I like listening to people’s stories. Especially when the principal gave his occasional speeches in the great hall back in school. He would speak about food, about flowers blooming in the garden, about stories from his childhood, about how Mr. Bevrio and Ms. Prisca seemed to be getting along pretty well in the staff room... The other students looked bored, and some even slept during the speeches (although everyone paid attention when he talked about the two teachers), but I always listened with interest.
I also like talking to people. What I don’t like, however, is being told and asked the same things ad nauseam. It irritates me.
And it would be fine if they kept asking me things they didn’t know, but I can’t stand it when they ask things they know full well, over and over.
In case you’re wondering what I’m talking about all of a sudden...
“This is important, so I need you to think very hard about this.”
I’m in a spacious room in Castle Shuzelk, one assigned to a royal magician. Around me are milk-white walls, a large painting, and silver-colored furnishings. Forced to sit on a leather-covered sofa and with no opportunity to close my eyes and enjoy the gentle breeze coming through the small window even for a moment, I maintain a grim expression all the way through. Through the window, the sun hangs low in the sky.
I cross my legs and fold my arms, tapping at my upper arm with my index finger. Anyone should be able to tell at a glance I’m not exactly having fun here.
Meanwhile, this blond man with a black writing brush in hand places his notes on the table, sits on the sofa across from me, and similarly crosses his legs. Unlike knight uniforms, his is deep blue. Maybe it’s a special uniform for royal magicians. His braided hair hangs down to his knees. As usual, he’s wearing glasses.
By the door behind him stands a young man, another royal magician, looking uncomfortable with the mood in this room.
“You won’t get anything by grilling me any further,” I say.
It’s been the same old questions for some time now. What is he hoping to get from me this way? It’s a waste of time—a total sham.
I swell my cheeks as hard as I can, and make my complaint to the man in front of me.
“You should be grateful His Majesty himself, or his chief vassals, aren’t interrogating you in person. We could be digging around in your brain here. It’s your fault for saying too much in front of the wrong people, you know.”
“My...fault?!”
I spring up from the sofa. The red eyes in front of me track my ascent, and I glare back.
“Things haven’t been going great for you, am I right? You still haven’t done anything about that demon’s magic, have you?”
I pound on the table over and over in protest. However, all I get in return is an icy stare.
What a jerk. No human with a heart can have eyes like that. He—Rockmann—recrosses his legs the other way and gives me a rude stare, making my clenched fists tremble. I have to say, it’s been a while since I was last infuriated enough to feel like grabbing that long, shiny hair of his, shaking it around, and pitching him out of the nearest window like trash.
I calm down just a little. It looks like affection is not what I’m feeling towards him here.
Here I am, stuck in this room in Shuzelk, forced to give the same old song and dance about demons and ancients. I do feel bad about what I’ve done, you know? I said too much—yes, too much—back then, and talked about my conversation with the Ice Ancient, which prompted the kingdom to question why I didn’t mention it as soon as I woke up from my month-long sleep. Hence the interrogations.
Still, there’s only so much I know. I can’t give them information I don’t have. Instead of grilling me like this, they could just use the kind of magic that would make it clear whether I’m telling a lie or holding anything back from them. I feel like my head’s going to boil from all this repetitive questioning.
“Well, how would I know?” Rockmann gives a scornful laugh, pointing his palms upwards.
“Kgh...”
This bastard... How long is he going to play stupid with me? Shouldn’t we be interrogating him?
I hear the dream demon’s still clammed up. Just how long can they keep torturing the bastard before he starts talking or dies, anyway?
“Look, all I know is the fragments got scattered. That’s it.” My vocabulary’s been worn down to a nub looking for ways to restate the same ideas.
Rockmann, the chief royal magician, is something of a head interrogator on my case. We’ve been having this exchange for a month now, and it’s always the same.
When the knight commander stopped by the other day, I asked whether someone else could interrogate me instead, but he insisted that only Rockmann is suitable for this, so that’s out of the question.
There are layers of spells cast on this room. I can tell. Guess this is why it has to be Rockmann (for defense and such). I heave one heavy sigh after another at being stuck with him.
“Also, what was it? You said Städal fell in love with the Ice Ancient?” asks Rockmann in a flat tone, resting his chin on his hand while propping his arm on his lap.
I’ve already told him most of what I know. Even what I heard from the Ice Ancient—we just talked about it the other day.
“Yeah! And then he got angry and started doing bad things, and ended up the way he did.”
“So, what else was there?” he asks with a disrespectful smile, despite my desperate, gesture-aided efforts to explain.
“I keep telling you there’s nothing else!”
As I groan and scratch my hair with both hands, my forelocks get messier by the minute.