The longer Aster shared food with the future emperor, the more he realised how surreal this situation had turned out to be. 

Unlike the time he’d been offered a hunted bunny by the living legend himself, General Ettore, Aster found himself serving the man who sentenced him three decades into prison: from starting the fire, setting up their camp, cooking the food, and serving it. He might’ve even had to spoon feed the man himself, but thankfully, His-would-be-Highness Florence Dominique Sybilla remembered that he had hands and a perfectly working mouth. 

There were plenty of opportunities to kill him right now. From letting the wolf maul him from the back, gutting him in the snow, and now – to poisoning his food. Aster remembered with bitter clarity how the man had previously mocked his assassination attempts. 

Now, he wouldn’t even know what hit him. Aster hated that he found that thought appalling, knowing that he’d find it all the more satisfying if Florence knew why he was being killed, or even falling under the category of ‘assassinated’. 

But no, Florence had to sit there, completely oblivious to Aster’s murderous inclinations, as he devoured morsel after morsel of Aster’s carefully packaged food. 

“This–hmm–this….ish so good,” the man said, still with his mouth full. To anyone else, Florence looked just about as normal as any hungry man – if not more aesthetically blessed than most – but to Aster, he would always contend with the memory of that stuck-up, masked-emperor.  

“I never–never thought wolf meat,” another bite, then a series of incomprehensible noises. The sound of meat being chewed filled the silence, and God forbid Aster had to hear him swallow too! 

“...could be cooked like this,” Florence finished, looking like he’d just devoured raw meat. Aster knew it’d have been the sauces, but still. It was a terrifying look, given that he’s staring at Aster like he’d just been elevated as a higher being. 

Aster ignored him. He won’t be swayed by any flattery towards his cooking. He wouldn’t be swayed by this man at all, after all that he’d seen and endured because of him. Working together on this mission meant nothing, as Aster simply needed one shot to win the General’s favour and change the future. 

Besides, it wasn’t like Aster did anything special to the meat – all he did was pack some herbs and spices that he’d stashed for himself in the hut, on days when he felt like treating his mother and sister to more homely meals. He was the cook of the house – at least, back when he still had a house and a family to cook for – and this penchant for culinary never disappeared even as Aster rose in ranks as a top-notch assassin. In his previous life, he believed that cutting meat was no different from cutting flesh, except meat was edible and flesh was not. 

Doing both, however, only served to showcase his brilliant technique. As his clientele expanded, so did his collection of herbs and spices – little things that made life worth living for. 

(At least, until he was sent to prison.)

That said, the point still stood: Aster would never, ever forgive the Emperor. 

As if aware of Aster's internal condemnation, the Emperor suddenly spoke up: “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I went alone. It may be embarrassing and pathetic to admit, but to be honest, I’m not that good of a cook myself…I only know how to throw things into fire and wait until they’re soft enough to eat.” 

Aster almost choked on his own food at the revelation. 

“But you said that was your job!” Aster reminded him. Back when they were arguing at the tent, he appeared ready to double down the moment Aster as much as insinuated cooking or cleaning for the General. 

“It is,” Florence said mid-chew, without an ounce of remorse. “I never said I was good at it.” 

Aster took a moment of silence for General Ettore’s poor stomach. No wonder he’d pulled Aster aside when he cooked a meal for himself. Perhaps he didn’t want to appear like he was betraying the scribe – but wait. Were they even close enough for that? 

Unconsciously (and out of pity), he’d extended the remaining portions of the meat towards Florence, who began devouring it without as much as a thanks. “I can’t believe you made the General eat shit,” he said, throwing more wood to the fire. “It’s not even a matter of lineage of class here. You have to feed people good food.” 

In his peak, Aster had eaten many good foods in the capital. More hits always resulted in more money, and more money meant more opportunities to feast in banquents, high-end balls, and fine-dining. Even then, one of them came close to the home-cooked meals offered by the villages of Taratus, who knew how to make little plates of heaven in this barren land. 

“I never feed him shit I wouldn’t eat,” Florence shot back, as if that made a decent defence.  Aster had been distracted by the fact that His Future Highness had just cursed, so much that he almost didn’t notice the meat disappearing –  fast. 

Perhaps he could forgive this man’s gluttony for now. As it stands, there was still much about the past that Aster is simply discovering, all because of one event that he’d managed to overturn. With the village surviving and him being recruited by the General for a secret task, he wondered if the same line of events had gone in the past, just without Aster in it, or if this was a completely new scenario that was set off following Aster’s magical return from the dead. 

He still had yet to know why the future Emperor was here, and why there was no mention of this by the time he took the throne. Maybe he could even turn the tides of war. After all, information was the next best currency – with the first being bloodshed. 

First on the list: his relationship with the Empire’s White Knight. 

“I take it you two are close?” Aster blurted out, so uncoordinated and sudden that he surprised himself at the sheer awkwardness of it all. Florence just kept chewing, too engrossed at his business to even think of a proper retort. 

“You and the General, I mean,” Aster added quickly. Great. Final nail in the coffin. 

Florence swallowed audibly. 

“That’s none of your business,” he said. 

“Vomit out my food, then.” 

Florence didn’t even blink. “We’re friends,” he said, wiping his mouth. The bastard even sat up straighter and dared to look at Aster through his nose as he did it – the audacity of this wretch!

“Before I was taken in by the Sybillas, he and I met at the Civil Service Exam. His path to the army was already decided by his family, but he wanted to take the exam anyway, just to show he could. As for me, well…” Florence did one last pompous dab over his mouth for effect: 

“...I wanted a decent shot at nobility. That’s all.”  

It didn’t slip Aster’s notice that the scribe spoke the words ‘decent shot’ as though he already knew how most examinees got in through indecent means. Bureaucracy, bribery, red-tape…there were so many ways for people to pass without actually earning the title by themselves. It was a surprise that someone so underhanded like Emperor Sybilla had wanted to ascend via fair means, but Aster doubted that the results were ideal. 

“What happened, then?” He found himself asking, genuinely curious. “If you’re both here stationed in hell, the scores must’ve been abysmal.” 

Florence only laughed. 

“Quite the opposite, actually,” he said. “We passed with flying colours, to the point that we were accused of cheating. Percival had taken his exam as a secret, so he had no choice but to denounce his participation. At the time, the Sibyllas had yet to know I existed, so when I used their last name and dragged the family into cheating allegations…” 

Florence smiled deviously. “You could say it caused quite the dilemma. On one hand, they have a peasant kin who scored abnormally high in the most reputable examination in the empire. On the other hand, they can deny my existence and risk their enemies poking their noses in past businesses.”  

Aster stared at the scribe, from the mischievous glint in his eyes and the mess he made while eating. He looked terribly innocent, sitting by the fire and recalling how he forced his family’s hand. Aster was once again taken aback by the fact that this man was the same person whom he’d hated all these years. 

He didn’t know a lot about the Sibyllas, as there were no records or trace of them by the time Florence had taken over. Even as Aster received the hit for His Highness, there were no records of his kin or past, as if all that mattered was assassinating the Emperor Sybilla of the present instead of whoever he had been in the past. 

How much had this man omitted from the empire’s history?

“Why are you here, then?”  Aster brought himself to ask, in a much lower voice. “Obviously, your family picked the former.” 

In the firelight, the scribe’s eyes burned like coals – and for a moment he looked every bit of the Emperor Sybilla that would watch an empire burn for whatever cause that suited him. 

“The empire’s history won’t write itself,” was all he said. Then, as if nothing happened, he stood up and added more wood to the fire. 

“Thank you for the meal, by the way.” He told Aster. “I’ll take the first shift to let my stomach rest, you go to sleep first. I’ll wake you up if something happens.”  

Aster considered his words. 

“You can’t kill me in my sleep,” Aster replied, watching the man poke at the fire mindlessly. 

Florence rolled his eyes. “I won’t. Now shut up and go to sleep.” 

“No, you literally can’t,” Aster said as-a-matter-of-factly. Still, he’d done as he was asked and began crawling into their makeshift tent. “My reflexes would be too fast, and I’d kill you faster. I would advise against it.” 

“Duly noted. I’ll make sure to schedule my attempts during daylight hours.”

“You also can’t kill me during daylight hours,” Aster felt called to point this out. “I have greater visibility and depth perception.” 

“Shut the fuck up and sleep, Aster.”