifted the golden half-sphere lid off of a porcelain plate.

  There, several slices of meat were neatly arranged. Pleasantly, there was no blood or odor from the raw flesh.

  “I proudly present to you; our specialty. The freshest, and most exotic lamb you'll ever taste,” the chef's eyes curled to a smile.

  The man rubbed his chin. “The ‘freshest’? You never introduced your ‘art’ like that before, Osmheal. You're making me excited,” he laughed, lightly like a dandelion's flight.

  “O’ Vhiere, you should be. This one… is really the freshest. It's regretful that there's too little of—”

  “Disgusting,” suddenly, the woman muttered from the side. As the two men looked at her in surprise, she continued.

  “I won't stop your hobbies. But I'm not eating those things. Besides, this royal has already eaten.”

  “Valentina, how could you say that?” The man softly persuaded, but the woman only scowled.

  “Vhiere, please. You already know that I don't like this. I won't eat another…” she glanced at Osmheal, the chef, before clicking her tongue.

  “Whatever.”