Chapter 77: Noble Etiquette Club [I]
Their faces twisted, trying to decide if that was ridiculous or profound.
Alaric, bless him, rushed to back me up. "Yes! Exactly! Loki is indispensable. He—he guided me here, in fact. I’d be lost without him."
Jaw Boy frowned. "This club is for nobles only."
I lowered my voice, conspiratorial. "And what better mark of nobility than generosity? To turn away a loyal aide is to proclaim oneself weak. Tell me — is the Noble Etiquette Club weak?"
The silence stretched. Cane Boy’s eyes flicked to his companion. They didn’t want to admit they’d been cornered.
Finally, Jaw Boy scowled. "Fine. But if he so much as breathes wrong, you take the blame."
Alaric nearly sagged with relief. "Understood."
The doors swung open. Warm light spilled over us, gilding Alaric like a saint about to enter heaven. He gave me a nervous grin, whispered, "See? We made it!"
I grinned back, smug enough to power a small city. "Of course we did."
Nyx padded after us, tail high. The guards moved to block him, but before they could speak, I said smoothly, "The club encourages mascots, does it not?"
Cane Boy hesitated. "Mascots?"
"Indeed. Symbols of elegance, refinement, and companionship. What better mascot than a cat of midnight fur, whose every step drips with poetry?"
Nyx sat primly at my feet, eyes glowing like molten coins. "At least he knows how to talk."
The guards, utterly flustered, decided silence was safer than arguing with me again.
And so, with Alaric glowing, me smirking, and Nyx muttering under his breath, we walked into the Noble Etiquette Club.
The chandeliers dripped crystal light across velvet curtains and marble floors. Nobles lounged on silk chairs, sipping wine and talking about things that almost certainly didn’t matter. All heads turned toward us as we entered — some curious, some dismissive, some sharpening like knives.
Alaric straightened under the weight of their gaze. His chin lifted, his eyes steady.
I leaned close to him, whispering just loud enough for him alone. "Remember. Confidence is worth more than bloodlines. Walk like you own the room, and they’ll believe you do."
He swallowed hard, nodded, and stepped forward.
And behind him, I smiled, sharp and quiet.
Because now I was in.
***
The moment Alaric and I stepped fully into the Noble Etiquette Club, the air shifted.
The nobles lounging at the long velvet-draped table straightened, like wolves sniffing prey. Their gazes swept over Alaric—his crisp uniform, his polished shoes, his nervous but determined jaw—and then flicked to me.
Their silence was sharp enough to draw blood.
At the head of the table sat a boy who could only be described as golden: golden hair, golden cufflinks, golden smirk. He leaned back in his chair like a king surveying his peasants.
"Well, well," he drawled. "Von Astera. You’ve finally come crawling."
Alaric bowed stiffly. "I-I’ve come to learn, Lord Dorian."
Dorian’s smirk widened. "Learn? Oh, you’ll learn. But first—" His eyes flicked to me. "Why is there a rat at your heel?"
I smiled pleasantly. "Not a rat. An attendant. There is a difference. The tail, mostly."
Snickers rippled around the room. Dorian’s smile faltered for a heartbeat before returning. "Very well. Let us see if your... ’attendant’ can keep you from drowning."
He clapped once. A servant brought forward a silver tray, upon which rested a delicate porcelain teacup, a tiny plate of pastries, and a napkin folded so intricately it looked like it belonged in a cathedral.
Dorian gestured lazily. "The first trial: Afternoon Tea. Show us, Von Astera—do you have the hands of a noble, or the paws of a peasant?"
Alaric straightened, determination blazing. "I can do this."
I leaned close, murmuring, "Remember—small sips. No slurping. And don’t eat the napkin, no matter how tasty it looks."
His eyes widened in horror. "People do that?"
"Only once," I said gravely.
He nodded like I’d just saved his life, then carefully lifted the teacup. His hand trembled. The nobles leaned forward, hungry for disaster.
"Pinky," I whispered.
His pinky shot up like a sword raised to heaven.
Gasps. Murmurs.
Dorian’s smirk twitched. "Lucky guess," he muttered.
Alaric set the cup down without spilling a drop. His chest puffed with pride. "That wasn’t so hard."
The nobles hissed like deflated balloons.
Dorian’s eyes narrowed. He snapped his fingers. Another tray appeared, this time stacked with books.
"The second trial," he said silkily. "Poise. Walk the length of the room with these atop your head. Without wobbling."
Alaric nodded, jaw set. "I accept."
The nobles jeered. "He’ll trip!""His knees are shaking already!""Like a fawn on ice!"
I plucked one of the books from the stack, inspecting it. "Light reading," I muttered. "Truly insulting. A real noble should balance at least three dictionaries and a family bible."
Several nobles stiffened at that.
Before Dorian could protest, I stacked four books onto Alaric’s head. "There. Now he’ll be impressive."
Alaric swayed dangerously. "L-Loki!"
"Trust yourself," I said soothingly, already stepping back. "Besides, if you fall, you’ll at least take out half the room."
Nyx padded behind, tail flicking. "And I’ll laugh either way."
The room held its breath as Alaric took his first step. Wobble. Step. Wobble. Step. His knees buckled, but somehow, miraculously, the books stayed in place.
By the time he reached the far end of the carpet, sweat glistened on his brow, but the stack still stood proud.
The nobles gaped.
"He... he didn’t drop them," one whispered.
Alaric lowered the books with trembling hands, eyes shining. "I did it!"
"Fluke," Dorian snapped.
I clapped him on the shoulder. "Marvelous, Alaric. You walked like a man who has tripped down stairs his whole life and finally conquered them."
He beamed, utterly missing the insult.
The nobles shifted, restless now, their sport unraveling. Dorian’s golden mask cracked with irritation. He raised a hand.
"The third trial," he announced. "Conversation. Etiquette is not only in the hands and feet, but in the tongue. Von Astera—let us hear you charm us."
Alaric’s smile faltered. "C-charm?"
"Yes," Dorian purred. "Make small talk. Prove you belong."
The room went silent. Every noble’s eyes gleamed, waiting for Alaric to stumble, to stammer, to choke.
Alaric opened his mouth—
—and I cut in smoothly, stepping forward with a bow. "As his attendant, it is only proper I begin the conversation. After all, what noble wastes words when he has a tongue for hire?"
Scandalized gasps echoed around the room.
Alaric blinked, confused. "A... a tongue for—?"
"Metaphor," I said quickly. "Strictly metaphor."
Then I turned to the crowd and smiled, sharp as broken glass. "Shall we discuss the art of etiquette? For example: is it truly noble to mock one’s peers during their trials, or does that betray an insecurity so large it might need its own seat at the table?"
The nobles froze.
Dorian’s jaw clenched.
Alaric looked at me like I’d just dueled a dragon with a soup spoon.
And Nyx? Nyx snorted so loudly it sounded like a laugh.
"Well," the cat purred, "this club just got interesting."