John reached across the table and stole a slice of bread from the duchess's plate as if it had always belonged to him.
He took the butter next, drew the knife through it, and spread it in slow, even strokes.
The room stopped breathing. Maids froze with trays half lifted. Daisy's eyes followed the knife like it was a sword.
Duchess Rosalind watched him with the careful stillness of a woman weighing insult against intent.
John did not look up. He finished the buttering like it mattered. Then he lifted the bread and held it near Rosalind's mouth.
"Come, open wide," he said.
A hush fell hard enough to bruise. Rosalind's gaze flicked once toward the maids, toward the knights lingering at the room's edge.
She hesitated, pink lips pressing into a line of pride and warning, then she opened them anyway and took a bite.
John let her chew before he spoke again. He set the knife down with a soft tap.
"You've seen other nobles," he said, letting his voice carry. "They wear their airs like armor, even around their own blood. And at the end of the day... what are we?"
He stood, the jewelry on his robe chiming faintly. He pointed at a maid near the wall.
"You. What are you?"
The maid stiffened, eyes wide, mouth trapped shut. John did not wait for her to answer.
He turned, aimed his finger at a knight by the doorway.
"And you. What are you?"
The knight's jaw tightened. His hand fidgeted inside the metal gauntlet. He did not speak.
John opened both hands and lifted them as if he were offering the whole room to itself.
"We are people," he said. "In the end, you, you, and you, we return to the earth. So tell me, why put on airs, most of all to family."
Daisy's throat worked like she was trying to swallow something too large. Her eyes shone.
Tears slid down her cheeks before she could stop them.
John's words were crude, and the manners were worse, but the intent landed in her chest with a warmth she had been hungry for.
Rosalind's face softened. Not surrender. Just a crack in the armor. She breathed in, slow, and set her cup down.
"What is your intention, then?" she asked, calm as cut stone.
"I'm going to become a merchant," he said. "I mean, look at me. I already look the part. Isn't it obvious?"
Daisy spat her tea in a startled spray. A maid made a strangled sound and fled toward the corridor, dragging another maid with her.
John heard giggles break loose behind the door a moment later.
Rosalind's lips twitched. She tried to bite the smile back, but her eyes betrayed her first.
John did not let the moment die. He dropped to the floor and flung one arm across his forehead like a tragic heroine.
"My honor," he cried. "Alas. It has been besmirched."
Daisy burst into laughter, tears and all, her shoulders shaking. Rosalind pinched her own side as if pain could keep the giggle in, and failed.
The laugh escaped her anyway, small and real, and the whole dining hall felt warmer for it.
When the laughter finally eased, Rosalind leaned forward, expression settling into something firmer.
"I speak in earnest now, John," she said. "What do you intend to do?"
John pushed himself upright, brushing his robe as if he had not just performed on the floor.
"For now?" he said. "Business. Something real. And something even you would benefit from."
Rosalind's brows lifted. Interested on what John have in mind.
"Oh. Pray tell your plan?" she asked.
John's straight face held for two breaths, then he shook his head once, as if disappointed in himself.
"This won't do," he said, cutting himself off. "It's better if I put it on paper. If you invest, you won't be left in the dark."
Rosalind studied John, then looked at Daisy. For the first time, she felt they were not three people from broken families, seeking warmth from each other, but a real family. She touched Daisy's hand, and asked.
"How was your study in magic?"
As Rosalind and Daisy began to talk, voices low and gentler now, John's attention slipped to the glimmer in his vision.
{First mission. Go forth and greet the mistress of this house, Duchess Rosalind Everhart, with finesse. Hold thy manner steady, thy words well chosen and warm, and keep discourse with her no less than five minutes.}
{The deed is done. The mission stands complete.}
{Wilt thou claim thy reward this very moment?}
Excitement rose in John fast, hot, boyish. He covered it with a cough.
Looking for a way out, he leaned in and pulled both women into a quick, clumsy embrace, arms around their shoulders like he meant to anchor them there.
He lowered his voice to a whisper for them alone.
"You're the only people in my heart," he said, voice steady but bare. "I just... I hope I'm in yours, too."
Daisy made a small sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. Rosalind went very still, then hugged back.
John released them before the moment could turn sharp. He waved, too casual, and slipped out with a loaf tucked under his arm like stolen treasure.
As he walked the corridor back to his room, his cheeks were flushed and his steps too quick. He looked like a young man anticipating a gift.
Arriving at his room, John shut the door behind him and turned the lock with a firm click.
Only then did he let out the breath he had been holding. He rubbed his palms together, feeling the nervous heat in them.
"I hope to God this is good."
His mind was already racing ahead to the sort of gifts men always imagined they deserved.
A heroic sword that would make him peerless. A forbidden tome that would let him wear arcane power like a cloak.
"Sir System," he called, "Where are you?"
The answer slid into his vision at once.
{Speak not so rough, Sir John of Sins. Summon me not with noise. Merely turn thy thought to me, and straightway I am here, seen through thine own eyes.}
John blinked at the words.
"Alright," he muttered. "If you say so." A pause, then the edge slid back in. "Now. Where's the reward?"
A huge button formed above the golden knight insignia, bright and inviting, the sort of thing meant to be pressed.
{Claim Now.}
John did not hesitate. He clicked.
Light burst in front of him, sudden and blinding, as if someone had opened a door into noon.
He jerked back and threw his hands over his eyes, fingers spread, useless against the glare.
John tried to peek through the gaps between his fingers. In the glare he could only make out a hard rectangle, edges too clean to be smoke or dream.
He squinted harder, hungry for a better look, and pain bit into his eyes like sand. Tears welled at once. The light would not let him stare it down.
Then it collapsed. The room dimmed back to gold and shadow, and something hung in the air at the center like a slow drifting leaf.
A piece of black cloth. Small. Neat. Weightless enough to float, honest enough to look like nothing at all.
John stepped closer and touched it with the tips of his fingers. The fabric was cool. Smooth. Real.
He stretched it between both hands. His fingers trembled.
He ran his thumbs along the seams, pinched at the folds, checked for anything stiff hidden inside. Nothing.
His face tightened. Disbelief turned into something uglier. He scrunched his nose and flung the black cloth into the corner like it had insulted him.
"Fuck," he hissed. "Who even needs underwear right now?"