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You cast a desolate eye across the table, bitterly considering your family's legacy. While never the largest or wealthiest family in the kingdom, it still pains you to see what you've been reduced to. Reaching out to the sword again, you delicately trace one finger down the edge of the blade until a bead of blood forms. Sakhalin moves forwards with a handkerchief, but you wave him away with a gesture.
“This one,” you tell him, “I've made my choice.”
Sakhalin looks at you with his mournful eyes, then nods. With the decision made, you start to put the items away one by one. As you're closing the wooden sword case, a thought strikes you. “Was there a dagger too?” you ask quietly, without looking around at your looming companion, “A dagger to go with the sword?”
“I don't believe so,” Sakhalin replies after a pause, “Should there have been?”
Of course, he's “rather unfamiliar” with such things. “If it was intended as a gift, a sword like this would be presented with a matching dagger. The sword is primarily used to deflect and defend, while the attacking is done with the dagger,” you explain patiently, “That is the modern style, after all.”
Sakhalin considers this for a long moment. “That seems impractical,” he decides at last.
“Well, it's for duelling. For showmanship,” you remark with a shrug, finally snapping the case closed, “...What now?”
“King Albrecht has called for a gathering of the noble families at week's end. You will, of course, be expected to attend,” the black man says slowly, as if the very idea depresses him, “I have been asked to escort you.”
A sneer starts to form on your lips. “To make sure I show up?”
“Forgive me, young Master Pale,” Sakhalin murmurs, his reply wiping the sneer from your lips, “But yes.”
-
Like a grim black shadow, Sakhalin follows you back to your quarters. You half expect him to invite himself in, but he doesn't go quite that far. Instead, as you're just starting to open the door and retreat into safety, he carefully clears his throat. “Forgive me,” he says quietly, “But I have one last thing for you.”
“Oh really?” you retort, “And will I be allowed to keep this, or will it be set against my father's debts too?”
Sakhalin just sighs before reaching into his deep pockets and producing a neatly folded slip of paper. You take it numbly, noticing the sign of the king's oracle stamped on the clean white paper. You look up and meet Sakhalin's eyes, but he just shakes his head. “I have not read it,” he says, answering your unspoken question, “This is meant for your eyes alone.”
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