They rolled out the red carpet, going above and beyond to make Markus feel celebrated and truly esteemed.
"Red carpet for you? They just walked me in like a commoner, HaHaHa," Elena giggled, covering her mouth with her hand, "It seems like they are trying their best to impress you, my student."
Markus sighed, escorted by the royal butler into the main estate.
It wasn't accurate to call it a palace; due to the constraints of land, it was just a larger-than-average mansion.
It was about twice the size of the Blackwell Estate, if Markus were to compare. After all, the imperial family only had a little over 30 members.
The extended bloodline was scattered across various cities within the Empire, each ruling over their assigned domains.
"You may call me Butler Obama. I will be your dedicated escort throughout the palace today. If you would like to tour the grounds, please let me know in advance. I will make the necessary arrangements." Obama bowed towards Markus and Elena, showing the deepest respect for guests invited directly by the Emperor himself.
"I would like to walk the grounds after lunch and meeting with the Emperor, you may make the arrangements whenever, thank you for your kind hospitality, Mr. Obama," Markus offered his hand for a polite handshake. He did not know the proper decorum with royalty, thus doing what Grandma Isolde had taught him since young, a proper, firm handshake to show respect.
Butler Obama was stunned; he had dealt with royals, merchants, and council members, and they had never offered a handshake ever since he had started serving the Valerians.
His opinion of this young child peaked as the most polite and respectful person he has ever met. This young boy has the highest level of etiquette compared to anyone else.
Elena didn't smile with her mouth, but her eyes held a warm, amused spark. She was also deeply impressed by Markus's actions from day one; to his allies, he was a wellspring of loyalty; to his enemies, a scourge without end.
The dining hall was a cavern of polished crystals and gold leaf, where the ceiling arched so high the shadows of the rafters seemed to touch the stars. It was a room designed for Echoes, making even the smallest scrape of a chair sound like a gunshot in a tomb.
Obama escorted the student and headmistress in, servants standing hands behind their backs, chins tucked, eyes focused on a point three inches above the horizon.
Along the perimeter of the room stood the staff—a row of living statues in midnight-black livery.
They were the silent sentinels of the meal, their gloved hands clasped behind them, their expressions frozen in a mask of professional vacancy.
The ceilings were Vaulted arches, frescoed with scenes of ancient battles.
Massive crystal chandeliers that don't just light the room—they "weigh" on the air with thousands of flickering candles.
The dining hall was a cathedral of excess, where the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and centuries-old oak.
The silverware were heavy engraved sterling silver with mother-of-pearl handles.
They sat beside Bone china so thin it's translucent, edged in 24-karat gold.
Markus and Elena were seated beside the head of the table, who had not yet arrived, served with a basket of freshly baked baguettes that came with a side of lightly salted butter and olive oil to pair.
Markus, starving, helped himself to several pieces of bread. It was a masterpiece of culinary physics. The crust sang as Markus squeezed the exterior, dangerously crisp, and within sat a cloud-like heart, an airy labyrinth of translucent, cream-colored silk.
Markus started with the lightly salted butter; it shone with a deep, primrose-yellow hue, signs of cattle raised on lush pastures; it yielded to the knife, clinging to the jagged holes of the baguette without tearing the crumb.
The flavor was an initial explosion of sweet cream, followed quickly by a cultured, nutty tang that cut through the richness.
'Holy macaroni, this bread and butter put all the finest meals I've had to shame, maybe this prison isn't so bad after all.'
Markus closed his eyes, savouring the myriad of flavors coursing through his mouth.
He helped himself to another slice, dipping a jagged shard of the baguette into the green pool, watching the bread soak in the oil until it was stained dark emerald.
The initial taste was deceptively creamy, a wash of herbal sweetness that coated his mouth. As he leaned in, the sharp peppery aroma kicked in, blooming at the back of his throat.
Markus raised his hand as Obama came to his side, "May I know who's in charge of the lunch today, Mr. Obama?"
"Young Markus, the chef in charge, would be the honorable Wolfgang Puck; his team has been specially invited to design this meal for you today," Obama whispered to his side.
"Thank you, Mr. Obama, that will be all." Markus nodded, taking note of the chef's name; he would do more research when he went back to his room at the academy.
Obama's communication watch vibrated, a signal that the Emperor is arriving.
"Please rise for the Emperor of the Eastern Coast, Valerian the Great!" Obama announced.
Markus and Elena stood where they were seated as the gilded doors parted, Valerians striding in, the innate temperature of the room rising slightly, his control over the laws of fire still unstable.
Both the student and the headmistress held a fist to their chest, an imperial salute to royalty. Behind Valerian, the Empress Amelia and her daughter Rosalind followed closely.
Valerian nodded, acknowledging the salutes, "At ease, please tell the chef to begin lunch service."
Valerian commanded, and the head butler by his side turned and headed right for the main kitchen in a hurry.
"It's been a while, Elena. How has the academy been doing?" Valerian started with some small talk with the Headmistress, not wanting to put too much pressure on the young boy sitting beside him.
"We have some of the strongest and brightest students in our academy's history. Young Markus here broke all the records set by your eldest son and dominated his peers in the academy's combat trial." Elena proudly declared, putting unnecessary pressure on Markus.
Rosalind's eyes sparkled; she had heard rumors of the brightest prodigy of the Empire emerging from the Blackwell lineage and was curious about the boy two years older than she was.
Amelia noticed the intense gaze of her youngest daughter, chuckled, and stroked her hair, reminding her to maintain proper etiquette before guests.
Rosalind watched Markus's recorded battles several times and was his number one fan in the imperial family.