June 20th, 1983
Wren and Faker's banquet continued in uneasy silence.
Then, without warning, Faker lifted a hand and slapped at his own neck.
A sharp smack echoed across the table.
"What a dreadful little mosquito," he sighed, sounding almost offended. "Disgusting things."
His expression smoothed over again in an instant, his crimson eyes settling back on Wren as though nothing had happened.
"Now then," he said pleasantly, "please, do go on. Answer my question."
Wren's jaw tightened.
"Traitor?" she snapped. "No. What are you even talking about?"
Faker's smile widened.
"Good," he said softly. "That is precisely the reaction I was hoping for."
He leaned back in his chair, clearly delighted.
"Thank you, my dearest guest, for exercising your right to raise your voice in my presence."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"I shall take that as your answer. I already knew you were unaware of the traitor in your little group…" He folded his hands neatly in front of him. "But now, at the very least, you know one exists."
Wren glared at him, forcing down the urge to lunge across the table.
"Fine," she said. "Then for my next question, who is—"
The doors opened.
A headless maid stepped soundlessly into the chamber, carrying a silver tray with a polished lid resting over it. She moved with eerie grace, as though the absence of her head had done nothing to disturb her poise. Without a word, she placed the tray before Wren.
Then she lifted the lid.
A deep, savory aroma unfurled into the air at once, rich enough to make Wren's stomach tighten despite everything.
Resting on the plate were several pieces of slow-braised short ribs, coated in a dark, glossy sauce that clung to every edge like lacquer. The meat looked impossibly tender, so soft it seemed ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. Beside it sat a neat arrangement of roasted vegetables, each one placed with almost unnatural precision.
The sauce shimmered under the candlelight, thick and luxurious, pooling beneath the ribs in dark, velvety folds.
Everything about it looked warm.
Hearty.
Perfectly prepared.
And yet—
the bones looked wrong.
Too smooth.
Too clean.
As though they had never truly belonged inside flesh at all.
"The game was amusing," Faker said, watching her with quiet satisfaction. "But now it is time for the true heart of these banquets."
With one graceful motion, he gestured for Wren to eat.
Wren hesitated only a moment before cutting off a small piece of the ribs and bringing it to her mouth.
The effect was immediate.
Just like before, it was delicious.
No—
more than delicious.
The meat was so tender it nearly dissolved against her tongue, rich with flavor and soaked through with the dark sauce until every bite felt impossibly deep, warm, and complete. It was the sort of meal that should not have been possible in a place like this, prepared by a man like him.
And yet it was.
"For much of my life," Faker said, his voice low and almost nostalgic, "I found very little interest in eating."
He leaned back in his chair, one elbow resting lightly against the arm.
"That changed when I met a certain friend. The second person in all my life whom I ever truly respected." A faint smile touched his lips. "He taught me the beauty of banquets. The beauty of meals shared between those who understand one another."
Wren swallowed another bite.
"Tell me about this friend of yours," she said, cutting into the ribs again. "It's pretty clear you have no intention of telling me who the traitor is."
Faker smiled.
"He was an intelligent man," he said. "Crafty, too. On the night we met, he very nearly succeeded in killing me."
Wren's knife paused.
"He poisoned the meal."
Genuine amusement flickered across Faker's face.
"Of course, he was also quite insane. In order to avoid arousing my suspicion, he poisoned his own food as well."
Wren stared at him.
"So your first real friend tried to kill you," she said. "And that only made you respect him more?"
Faker's smile deepened.
"I admired his conviction," he said simply. "To willingly poison himself for even the slightest chance of taking my life…" He let out a soft chuckle. "How could I not respect that?"
He lifted his goblet slightly, as though toasting a fond memory.
"And besides," he added, "his cooking was exquisite regardless."
Wren said nothing after that.
She simply kept eating.
Too quickly.
Far too quickly.
Before she realized it, the plate was empty.
And just as before, what unsettled her most was not the meal itself—
but the strange, immediate disappointment she felt when there was no more left.
"So what now?" Wren asked, her eyes fixed on him. "May I have my book?"
Faker studied her for a long moment, as though he were still sorting through the pieces of her in his mind.
Then he smiled.
"I believe," he said softly, "that I am beginning to understand the true heart of Wren Cromwell."
He let the book rest lightly in his hands.
"You are a deeply fascinating human." His crimson eyes gleamed with amusement. "I daresay you may be my favorite thus far."
Wren did not return the smile.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly and asked,
"Tell me about Mordred."
For the first time in a while, Faker's expression shifted.
Subtly.
But enough.
"You call her your beloved," Wren continued, her own smile turning sharper now. "So where is she?"
A quiet pause followed.
Then Faker looked away for the briefest moment.
"I would prefer not to discuss that," he said.
There was the faintest edge of irritation in his voice now—small, but unmistakable.
At last, he extended the file toward her.
"Here is your book."
Wren took it from him carefully, her fingers tightening around the cover.
"It seems there are ways to get under your skin after all," she said, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "Looks like neither of us enjoys having our loved ones turned into mockery."
For once, Faker did not laugh.
He only watched her.
Then, after a moment, he inclined his head.
"Indeed," Faker said. "It would seem so."
Wren rose from her seat, clutching the book tightly against her chest.
She turned without another glance and began to walk away.
"Thank you for the meal," she said coldly. "But if you ever pull something like that again—using Arlo to lure me here—I will never attend another one of your banquets."
For a moment, only the sound of her footsteps answered.
Then Faker spoke from behind her, his voice soft and almost amused.
"I shall do my best to remain courteous from now on."
Wren didn't believe him for even a second.
She stepped back into the library's winding halls, the air feeling colder the farther she moved from the banquet chamber.
Then a scream tore through the silence.
Sharp.
Sudden.
Familiar.
Wren froze.
Her eyes widened as the sound echoed through the maze of shelves.
Dorothea.
Without another thought, Wren broke into a run.
June 20th, 1983
On this date, the second banquet between Wren Cromwell and Faker Mimic took place.
It was also on this date that Faker's unusual fixation on Wren became increasingly apparent.
His full motives remained unknown.
But one fact was certain:
he was not an entity to be trusted.