Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 678 - 677: Interlude, The Wind Never Stops

The ancient Silver Castle had been thoroughly renovated. Shrubs and flowerbeds were meticulously trimmed, and centuries-old classical pillars and arcades were adorned with vibrant garlands. Drapes bearing the Empire’s emblem hung from the second floor of the castle down to the ground. In the large courtyard in front of the main castle, the venue for the evening banquet was already prepared—

The banquet following the coronation ceremony would be divided into two parts, internal and external. The main hall of the castle was the venue for the internal banquet, featuring more luxurious decor and stricter etiquette, while the courtyard at the front of the castle would host the external banquet, inviting all the aristocrats of the capital, merchant representatives, church members, and citizen representatives to attend.

Clearly, Rebecca preferred the lively atmosphere of the courtyard.

The young lady was forced into a formal court dress suited for such occasions, but the grandeur of the gown couldn’t suppress her restless spirit. She ran back and forth between the flowerbeds and fountains in front of the Silver Castle, curious about everything—during her last visit, she was still a struggling small noble from the southern borders, with her ancestors on her side, making her too timid to wander around, even afraid to glance around carelessly. But today... no one could restrain her.

At least, apart from her two elders, no one in this castle dared to manage her.

"The shrubs in the north are really different from those in the south, they’re quite rare on our end—especially hard to keep alive," Rebecca squatted in front of a flowerbed, pulling at the foliage around it and talking non-stop to the maid beside her, "Recently, the Druids at the academy have been researching the transplantation of northern and southern plants. They’re trying to develop more cold-resistant crops... do you know about the agricultural group?"

The maid following Rebecca was a blonde lady in her twenties. She looked around nervously and bent down to gently remind, "Your Highness... please don’t get too close to these plants, your dress..."

"Hey, it’s okay, I’m only wearing it for today," Rebecca waved her hand, "Besides, can you make a whistle with a leaf?"

The blonde maid was taken aback, showing a troubled expression: "... Your Highness, I’m very sorry, I can’t."

"You’re no good, not even as good as Betty... speaking of which, where’s Betty?" Rebecca finally remembered the little maid who followed her here. She looked around curiously, asking as she searched, "Hey, have you seen Betty?"

The maid tried hard to keep up with Princess Veronica’s train of thought, suddenly realizing the person mentioned was the somewhat dull little maid: "Regarding Betty... I just saw her spacing out by the fountain."

While answering, the maid couldn’t help but feel puzzled. She couldn’t understand how that seemingly not-too-bright little maid could have been chosen as the inner court maidservant supervisor, a position even higher than her own—that dazed young girl was utterly clueless about court etiquette and slow to respond, as if it were her first time in such a crowded place. She didn’t even know where to stand, and when no one spoke to her, she just spaced out by the flowerbeds or fountains...

But this slow-reacting young girl was surprisingly favored by the new royal family, which was hard to comprehend.

Just as she was halfway through her confusion, she saw Rebecca suddenly crane her neck to look towards the fountain, and the princess’s next action nearly made the maid jump in shock—Rebecca raised her hand and a bright, dazzling magic fireball flew skyward...

"Your Highness! You..."

In the startled cry of the blonde maid, the bright fireball had already exploded in the sky above the courtyard, forming a string of clear and neat letters in magic flames: Betty, come here.

Soon after, under the maid’s dumbfounded gaze, the little maid named Betty came running quickly from not far away and bowed deeply in front of Rebecca: "Miss, did you call me?"

The blonde maid wanted to remind the new maidservant supervisor that now she should address Rebecca as Your Highness instead of "Miss," but the two young ladies had already stopped paying attention to her—Rebecca and Betty squatted together on the ground, grabbing several leaves from the shrubs and folding them into leaf whistles, puffing them one after the other, giggling and laughing...

Gawain, upon seeing the magic fireball burst into a string of letters, had guessed who the creator was. He followed the direction where the fireball rose, along with Amber, and indeed found Rebecca squatting on the ground with Betty blowing leaf whistles. Standing beside them was a bewildered blonde maid clad in a servant’s outfit.

"Your Majesty," the dazed maid noticed Gawain’s arrival, becoming even more flustered and anxious, "Princess Veronica, she..."

Before she could finish, Rebecca exclaimed as she jumped up: "Wow! Ancestor, you’re here!"

Betty, a beat slower, also stood up: "Master... ah, Your Majesty."

The girl, who was always slow to react, surprisingly remembered the correct form of address this time—though she got it wrong on her first try.

"It’s alright, just relax today." Seeing Rebecca dressed in a court gown but untamed by the outfit, Gawain couldn’t help but feel uplifted. He waved his hand, "Just try not to throw any more fireballs. After nightfall, there will be mages floating around the castle on patrol, and unless they’re in a designated area of magic fireworks, fireballs suddenly thrown like that might knock someone down."

"Oh, got it..."

Gawain nodded with a smile and turned to the bewildered blonde girl standing nearby: "You’re the original maid of the Silver Castle, right?"

The blonde girl quickly bowed her head: "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Relax, try to adapt. If you’re willing to continue serving the new royal family, you should get used to this less regimented way of life."

"...Yes, Your Majesty."

Gawain was about to leave when Rebecca called out to him: "Oh, oh, ancestor, I’ve heard that the black-haired maid beside Duchess Victoria is actually a Black Dragon, is it true?"

"Who did you hear that from?" Gawain stopped and looked at Rebecca with surprise, "Though this wasn’t a secret... it wasn’t exactly public either, right?"

"I heard it from Sir Philip, and there were quite a few soldiers talking about it too."

"...Well, there were a lot of witnesses that day," Gawain nodded, "That’s right, her name is Maji, she’s a Black Dragon, but she has no intention of spreading it around. Why are you suddenly interested in this?"

"Ah, I’m just curious, there’s actually a dragon living with humans..." Rebecca blinked her eyes, her face full of curious exploration, "I’ve heard that Dragonkin magic is very powerful, do you think Maji can use dragon language magic too?"

"It’s hard to say, maybe she can, but she seems a bit weaker than an average dragon," Gawain said casually, then reminded her, "It’s not good to talk about these things behind her back. You can ask her directly, but remember to be polite. Her dragon heritage seems to have some ’issues,’ if she’s not willing to talk, don’t be too intrusive."

Rebecca nodded vigorously, looking very earnest: "Don’t worry don’t worry, I’m very polite!"

To be honest, Gawain had some doubts about how trustworthy Rebecca’s "very polite" really was. After all, according to Aunt Heidi, Rebecca’s worst subjects back then were etiquette and history, and nearly a third of her education funds were spent on the medical bills of the teachers of those two subjects. But then he thought about it, Rebecca just didn’t pass etiquette class, her "politeness" should be fine...

After all, to this day, the "etiquette" in the eyes of the nobility and the "politeness" of the general public have, to some extent, become disconnected. Rebecca is the kind of girl who would bow and greet a commoner older than her, yet her ease and humility are considered "rude and obtuse" in formal etiquette standards...

The severe disconnect between the "etiquette norms" of the upper class and the living order of the lower class is, to some extent, a sign of structural imbalance in society, a prelude and characteristic of conflicts between social strata. From this perspective, Rebecca failing her "etiquette" classes is actually a good thing, allowing her to effortlessly accept many of the egalitarian concepts Gawain instilled...

Perhaps Gawain should be thankful, thankful that the Cecil Clan’s financial difficulties in Rebecca’s childhood meant that Viscount Cecil and Aunt Heidi couldn’t afford a perfect etiquette teacher for her. Otherwise, he would have another layer of headache in educating Rebecca now.

With a slight smile, Gawain led Amber through the courtyard’s flower beds, on the path to the open space, he heard a loud whistle coming from beside him.

He slightly turned his head and saw Amber pinching a folded leaf. She brought the leaf to her lips and blew hard again, the whistle was loud.

"You can do this too?"

"It’s not hard."

"Who taught you?"

"My foster father."

Amber said while pinching the leaf whistle, puckering her lips, and casually throwing it away.

"It’s just something kids like to play with..." she mumbled, "I just happened to see Rebecca and Betty playing with it, and remembered I could do it too, so I made one casually."

Gawain looked at Amber silently, said nothing, and instead turned his head towards the direction of the fountain plaza.

A group of aristocratic gentlemen and ladies dressed in elaborate clothing gathered in the small square, but the focus of the crowd was a small old man in a gray robe, with messy hair and beard, bent back, with a playful grin. He was fervently talking among the crowd, causing the surrounding aristocratic gentlemen to nod frequently, and the ladies and young women to occasionally smile.

Gawain guessed Pittman was certainly pitching his deceitful trinkets again — either harmless fake medicines or useless amulets. Not many believed in his charlatanry, but under the guise of the Empire’s Chief Druid and master-level researcher, there were always people in the audience.

Gawain turned to Amber: "You still haven’t talked to Pittman, have you?"

"...Not yet," Amber paused, seemingly with a hint of nervousness and hesitation, "I... was busy arranging security before, didn’t have time..."

"Now we all have time, and Pittman seems to have plenty of time too," Gawain said, "go have a chat."

Amber looked up: "You’ll come with me?"

Gawain smiled, didn’t answer, and walked straight ahead with Amber.

The crowd near the fountain noticed Gawain’s presence, bowed to pay their respects, and stepped aside, leaving Pittman standing there. The old Druid raised his head, clapped his hands, and spread his arms with a smile toward Gawain: "Your arrival put an end to my business."

"We’ll talk about your business later," Gawain said, pushing Amber slightly forward, "don’t you have something to give her?"

"To give me?" Amber was taken aback, widened her eyes, and turned to Gawain.

"A few days ago, the King contacted me about your foster father and your origins," Pittman said, looking at Amber, with a gentle smile on his deeply wrinkled face, "he told me, some secrets shouldn’t be taken to the grave, I told him I had something to pass on to you..."

Amber’s gaze moved between Gawain and Pittman, finally landing on Pittman: "What... is it?"

Pittman sighed softly, his wrinkled face twitching a bit. He seemed to try maintaining his playful expression cultivated over decades, but the expression ended up somewhat comical. He then reached into the inner pocket of his robe and pulled out a rather worn notebook.

"This was left to you by Sali Randolph, he said if there ever came a day when there was no need to worry about the royal family’s assassins and pursuers, this could be handed over to you," Pittman said slowly, "but I once hesitated whether I should do it because the content might be hard for you to accept. I once wanted to take it to the grave with me... but the King told me, you have the right to know your own origins."

When Amber took the notebook, her expression showed a hint of hesitation, as if the long-hidden secret suddenly being revealed left her mind blank for a moment. She forgot to ask, forgot to question, just subconsciously took what Pittman was handing over. Before she could open it, Pittman’s voice came again.

"After you read it, I’ll tell you how I met your foster father back then."