Imuis leaned back in his chair like the world itself owed him a stage, not a table.
His eyes rolled so hard it almost felt theatrical, like he was performing for an invisible audience sitting somewhere above the rafters of the Alehouse.
Then he pointed lazily at Nocth with two fingers, like accusing a friend in a joke only he fully understood.
"See? I told you so."
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head with exaggerated disappointment, then leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands moving as if he was sculpting the air itself.
"That old fellow," Imuis continued, tilting his head toward the direction the earlier conversation had gone, "is rather passionate in those things. Like—properly passionate. The kind of passion that makes you question if he's arguing or auditioning for some forgotten stage play."
His fingers flicked outward as if throwing invisible words into the room.
"And you," he pointed at Nocth again, "just sat there like you were watching something on a screen. Like—what do they call it again—"
Imuis squinted dramatically, tapping his temple as if memory itself was being stubborn.
"Like you were expecting entertainment to just… appear. Like the world is supposed to perform for you on command."
He leaned back again, arms stretched wide, shrugging with a grin that said he found the entire concept hilarious.
Nocth blinked once.
Slow. Measured.
His gaze didn't react the way most people's would. Not offended. Not amused in the same rhythm as Imuis. Just observing—like he was trying to map the shape of Imuis' intent rather than his words.
Then, without looking away, Nocth raised his hand slightly.
Two fingers lifted, rotated inward, then paused—like he was framing something invisible in the air.
A gesture that didn't belong to etiquette here.
More like a question without language.
If there is a place where things are shown… why is it not here?
Imuis stopped mid-motion.
He stared at the hand gesture.
Then at Nocth.
Then slowly tilted his head.
"…Right," Imuis said, stretching the word like it was something fragile. "That was… definitely a thing you just did."
He leaned closer, narrowing his eyes.
"Are you telling me you've been raised by traveling circus folk? Because that is exactly the kind of hand language I'd expect from someone who grew up flipping through tents and eating fire for breakfast."
Nocth didn't answer.
Just lowered his hand slowly, as if the question had been placed somewhere and he was unsure whether it belonged there.
Imuis exhaled through his nose, amused again, then leaned back with a lazy grin.
"Anyway, you get what I mean. You don't just sit there expecting life to perform tricks for you."
At the far side of the Alehouse, where laughter mixed with clinking glass and the scent of roasted spices, a group of nobles had been listening without openly listening.
Their posture said refinement.
Their eyes said boredom pretending to be superiority.
One of them—lean, groomed too carefully, with sleeves embroidered in soft silver thread—leaned toward the others.
A whisper slipped out, delicate but sharp.
"Uncivilized," he muttered, as if tasting the word. "This is what Nareth'Qel has become? Compared to our Sacrums…"
A soft giggle followed.
Not loud.
Controlled.
The kind of laughter meant to be heard but not acknowledged.
Another noble tilted his head slightly, lips curling.
"Look at them," he added. "No structure. No restraint. They treat speech like noise and noise like meaning."
The girl among them—of the Saevereth house—rested her chin lightly on her fingers, eyes half-lidded with a soft, amused elegance.
A smirk played at the corner of her lips.
"Yes," she said gently, almost sweetly. "It's like watching children who never learned the difference between a hall and a marketplace."
A few suppressed laughs followed.
Polished. Careful.
The kind that never fully broke into sound.
Across the Alehouse, a few locals had heard.
Not clearly—but enough.
Enough to stiffen shoulders.
Enough for silence to start forming in pockets of the room.
But no one spoke back.
Not yet.
Not openly.
Only eyes shifted.
Only jaws tightened.
Only the air changed.
Imuis, however, had heard enough.
He turned slightly in his seat, eyes drifting lazily toward the nobles without urgency.
Then he exhaled through his nose, like he had just heard something mildly disappointing.
"Ohhh," he said softly.
Then leaned forward, elbows on the table again, fingers steepled—but not in elegance. In mock concern.
"So that's the level we're at."
He tilted his head, voice rising just enough to carry.
"Couple of flowers raised in gardens of silk and gentle praise."
A pause.
His eyes flicked over them.
Not hostile.
Not impressed.
Just measuring.
"Now tossed into a place where even the air has weight."
He tapped the table lightly.
"And suddenly—" his hand made a loose gesture, as if scattering something fragile, "—even dancing and singing feels like it's too loud for your fragile little bones to handle."
A beat.
Then he shrugged.
"Tragic, honestly."
The words weren't cruel in tone.
That was the strange part.
They carried a faint humor, like he was commenting on weather.
But the content still landed like a controlled strike.
A few people in the Alehouse snorted.
Someone at a nearby table actually laughed under their breath.
Karkos, from behind the counter, paused mid-wipe of a glass.
Then gave a slow, impressed nod.
And a thumbs-up in Imuis' direction.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just acknowledgment.
Respect.
The Saevereth girl's smirk faded slightly.
One of the male nobles shifted.
Then another.
A chair scraped back.
Slow.
Intentional.
A young noble stood.
His expression was tight—controlled, but barely.
His hand lifted, pointing directly at Imuis.
"I've had enough of this," he said sharply.
The Alehouse quieted in response.
Not fully.
But enough.
Enough that even the clink of cups felt like it had stepped back.
Karkos' eyes lifted instantly.
A slow, warning glance cut across the room.
Not directed at Imuis.
At the noble.
A silent message carved into a single look:
Not here.
The noble noticed.
But didn't sit.
His jaw tightened.
Instead, he turned slightly, voice sharpening further.
"I heard something," he said, eyes locked on Imuis now. "From a little birdy."
A faint pause.
Then:
"That you are a bound bearer."
A ripple moved through the room.
Subtle.
But real.
The noble continued, stepping forward slightly now, confidence gathering like stormwater.
"And not just any kind."
His lips curled.
"A rather unique one."
He tilted his head, almost curious now beneath the challenge.
"So I'll ask you directly."
A pause.
The air tightened.
"Are you just going to sit there pretending you don't understand anything… or do you want to prove you're worth the noise you just made?"
The implication was clear.
Challenge hidden under refinement.
Imuis blinked.
Once.
Then tilted his head like the entire accusation was mildly inconvenient.
"Bound bearer?" he repeated slowly.
Then shrugged.
"No idea what that is."
A pause.
Then he added, almost casually:
"Sounds like something you'd say to make yourself feel important though."
Silence snapped.
Not loud.
But sharp.
The noble's expression changed instantly.
Veins surfaced at his temple.
Jaw tightening.
Hand curling.
For a moment, it looked like restraint itself was physically holding him back from stepping forward.
At their table, the Saevereth girl lifted a hand to her mouth.
A soft giggle escaped.
"Ah," she said sweetly, voice carrying just enough. "How… predictable."
Her eyes slid toward Imuis.
"He's just like the locals here."
A pause.
Then, with a delicate tilt of her head:
"Peasants and cowards always pretend ignorance when they're cornered."
Her hand covered her lips as if she had said something polite.
But her eyes smiled.
The room reacted instantly.
Not with agreement.
But with discomfort.
A few patrons frowned openly now.
A chair creaked as someone shifted away slightly.
But still—no one spoke.
Not against her.
Not yet.
Imuis sighed.
Not angry.
Not even fully annoyed.
More like he had expected something slightly more creative.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his shoulders.
Then smiled.
Small.
Light.
Almost amused.
"Well," he said slowly, "if being cornered means listening to people who think their vocabulary makes them above everyone else…"
He tapped his fingers lightly on the table.
"…then I guess I'll accept it."
A pause.
Then he added, tilting his head toward the noble:
"But you should be careful."
His eyes sharpened slightly—not cold, but focused.
"People who build challenges out of rumors usually don't understand what they're challenging."
A faint shrug.
"Still, I appreciate the enthusiasm."
The words landed in a strange way.
Neither surrender nor escalation.
Just… acceptance wrapped in mockery.
Across the table, Nocth remained quiet.
His eyes moved slowly.
From Imuis.
To the noble.
To the girl.
To the room itself.
Like he was trying to understand why the pattern of intent always seemed to repeat itself in unfamiliar places.
Something subtle shifted in his gaze.
Not confusion.
Not comprehension.
Something closer to recognition without memory.
A quiet thought forming behind still eyes:
They want him to react the way they already decided.
But he said nothing.
Only watched.
The noble boy's patience finally snapped into shape.
His hand rose slowly.
Not fully drawn into aggression.
But positioned like a warning already half-born.
His eyes locked onto Imuis.
And then, slowly—
He made a cut-throat gesture.
Clean.
Deliberate.
A promise without words.
The Alehouse didn't breathe for a moment after it.