High Society is 10% Fancy Wine and 90% Professional Hating

“And here’s the fun part,” Rod continued. “Killing a Red Dragon with a fire spell isn’t as hard as you’d think. In fact, it’s entirely possible.”

“Interesting,” one of the nobles replied. There were three in the group.

“I know, right? They’re naturally fire-resistant—but only to a point.” Rod stepped closer to the trio, taking them by surprise. “If you hit them with a spell that’s hot enough and concentrated enough, they’ll break.”

“I see, I see,” another noble replied with a nervous chuckle. The other two nodded along.

Rod laughed. “I call it Scarlet Lagoon. I’ve actually been waiting for the Mages’ Association to officialize the name, but I guess they’re taking their time. You know, I’m getting tired of proving it isn’t a lightning spell. I still need to study why it looks like lightning, but the fact remains: the spell releases heat in a condensed, hyper-focused blast.”

“How unfortunate,” the third noble replied, letting out a weary laugh that the others quickly shared. “Patience is a virtue, I suppose. Greatness takes time. But yes, yes… it is as you say. Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

The noble patted Rod’s shoulder and abruptly exited the conversation, leading the others away. Rod bowed, thanking them while doing his absolute best to maintain a polite smile—especially since all three looked visibly relieved to have escaped his presence. He sighed and dusted off his shoulders. Even the King’s Great Hall in Windermere Citadel wasn’t enough to make aristocrats appreciate the finer mechanics of magic.

A week ago, not long after they had felled the Red Dragon, the Banner of Dawn had been invited by King Bram Talvarin VI to celebrate their victory. With enough time on their hands, they had decided to splurge a bit on the outfits they would wear.

From their generous bounty, Rod sent a few gold coins back home and spent more than half of his remaining share on an outfit fit for royal galas. He had asked the tailor for something that stood out while remaining tastefully subtle. It sounded like a contradiction, but looking at his clothes now, Rod had to admit the tailor delivered—just as Marion and Lucan had promised.

He wore an elegant, knee-length coat with fitted sleeves and a high, stand-up collar. The collar, front placket, and sleeve cuffs were lined with muted green fabric, detailed with intricate floral embroidery in gold and pale green. Beneath it was a dark, high-collared shirt, fitted trousers, polished boots, and a tailored sash tied around his waist.

“You know, for a knee-length coat, it makes it remarkably easy to picture the size of your ass,” Valen said smoothly, approaching him with a glass of wine. “Are you holding up all right?”

Rod could swear she smacked her lips. “It’s a tough crowd.”

Valen groaned. “Tell me about it.”

“Language, my lady. We’re around nobility.”

Valen snorted and offered a grand bow. “My deepest apologies, good sir. I meant your buttocks—your glorious, redundant rear.” She straightened up. “Better?”

“Much better.”

“Still, you need to relax. These people aren’t even half my age.”

Valen took a seat at a nearby table and helped herself to a plate of grilled red dragon meat with a side of vegetables, gesturing for Rod to join her. With no one else to talk to as the hall grew crowded—mostly around King Bram himself—he obliged.

“I am loosened up,” Rod said.

Valen stared at him silently for two full seconds. “Language aside—no, you’re not. You look like an overeager schoolboy itching to show his parents a perfect test score. You need to look like this whole affair bores you. Like you only showed up because you were forced to.”

Rod chuckled.

The official ceremony had been short and sweet. King Bram Talvarin VI personally thanked the Banner of Dawn for their bravery and encouraged the nobles to call upon them for future troubles. The king had even made a point of serving the dragon’s meat for tonight’s banquet.

They had also received custom gifts from the Artisan’s Guild. Rod received a cloak crafted from the monster’s toughest scales. Its magic core was fashioned into a new focus for Valen’s porcelain staff, which she had already tucked safely away into her extradimensional pocket. Lucan was given another boring warhammer forged from its dense leg bone, while Marion received a horn for his alchemical brews.

The King’s daughter, Princess Rylen, had also been present, looking gracious and lovely. Rod had brushed her fingers when she presented the rewards, and her skin was impossibly soft. He convinced himself she had done it on purpose—which meant he might actually have a shot with her.

“Don’t get cheeky with me,” Valen continued, cutting into her food. “You get my point, right? High society is notoriously sensitive to people trying too hard to look useful.”

“I get it, but I’m not doing that.”

Valen shook her head. “Have you had anything to drink?”

“Yes.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Rod cleared his throat. “Ice water.”

“Figures.”

“You’re judging me.”

“I am.”

“For the record, I’m entirely open about hating alcohol. It burns my throat and makes me woozy.”

“That’s literally the point.”

“And that’s exactly why I hate it. I rest my case.”

“That’s what makes it fun. I mean, look at Marion.”

They both glanced across the hall. Marion was sprawled face-first on the white tiled floor, his arms limp behind his back and his legs spread awkwardly. A puddle of vomit pooled beside him, surrounded by empty bottles of potent liquor he had smuggled in himself.

“Not selling it,” Rod said.

“Look at him, proving every single Duwende stereotype in the book.”

“Seriously.”

Valen chuckled softly. “That’s supposed to be a heartwarming sight. You humans—especially nobles—just view it differently.”

Rod leaned back in his chair. “So, what are Engkanto drinking parties like?”

“Boring.”

Rod tilted his head.

“Galas are just games,” Valen explained. “Duwendes are by far the warmest. They truly let loose when they celebrate—competing over who can drink the longest and puke the hardest. The way humans do it is exhausting. It’s always about uncovering secrets or feeding your ‘friends’ misinformation.”

Rod shrugged. “It’s about securing an advantage when the time is right.”

“Except the right time never comes.” Valen sighed. “As for Engkanto parties? You’ve been to art galleries where pretentious snobs show off their work, right?”

“Sure.”

“It’s that, but with wine, bread, and cured meats.”

Rod straightened his posture, puffed out his chest, and cleared his throat in a dramatic mock-accent. “Ah, yes! A truly exceptional piece of bread. Its subtle salinity whispers like the ocean breeze, reminding me of my long-lost childhood home by the sea. The way the crust yields beneath my touch evokes the soft feather pillow I wept upon as a youth.”

Valen smiled, sipping her wine. “Worse.”

“Worse?”

They both burst into laughter.

“Though with a performance like that,” Valen added, “I’d almost believe you if you told me you were half-Engkanto.”

“Would that make me cool?”

“Oh, not at all. You’d probably just get hunted down by a few of our factions.”

“Good to know.”

Rod looked at Valen’s glass. It was still half-full. Catching his eye, she offered it to him with a playful smirk. Trying to erase the mental image of Marion on the floor, Rod snatched the glass and took a small sip. The liquid tasted pleasantly sweet for a fraction of a second before scorching his throat, making him wince.

He cleared his throat nervously. “So, how do I win this ‘game’, then?”

Valen rested her chin on her hand. “Give it a few years. There’s a reason bards avoid talking to nobles. Knowing who you enjoy talking to matters just as much as what you say. As you are now, you’re better off talking to children—and I don’t mean that as an insult.”

“Where would I even find them?”

“Schools. Orphanages. I could name a dozen. The city square, the market, the Guild’s training grounds. Why force yourself to pander to aristocrats anyway? Why not share your stories with people who actually appreciate tales of magic and heroism?”

Rod ignored the question. “It just feels like the natural next step. Besides, Princess Rylen is cute. I read somewhere that if enough nobles back you, even a commoner can marry into royalty. So…”

Valen sighed. “Ah. So that’s what this is about.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you actually like her, or do you just like the idea of marrying a princess?”

Rod stayed quiet. It was a tough question to answer, mostly because his reasoning was embarrassingly childish. It just made sense to him. That was how the legends went: the legendary knight slays the dragon and marries the princess. By that logic, the land's strongest mage should be able to win her hand, too. And currently, he was without a doubt the strongest mage in Talvarin.

“If that’s your goal, you should talk to Lucan,” Valen suggested. “He could give you pointers on how to handle nobles and leave a lasting impression. That’s how we land our highest-paying contracts.”

“How does he do it anyway?” Rod asked.

“Honestly? No idea.”

“Is it because he’s handsome?”

“You’re cute too, so I doubt that’s it. Maybe it’s his mysterious aura—the kind that makes people want to approach him and figure him out. Remember the game aspect I mentioned?”

Rod glanced around the crowded hall again. Marion was still passed out cold on the floor. King Bram was completely swarmed by brown-nosers. Poor guy. But something else caught his attention…

“Wait, have you seen Lucan recently?” Rod asked.

“Earlier, why? He was talking with some delegates from eastern Talvarin. Now that you mention it, I don’t see him anywhere.”

“Maybe he went outside for some fresh air.”

“Maybe.”

What felt strange, however, was that Princess Rylen was missing from the hall, too.