The gates of the capital were usually a place of solemn entry for a Duke, but today, they were essentially the opening act of a slapstick comedy routine.
Aria's wind-bubble floated gracefully through the main arch, with Kazriel lounging inside like he was lounging on a royal throne. Behind them, trudging through the mud and slush, was Amien. He was still wearing the same tattered uniform, looking like he'd been dragged through a swamp, and—much to his horror—he was currently holding a giant, neon-yellow fabric bundle that looked suspiciously like a giant pickle costume.
The Imperial Guards, who had spent the last week practicing their stiffest salutes for the returning hero, completely forgot how to stand at attention. One of them actually dropped his spear.
"Is that... the Duke Heir's disciple?" a guard whispered, loud enough to be heard across the square.
"He looks like he's on his way to a children's birthday party," another replied, confused.
Kazriel leaned over the edge of his floating obsidian slab, flashing a grin so bright it was basically assault. "Gentlemen! Don't stare. It's rude to gawk at a man in the middle of a spiritual awakening. He's currently undergoing a... custom ritual for his soul cultivation."
Aria waved a hand, creating a small breeze that ruffled the yellow fabric in Amien's arms. "It's a secret technique. Very exclusive. If you stare too long, he might start singing."
Amien, whose dignity had officially left the building sometime around the twenty-mile mark, stared straight ahead, his eye twitching. "I'm going to kill you both in your sleep," he muttered, just quiet enough to avoid a literal lightning strike from Kazriel.
"Careful, Amien," Kazriel chuckled, hopping off the slab as they reached the main plaza. "The tailor is waiting at the estate. He's very excited. He's been working on the zipper placement for three hours. Apparently, getting the 'pickle' silhouette to fit a dragon-blood lineage is a technical nightmare."
As they walked through the streets, the rumors spread faster than a wildfire in a dry forest. By the time they reached the gates of the Duchy, half the noble population was hanging out of their carriage windows, trying to figure out why the "Hero of the North" was walking his disciple like a pack mule while said disciple held a neon yellow sack of doom.
Kazriel stopped at the front steps, turning to face his disciple. The playful, sarcastic glint in his eyes sharpened into something cold and terrifyingly focused.
"Alright, rockstar," Kazriel said, his voice dropping to a whisper that only Amien could hear. "The performance starts now. Inside this house, there are spies, rivals, and people who think I'm just a 'lucky noble.' I want you to walk in there, look everyone in the eye, and act like you aren't currently contemplating a career in the vegetable mascot industry."
Amien straightened up, his face hardening as the instincts of a former world-famous performer took over. He wasn't a shivering student anymore; he was a man who had faced stadiums of a hundred thousand people.
"And if I mess up?" Amien asked.
Kazriel patted him on the shoulder, his hand lingering just a second too long. "Then the suit becomes permanent. I'll have the tailor weld the zipper shut. Don't test me, Amien. I'm a man of my word."
Aria walked past them, giving Amien a wink. "Good luck. Try not to trip over your own shame."