Chapter 6
Lessons at the Table
The chef had carefully prepared bite-sized pieces of chicken, and the fork sank into the soft meat effortlessly. I didn’t even need to taste it to know it would be delicious, so I happily tapped my legs in excitement and popped a piece into my mouth. Nom.
“Mm! So good!”
“…Hah.”
From the side where His Grace the Duke had become little more than a human folding screen, a sigh of disbelief escaped—but I didn’t care. As I moved on to the second-smallest carrot, Marquis Mafilda spoke in a pleased tone.
“Truly remarkable. So young, yet she can manage a meal perfectly on her own, without assistance.”
“Marquis Mafilda, are you out of your mind?”
“She doesn’t even pick and choose what she eats. How admirable.”
“You don’t think it’s abnormal for a child who just lost her guardian to have that appetite?”
“….”
For the first time, a crack appeared in the gentle, amiable expression of Marquis Mafilda.
‘Phew.’
But I wasn’t particularly surprised. Ezekiel Ricard wasn’t one for flowery words, even in jest. Compared to the harsh criticisms I’d endured in my past life, a “abnormal appetite” was barely even noticeable.
Still, it was natural for Marquis Mafilda—both the daughter of the nurse who raised my mother and my own caregiver—to be flustered.
“Who dares—”
“Our mother always said so, you know?”
Before the situation could spiral out of control, I quickly interjected. Ezekiel’s sharp gaze swept toward me.
“Eating well is the basic rule.”
I wiped the sauce from my lips with a napkin as I continued.
“You eat whenever you can. Don’t waste the chance. And never waste food—it’s forbidden.”
“…Very Rosalind of you.”
“Yes. People can only think properly when their stomach is full.”
“Listen closely, Asha.”
My mother’s voice, repeating the same advice over and over, still echoed vividly in my mind.
“Eating well is fundamental. You eat when you can. People are simpler than you think—sometimes closer to animals or machines. Just like a machine needs energy to work, humans need to be well-fed to think clearly.”
…How long would I be able to remember this voice so vividly?
“She always said she’d never seen anyone picky about food fight well on the battlefield.”
“Mom never puts it that elegantly.”
I set down my fork, looking Ezekiel Ricard directly in the eyes.
“Those who complain at the table are always the first to die.”
I repeated the harsh words of Beatrice Ricard exactly as she would have said them, without softening them for politeness. Of course, it was deliberate.
‘I am no longer Beatrice Ricard.’
It was a vow to myself and a declaration toward the ties of my past life.
I was Sha. The name my mother called me was Asha—meaning “sunlight” in ancient Arcana. When she first saw my golden hair at birth, she thought, ‘Why is the sunlight so strong in this birthing room?’ and instinctively shielded my forehead. The midwife reportedly laughed and said:
“You were born with a little sun on you.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
My mother gazed at me as if enchanted, speaking:
“Asha has arrived.”
By dying as Beatrice, I shed that identity and, at the moment my mother first saw me, became Asha—the little sun.
Not Ricard the nuisance, but my mother’s little sunlight.
That was my only pride. My shining shield, my spear pointed straight at the past.
Meeting Ezekiel’s gaze directly, his eyes narrowed slightly. He muttered:
“…Not a single thing about you resembles me.”
“Thanks for the compliment!”
“It’s not a compliment.”
“Well, it is a compliment to me!”
Seeing me reply cheekily, Ezekiel shook his head, apparently deciding he wouldn’t indulge me any further. Just as I intended.
As expected, Ezekiel turned to Marquis Mafilda.
“Rosalind may be a collateral branch, but since she has succession rights, the Rite of Faith must be held at the palace. Who will guard the party?”
“Not yet determined.”
“…What?”
Ezekiel’s thick eyebrows twitched ominously. This time, I couldn’t scoff. I was just as surprised.
‘No guards yet?’
Everyone in the Empire knew: to prevent a deceased mage’s body from falling into demonic hands, they must be immediately transported to the Mage Tower for the Rite of Faith, where the “Flame of Origin” will consume them.
‘Even a three-year-old would know that.’
Failing to send a dead mage to the Mage Tower or tampering with the body was a grave crime, punishable by death.
Furthermore, all lords or governors were obligated to protect the deceased mage’s journey and ensure all necessary arrangements.
And my mother wasn’t just any mage. Though collateral, the Caledro Dukes were of royal blood.
The current imperial family was closest to the secrets of magic; anyone of that blood had to undergo special procedures at the palace upon death.
‘Even as a collateral branch, it seems unnecessary…’
The first Caledro Duke was the younger brother of the emperor’s grandfather; my mother was the third generation. By now, even counting ties to the royal family seemed almost meaningless. Though they weren’t a family of lesser means, neither my mother nor I could be called unimportant.
‘Anyway, with succession rights, the palace dictates the procedure, so we follow.’
Normally, only imperial mages had exceptions for the Flame of Origin outside the Mage Tower.
Considering all this…
“Of course, the royal family would have sent the palace guard.”
I thought the same.
Yet Marquis Mafilda, calm and smiling, shook his head.
“No. None will come. I told them it’s unnecessary.”
“What—?”
Ah, dangerous.
Ezekiel’s expression, already sharp, turned icily severe.
“Explain exactly what nonsense you’re talking about.”
His voice was low, dark, and filled with lethal intent.
“This is the body of a mage, once called the North’s strongest weapon and final fortress. A matter of the utmost importance—demons above the rank of legion commander may appear. And this child is here.”
“….”
“She is the sole surviving direct line of the first Caledro Duke before his death. Think that’s all? The current imperial household has no Empress to guide, nor a clear will from His Majesty. Compared to those two, the Ricard blood I passed to this child is infinitesimal.”
Normally taciturn, Ezekiel’s speech increased—a very bad sign. Veins stood out on his forehead and neck.
“Has anyone ever held Ricard and Caledro’s bloodline along with the first succession rights of the Loengrantz dynasty? Never. A three-year-old of unprecedented nobility. She must face not only demons, but the entire Empire’s humans. Am I wrong?”
“….”
Marquis Mafilda did not deny it. He tacitly admitted Ezekiel was right.
