Back to present, he shifted uncomfortably until a silver-domed plate was silently placed in front of him. Breakfast. He hadn't even registered the server. Everything smelled impossibly rich—scrambled eggs crowned with shaved truffle, buttery, layered pastries still steaming, spiced fruit compote, toast so perfectly golden it looked fake. The kind of food the rich favored, not merely ate.
Ruby leaned toward him, her perfume subtle and expensive. "You can request anything you like. We usually pre-order, but the Chef adjusts for preference."
Askai gave her a short, non-committal nod and didn't reply. Instead, he picked the closest thing—a stuffed pastry—and bit into it. Still warm. Ridiculously flaky. Far too good for someone like him. His empty stomach offered up a pathetic, muffled growl of gratitude.
The table's chatter resumed around him, the murmurs of power filling the void.
"…Nolan's pulling trade numbers bigger than the capital again." It was Malcolm, Askai noticed, who brought up the issue. His father was the kingpin in the construction sector. No major government contract had ever succeeded without their name on it.
"The capital is only in name. Nolan has two-thirds of the nation's population and eighty percent of its wealth. Even the Eastern Corridor routes are redirecting through Nolan now. The city is flourishing. I heard two new industrial corridors have been proposed just this quarter." Sherry replied. Of course, the daughter of the Minister of Commerce knew just what was in the pipeline.
"They say the Western Nolan is stirring up troubles, though," Malcolm said, their voice dropping low with the thrill of discussing distant, manageable danger. "Gangs. Street scum. A real infestation."
Askai's fork paused midway to his mouth. A whisper of cold crept up his spine.
"They're getting bolder," another chimed in, leaning forward eagerly. "Saw news of a beating last week. A well-known associate of a reputed Real Estate Establishment was shot this week, and another trashed motel last night. The manager was barely alive when they rushed him to a nearby hospital. What's more shocking? Zero police reports."
Steven flicked a swift, knowing glance toward Askai, a smirk twisting his lips. "They've always been around and they will continue to stay. They're just the other side of the coin, after all."
It was too smooth, too polished—too knowing. Hairs stood up on Askai's nape.
He studied Steven from the corner of his eye, trying to recall the exact lineage. Steven's uncle. Someone had once said he was on Langley's board. Connections to the undercity real estate. No wonder he talked like he wasn't afraid of the rot—he probably owned parts of it. But did he really know something about me?
Ruby suddenly turned to Askai, her movement interrupting his spiraling thoughts.
"You grew up near the borders, right? You'd know better than anyone. Is it as bad as they say?" She blinked once, her smile tentative, trying for genuine curiosity. "I mean, if you don't mind sharing." she added, uncomfortably.
A sudden, thick hush slid over the table. Askai froze, the pastry suddenly tasteless in his mouth. He hadn't expected that—especially not from her.
The air felt instantly colder, heavier. Every eye turned on him, stripping him bare. The outsider. The anomaly. The pariah who, by some inexplicable accident, sat among the silk-skinned royals and old-money wolves.
Ruby's smile faltered, seeing the effect of her careless question. Regret—quick and genuine—flashed behind her lashes. She hadn't meant to throw him under the bus. But she had.
Steven's mouth twisted, ready to pounce, already framing some brutal, cutting remark about the smell of the gutter. Before he could speak, Vance stood up abruptly, his movement crisp and authoritative, snapping the tension in the room. "Time for class. Come on, Askai."
Askai blinked, jolted. He looked down. The time—he was late.
He instinctively reached for his tray, intending to gather his few used dishes—but Vance caught his wrist mid-motion, his expression bland, his eyes narrowed in faint, aristocratic exasperation.
Askai froze, realizing the faux pas. He, the guest, the outsider, was about to perform the work of a servant.
Vance didn't speak—just rolled his eyes, a flicker of pure disdain, and let go. That look—that silent, loaded dismissal—was all it took. Humiliation crawled up Askai's neck, burning behind his ears. He trailed silently after Vance, feeling the table's gaze linger on his back like sharp, probing knives.
He hated these twats.
Outside the Lounge, he released a long, slow breath and muttered under it, barely loud enough for Vance to hear, "Could've just let me eat alone."
They walked through the quieter hallway now, the buzz of elite chatter left behind. For a moment, he thought they were heading to the lecture hall. Maybe he could just disappear into the morning crowd and pretend none of this happened.
But then Vance spoke, his voice calm as a blade sliding in.
"Come. We'll attend the class from my suite today."
Askai stopped dead. He stared at the back of Vance's perfectly tailored grey jacket.
"…That shouldn't be possible."