The scribe introduced himself as Florence Dominique Sibylla, with an emphasis on the family name. 

(He basically spat it out, like sucking the venom out of a snakebite. It was funny until Aster realized that he’d heard no one, not even his cellmate, say the emperor’s name with such hate.) 

“You should’ve started with that, boy. We’d have fed you anyway,” the commander of the Verusian army laughed, beckoning a plate of ham and cheese forward. Both are rare delicacies in the outskirts, but Aster figured that being close to the borders and being foreigners allowed for easier access to import. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me for that, my lord. I saw a familiar face,” Florence said, tone decadent and polished. “I thought I’d get down to business.” 

It took everything in Aster not to whack him upside the head, shake his shoulders, or who knows what else. The guards had been kind enough to put them close together, but when Florence was granted a seat right beside the commander, Aster had been forced to stand behind him as though he were, well, his servant. 

He had nothing against servants. After all, there are no masters without them. But it was the thought of serving Florence that irked him – he’d saved his life, sure, but as his companion, not a subordinate. Even before, he’d always been an assassin to His Highness. Never a subject. They were equals in a sense that His Highness was just another target to kill, and Aster had been just another hired killer to apprehend. For now, they were allies working on a common goal. 

He was not serving Florence. Even as a ruse, it should’ve been obvious that someone of Aster’s looks and countenance would never work for a man so pompous, so self-absorbed, and downright manipulative—

“Aster, fetch that plate for me. I can’t reach it,” Florence ordered, still in that condescending, aristocratic tone. 

Aster grit his teeth. I’m going to kill him. 

But he grabbed the plate and handed it to Florence anyway, knowing their lives depended on it. He could always kill him later. 

Oh, like you failed to do so many times? A voice in his head mocked, and it’s ridiculous how it’s beginning to sound like His Highness, Florence the Bastard. 

“Have some of the wine too!” The commander offered, gesturing at one of his servants to serve Florence some wine. Thankfully, this one had enough sense to actually hand the cup next to Florence’s reach—

Or not. The server extended the cup to Aster, without as much as a word, before going back to their master’s side. Was this a complimentary drink just for him? Why wasn’t Florence given one? What the hell was he supposed to do with this—

“...drink,” Florence hissed. 

He leaned down next to the scribe’s ear. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” 

Apparently, Aster was doing everything wrong, if the red on Florence’s face was any indication. The scribe’s face was burning, and he’d yet to have a single drop of wine. 

“Drink it,” Florence said through gritted teeth, all while maintaining that placid smile on his face. He could feel everyone’s eyes on them. 

Aster stared at the cup. Verusia, being on the warmer side, had hectares of vineyards reserved for the most exquisite of wines. He’d had the pleasure of tasting them when he’d assassinated the mistress of their Prime Minister once. It was a shame that Florence wouldn’t want to have some, but hey. An order is an order, right? 

He gave a little sip, letting the flavour explode in his mouth. The wine was rich and tangy, but a little too sweet for his liking. 

Delicious, nonetheless. 

He set down the cup, feeling his cheeks flush a little. He watched as his supposed ‘master’ checked the cup for any remaining content, turning it over to check if there was truly nothing left. 

Not even a droplet rolled down from the cup. 

Florence hooked a finger, beckoning Aster to come closer, until he was close enough to basically grab Aster next to him. “You drank it all?!” 

Aster blinked. The wine left a pleasant buzz in his head, but he was plenty sure that he was still sober. “Am I—am I not supposed to?” 

Tense silence. 

Florence appeared to have lost his ability to speak. The whole table had stopped eating at this point, their attention all focused on Aster and Florence. 

“It appears the taste-tester found our wine too good to resist,” someone chuckled. Across the table, their target, Lieutenant Marzio, flashed Aster a knowing look. “Shall we help him with another cup?” 

Taste-tester. Gods. Aster wanted to hide away in a hole and die. 

In the capital, servants were always made to taste-test their master’s drink for poison. Aster should know, considering his vast experience with this particular method of assassination, but then again, he was also the same man who fumbled a hit way too many times. Sue him for suffering the curse of the last war – he’d been so used to His Highness not deigning to let servants taste-test his drinks in the previous life, that Aster simply forgot. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline for him,” Florence quickly regained his composure, flashing the lieutenant a covert smile. “Aster has quite the history with alcohol, so you’ll have to pardon his enthusiasm. It’s an addiction at this point, really.” 

“That was one time!” Aster snapped back. 

“One time too many,” Florence crossed his arms. 

“Let’s see who becomes a drunkard in the future. It certainly won’t be me.” Of course not. Emperor Dominique Sibylla loved his wine, the present one just doesn’t know it yet. 

“You and your servant have a rather…peculiar relationship, Mister Sibylla.” the commander cut in, perplexed. 

Aster and Florence stiffened. Across the table, Sir Marzio let out a pointed cough. 

“Well, sir, Florence had always been that way,” he explained. “You see, it wasn’t until the examinations that the Sibyllas learned of his, erm, existence. The two of them were close friends before Florence was taken in, and to help his friend, he also invited him to be a part of the Sibylla’s household.” 

Aster gave Florence a look. If this lieutenant was so good at fabricating stories, he should’ve taken over as scribe instead! What the hell is he risking his life on the frontlines for? 

Shut up, the expression on Florence’s face basically screamed. Just shut the fuck up. 

“Is that true?” the commander asked. 

Florence and Aster shared a look. Between the two of them, it seemed only right that the ‘master’ explained the story, instead of having his ‘servant’ commit another blunder. 

“I-I couldn’t leave him,” Florence answered for them, unable to look at anyone. “I’m happy to  be recognized by the Sibyllas, and to be honoured with a chance for inheritance. But Aster has been with me for as long as I can remember…” He let his voice trail off for dramatic effect, as though he truly did know Aster for decades. 

“You say it’s peculiar, but it’s the only way I can keep him by my side, you know? You’re all soldiers, surely you understand the importance of brotherhood…”

 Brotherhood, he says. His Highness was clutching his chest like a forlorn maiden, the commander had a hand over his mouth, and across the table, Sir Marzio was biting his lip to keep himself from laughing. 

In a span of an hour, he’d been relegated to servant, childhood friend, and a potential lover. To seal the deal, His Highness had the nerve to call it that. 

Maybe it was the wine, but Aster found himself kneeling next to His Highness, similar to how a knight would. Crazy enough, from this angle, he could finally see a bit of sauce sticking to His Highness; chin, after he’d greedily lapped up enemy food without giving Aster any. 

“Is that what this is?” With his thumb, he wiped the offending sauce away. “Brotherhood?” 

Choking sounds filled the air. It appeared that one of the maidens in the village was too enthusiastic over the scene, that she’d swallowed a bone. 

*** 

They proceed to finish their food after that, with no one daring to open their mouths unless it’s to eat. 

“Now that the audience is gone, allow me to cut to the chase,” the commander said. “As touching as it is to watch a master-servant relationship blossom, I’m more interested in barter.” 

Florence and Aster, who had now completely dropped their act to sit next to each other and devour food, looked up innocently. 

“Barter?” they asked at the same time. 

Lieutenant Marzio, noticing that they weren’t all there, had a servant come in to take their plates away. Ridiculous. “Yes, barter. As we all know, Verusia is a rich country. The Sibyllas, on the other hand, is a rich family.”

Florence let out a candid sort of laugh. “Water is wet, too.” 

The commander’s gaze hardened. “Please take this seriously, Sir Florence. If you are here, then I assume you’re here for business, even if it’s at the cost of the empire.” 

“And if you’re willing to make a deal with me,” Florence countered, “then you must be willing to pay just as much, yes? Verusia is a rich country, sure, but the Sibyllas have trade partners everywhere.”  

“Sir Florence, it would do you well to remember where you are and whose food you just ate.” 

“Oh, of course I remember! This is still within Ambros soil, right? Which means if I die, so does your path to the Capital City. Ask Sir Marzio – the whole bloodline is tied to mine.”  

What. 

“Is that true?” The commander whipped towards Sir Marzio. 

All of a sudden, it made complete sense why His Highness decided to use his family name. From calling Aster a servant to the whole charade that followed – every move was calculated down to the letter. 

Sir Marzio simply bowed his head to the commander, as if he bore some responsibility for what he was about to say next. “I’m afraid he speaks the truth, sir. He’s the head of the household in the most literal sense.”