An internal explosion of flas blew the suit of armor apart, sending shrapnel flying in all directions. Jenkins ducked, narrowly avoiding the tal fragnts, then reached back to help Miss Capet, who was still crouched on the floor, to her feet.
"My apologies," he remarked, "that was a bit ssy. If every enemy we face is that strong, we're not going to get very far."
"It's alright. I suppose I'm really not cut out for a fight."
Miss Capet gave a self-deprecating smile as she gazed down the endless corridor, her expression troubled. Jenkins might have made it look easy, but she had felt the sheer power of that armored knight. There was no telling how many more enemies just like it lay ahead.
At that mont, Jenkins had already turned and placed his hand on the iron spear embedded deep in the wall. He gripped it and pulled with all his might.
"Be careful."
Miss Capet cautioned, her voice laced with concern. That spear was covered in the sa red filants. Rashly touching it carried the sa risk of being afflicted by the Blood Mosquito Curse.
"I'll be careful, don't worry."
Jenkins replied while straining, grunting with the effort. If he were touching the blood of a cursed being directly, he might have hesitated. But a curse couldn't be transmitted through an inanimate object like this.
"Say," he mused after yanking the spear free, "if I take this with us, do you think that suit of armor will be unard when it revives?"
He then bent down to inspect the hole the spear had left. He couldn't see anything behind the wall, but he noticed the red filants were weaving together like living tissue, rapidly repairing the damage.
"An interesting thought. Perhaps we should take it with us and find out."
Miss Capet replied.
The two continued on their way. Jenkins still couldn't bring himself to tell his companion everything he knew. It was Miss Capet who broke the silence, reminding him of the promise they'd made before he left Nolan—to ask Miss Knight about bloodline awakening.
"Since Miss Knight is in Bel Diran now, maybe we can go find her together after all this is over?"
Jenkins proposed. Miss Capet, of course, agreed.
"To be honest, I've always suspected I have non-human ancestry," she began, "and becoming an Enchanter has only strengthened that suspicion. I'm not like you, Jenkins. I was raised by the church. An orphan. If I can learn more about my bloodline, maybe I can find my parents... though I'm not getting my hopes up..."
She managed a weak smile.
"But either way, it's worth a try."
She seed to place a great deal of trust in Jenkins. As they walked, she shared stories of her childhood growing up in the church. When Jenkins asked why she trusted him so completely, Sigrid Capet smiled and replied:
"I just... feel a certain kinship with you, a sense of familiarity... Oh, I'm sorry, I don't an it like that! It's just... you feel like an old friend I haven't seen in ages. Besides, you saved my life in that mirror realm, didn't you? That's more than enough reason for to trust you completely."
As the only two of their generation in the Williatte family to awaken Enchanter talents—talents tied to their elven bloodline, no less—Miss Capet's sense of kinship with Jenkins stemd from the common power flowing through their veins.
Her trust left Jenkins feeling flustered; he was on the verge of blurting out everything he knew. What stopped him was the appearance of a large door at the end of the corridor. There had been no forks in the path since they left the last chamber, making this door an inevitable destination. It was a plain, unremarkable door, but its very simplicity scread of a final confrontation, like the door to a mastermind's lair in so adventure tale.
The building's interior space and decor had been completely warped by the power of the arcane lock, leaving them with no idea where they actually were. Retreat was not an option; the only way back led to the room with the corpse of the mosquito-faced monster. They had no choice but to press forward.
Jenkins took Miss Capet by the hand and pulled her back a step, setting his cat down on the floor. He gripped the long iron spear with both hands and, with a powerful heave, hurled it at the wooden door before them.
Thud!
The spear struck the door but simply snapped in two. The wooden surface remained unscratched. They stood motionless, waiting. After a few seconds of silence from within, they cautiously approached. Jenkins reached out and gave the door a gentle push. It swung open.
The door opened into a magnificent banquet hall. In the center stood a long table, draped in a pristine white cloth and laden with a feast. But the hall was empty. There were no guests around the table, no one dancing on the vibrant red carpet. Soft, unidentifiable music drifted from so unseen corner of the room. At the far end of the table, directly opposite the door, sat an elegant, fashionably dressed noblewoman. She raised a wine glass in a toast to them.
She wore a gown the color of fresh blood, her silver-white hair coiled elegantly at the back of her head. She was undeniably beautiful, but not in the fresh, innocent way of the "elf girl" from the lake, nor with the sweet charm of the young won he knew. Hers was a lethal beauty, like that of a poppy. It was so perfect it beca unnatural, making her face seem strangely alien.
Jenkins had seen her photograph. He recognized her instantly. This was the Countess.
Behind her, a colossal oil painting hung on a wall that seed tall enough for a hall of giants. It depicted a god, wreathed in white light, brandishing white flas against a crowd of dark shadows.
The background was a cityscape of red and black buildings. Though the god in the painting had his back to the viewer, the sheer power and majesty of the figure were palpable.
"Soti in January of this year, the God of Lies himself made a move and slaughtered many of my kind. I painted this from mory during the long, boring hours of my marriage. It depicts the scene from that very night."
The Countess's tone was exquisitely elegant, her accent the standard of Bel Diran—an accent considered the height of nobility.
"My distinguished guests, please, co in. I could sll the faint scent of forest and field on you from a great distance. It is an honor to welco you to my Scarlet Banquet. Please, have a seat."
Alexia Miller was an expert in arcane locks, and Jenkins had learned a great deal about them from her. The Scarlet Banquet, however, was a particularly obscure type. It hadn't appeared in the material world once during the entire Eighteenth Epoch. Even Alexia only knew it by na, with no knowledge of its effects.
"Did you lead us here on purpose?"
Jenkins asked cautiously. At the sa ti, he felt a familiar weight settle on his shoulder. His cat was back in its usual perch.
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