Chapter 677: Interlude—The Wind Never Ceases

The ancient Silver Keep had been thoroughly restored. The shrubs and flowerbeds were neatly trimmed, centuries-old classical columns and arcades adorned with vibrant garlands. Banners bearing the imperial crest hung from the castle’s second floor all the way down to the ground. In the grand courtyard before the main fortress, preparations for the evening banquet were complete—

The coronation banquet was divided into two parts: an inner banquet held in the castle’s main hall, lavishly decorated and governed by strict etiquette; and an outer banquet in the front courtyard, inviting nobles from the capital, merchant representatives, clergy, and citizens alike.

Unsurprisingly, Rebecca preferred the lively atmosphere of the courtyard.

Though forced into a formal court gown for the occasion, the elegant dress couldn’t contain her restless spirit. She darted back and forth between the flowerbeds and fountains in front of Silver Keep, eyes wide with curiosity. The last time she’d been here, she was a fallen minor noble from the southern lands, shadowed by her ancestors’ watchful presence, too timid to wander freely or even glance around without caution. But today… no one could control her.

At least, no one dared—except for two elders.

“The northern shrubs are so different from the south,” Rebecca said, crouching by a flowerbed, tugging at the branches of the bushes as she chatted nonstop with the maid beside her. “We hardly see these plants back home—they’re especially hard to keep alive. The druids at the academy have been researching how to transplant plants between north and south. They want to develop more cold-resistant crops… Have you heard about the agricultural research group?”

The maid trailing Rebecca was a blonde woman in her twenties. She looked helpless but cautious, glancing around nervously before bending down to gently warn, “Your Highness… please don’t get too close to the plants. Your dress—”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m only wearing it for today,” Rebecca waved her off. “More importantly, do you know how to make a whistle out of leaves?”

The blonde maid blinked, clearly at a loss. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I don’t.”

“That won’t do. You’re no better than Betty then… Speaking of which, where’s Betty?” Rebecca suddenly remembered the little maid who had come with her. She looked up, scanning the area as she asked casually, “Hey, have you seen Betty?”

The maid tried to follow the princess’s train of thought before realizing who she meant—the somewhat slow-witted little maid. “I saw her just now, daydreaming by the fountain.”

As she answered, the maid couldn’t help but grumble inwardly. She couldn’t understand how that seemingly dim little girl had been appointed head maid of the inner court—a position even higher than hers. Betty was clueless about court etiquette, slow to react, and seemed overwhelmed by the crowd. She didn’t know where to stand and would just zone out near flowerbeds or fountains when no one was paying attention…

Yet somehow, this slowpoke was deeply favored by the new royal family. It was baffling.

Before the maid could dwell on this further, she saw Rebecca crane her neck toward the fountain. The princess’s next move nearly made the maid jump out of her skin—Rebecca raised her hand and sent a bright, dazzling fireball soaring into the sky.

“Your Highness! You can’t—”

Before the maid could finish, the fireball exploded above the courtyard, the magical flames forming a clear, neat string of letters in midair: “Betty, come here.”

Within moments, to the maid’s stunned gaze, Betty came running swiftly from nearby and bowed deeply before Rebecca. “Miss, did you call me?”

The blonde maid wanted to remind the new head maid that the proper form of address was “Your Highness,” not “Miss,” but the two girls were already ignoring her. Rebecca and Betty crouched together, plucking several leaves from the bushes and folding them into leaf whistles. They took turns blowing, giggling and laughing like children.

Gawain had guessed who was behind the fireball message as soon as he saw the letters burst in the sky. He followed the direction of the fireball with Amber and found Rebecca crouched on the ground blowing leaf whistles with Betty. Standing nearby was the blonde maid, looking utterly lost.

“Your Majesty,” the maid stammered nervously, “Her Highness…”

Before she could finish, Rebecca jumped up excitedly. “Wow! The ancestor has arrived!”

Betty was a beat slower but stood as well. “Master… ah, Your Majesty.”

Despite her usual slow reactions, Betty had remembered the correct title—though she’d initially gotten it wrong.

“That’s alright. Relax and enjoy yourself today,” Gawain said, smiling at Rebecca, who wore the court gown but seemed completely unfettered by it. He waved a hand. “Just try not to throw fireballs anymore. After dark, mages patrol the castle skies. Besides the designated magical fireworks, sudden fireballs like that might cause accidents.”

“Oh, got it…”

Gawain nodded and then looked at the flustered blonde maid. “You’re one of the original Silver Keep maids, right?”

The maid quickly lowered her head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Relax and get used to it. If you want to continue serving the new royal family, you’ll have to adapt to a life with fewer rules.”

“…Yes, Your Majesty.”

Gawain was about to leave when Rebecca called out, “Oh, by the way, ancestor, I heard the black-haired maid beside Duchess Victoria is actually a black dragon in her true form. Is that true?”

“Who told you that?” Gawain stopped, surprised. “That rumor isn’t exactly a secret… but it’s not public knowledge either.”

“I heard it from Philip, and several soldiers were talking about it too.”

“Hmm, yes, there were many witnesses that day,” Gawain nodded. “Her name is Maggie. She is a black dragon, but she doesn’t go around advertising it. Why the sudden interest?”

“Just curious, I guess. It’s amazing that a dragon lives among humans…” Rebecca blinked, eyes full of wonder. “I heard dragon magic is very powerful. Do you think Maggie can use dragon language magic?”

“That’s hard to say. Maybe, but probably weaker than a normal dragon,” Gawain said casually, then warned, “It’s not polite to gossip behind her back. You can ask her directly, but be respectful. Her dragon heritage has some… complications. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, don’t push.”

Rebecca nodded vigorously, serious as ever. “Don’t worry, I’m very polite!”

Honestly, Gawain doubted how “polite” she really was. According to Hetty, Rebecca’s worst subjects as a child were etiquette and history. Nearly a third of her education budget went to medical bills for those teachers. But then again, Rebecca’s etiquette failures were more about formal protocol than basic manners.

In fact, the nobility’s rigid codes of etiquette had long diverged from common courtesy. Rebecca was the kind of girl who’d bow to any older commoner she met—a humility that the aristocracy would label “rude and ignorant.”

This split between upper-class etiquette and everyday social norms was a sign of social imbalance, a precursor to conflict between classes. In that sense, Rebecca’s poor etiquette grades were a blessing—they spared her from adopting outdated, hierarchical customs and made her more receptive to Gawain’s teachings on equality.

Perhaps Gawain should be grateful that Rebecca’s family’s financial troubles in her youth prevented the Cecile Viscount and Hetty from hiring a perfect etiquette tutor. Otherwise, educating her now would be an even bigger headache.

Smiling faintly, Gawain and Amber stepped past the flowerbeds and headed toward the open space. As they walked, a sharp whistle sounded nearby.

Gawain glanced sideways to see Amber holding a folded leaf close to her lips. She blew hard, producing a clear, piercing whistle.

“You can do that too?”

“It’s not hard.”

“Who taught you?”

“My foster father.”

Amber fiddled with the leaf whistle, pursed her lips, then casually tossed it aside.

“Only kids like playing with this…” she muttered. “But seeing Rebecca and Betty having fun reminded me I could do it too, so I just made one.”

Gawain gave Amber a quiet look but said nothing. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the fountain plaza ahead.

A group of nobles in lavish attire had gathered there, but the center of attention was a small, scruffy old man in a gray robe, his hair and beard wild and unkempt, bent over with a mischievous grin. He was speaking animatedly, his face flushed with excitement. The noblemen nodded frequently, while the ladies smiled occasionally.

Gawain guessed Pittman was peddling his usual nonsense—either harmless but useless potions or worthless talismans. Few took him seriously, but as the empire’s chief druid and master researcher, he always had some supporters.

Gawain turned to Amber. “You haven’t talked to Pittman yet, have you?”

“Not yet,” Amber hesitated, a hint of nervousness in her voice. “I’ve been busy with security arrangements…”

“Well, now we have time. Pittman looks like he has plenty of time too,” Gawain said. “Go talk to him.”

Amber looked up. “Are you coming with me?”

Gawain smiled but said nothing, leading the way toward the crowd.

The nobles noticed Gawain’s approach and bowed respectfully, stepping aside to clear a path. Only Pittman remained, clapping his hands and grinning broadly. “Now that you’re here, my business is ruined.”

“We’ll talk about your business later,” Gawain said, gently nudging Amber forward. “Don’t you have something to give her?”

“To give me?” Amber blinked, turning to look at Gawain.

“A few days ago, His Majesty sent me a letter,” Pittman said, looking at Amber with a faint smile breaking through the wrinkles on his weathered face. “He mentioned your foster father and your origins. He told me some secrets are better not buried in the grave, so I told him I had something to pass on to you…”

Amber’s gaze flickered between Gawain and Pittman before settling on the old man. “What… is it?”

Pittman sighed softly, the lines on his face twitching as if he was trying to hold onto the playful mask he’d worn for decades. But the expression faltered, becoming almost comical. Then he reached inside the pocket of his robe and pulled out a worn, tattered notebook.

“This was left for you by that fellow, Sari Randolf,” Pittman said slowly. “He said that if one day you no longer had to fear the royal assassins or the hunters, then this should be given to you. I hesitated for a long time about whether to do it, because what’s inside might be hard for you to accept. I almost took it to my grave… but His Majesty told me you have the right to know your own past.”

Amber hesitated as she took the notebook, the weight of decades of hidden secrets suddenly pressing down on her. For a moment, her mind went blank—no questions, no doubts—just the instinct to accept what Pittman offered. Before she could open it, his voice came again.

“After you’ve read it, I’ll tell you how I first met your foster father.”

(End of chapter)