"Lady Priscilla Barielle." Reinhard was the first to break the silence, stepping from behind Gojo before dipping into a graceful bow. His crimson hair caught the sunlight like flame, though his voice remained calm, steady. "I hope this day finds you well."
Priscilla lowered her fan just enough to let her crimson eyes glimmer.
"Hmph. Of course it does. I would never dare to expect otherwise. But tell me, Sword Saint—still incapable of deviating from that oh-so-perfect posture?"
Reinhard rose smoothly, the smile never leaving his face.
"But of course, my lady. I, too, would not have it any other way."
Her narrowed gaze lingered. For a moment, her expression cracked—annoyance, fleeting but sharp. A man who embodies perfection and unrivaled power, yet never indulges in the smallest of interests… tiresome.
"And here I thought I was absurdly arrogant." Gojo's voice broke the rhythm, light and mocking, as he leaned lazily over Reinhard's shoulder, hands tucked behind his back. That infuriating grin stretched across his face. "Looks like I've been dethroned."
Priscilla snapped her fan open with a sharp snap.
"The Sword Saint being strung along by a court jester is a laughable sight, to say the least. But of course, that is to be expected. What else could one describe you as but a clown—for daring to contend with me for the throne?"
"Wooow," Gojo drawled, eyes sparkling with amusement as he tilted his head. "Sharp tongue, sharper than any sword I've seen so far. You sure you didn't miss your calling as a comedian?"
Reinhard let out the faintest sigh, a whisper only Aldebaran caught.
Meanwhile, Al had been silent, arms crossed, helm tilted ever so slightly toward Gojo. His gut screamed at him—the kind of warning he'd learned never to ignore. This wasn't just some cocky noble or a brash runt. This man was… wrong.
Gojo's head turned suddenly, his piercing gaze landing on Aldebaran. That grin of his only widened.
"Hey, buckethead. You know what cursed energy is?"
Al stiffened, the sound of creaking metal as he shifted.
"... Am I supposed to?"
For a few seconds, Gojo only stared at him, the grin never faltering. Then he chuckled, waving dismissively.
"Nah, nah. Don't worry about it. Just a pointless question."
Al didn't move, but under the helmet his lips pressed into a thin line. His instincts were screaming louder than ever.
Priscilla, uninterested in their strange exchange, fanned herself with a soft laugh.
"Truly, the capital draws in the most amusing insects. Sword Saint, do try not to let this fool drag you down any further."
"With respect, Lady Priscilla," Reinhard replied, inclining his head once more. "I willingly stand alongside Satoru, perhaps, just as Aldebaran there chooses to stand alongside you."
Priscilla's gaze did not waver, her crimson eyes boring into Reinhard's with that same self-assured weight she carried into every word, every step. Yet for once, she chose silence—only the faintest snap of her fan closing broke the stillness.
Gojo, never one to let a silence breathe for too long, leaned forward with a lazy grin.
"Hey, Rein, what was that earlier talk about a vendor? I'm starving, and you sounded reaaaal keen about it."
————————————————————————
Minutes later, the four of them occupied a private table in one of the capital's finer establishments. The atmosphere was brittle, liable to snap at the slightest provocation. Waiters darted between the kitchen and the dining floor with the frantic energy of cornered rabbits, trays rattling in their hands, eyes flicking nervously toward the table where two Royal Candidates and the Sword Saint sat as though it were the most natural gathering in history.
The scent of roasted meats and spiced vegetables hung heavy in the air, but it was all but drowned out by the suffocating pressure radiating from the booth.
Priscilla rested her chin lightly against her palm, her fan lowered at her side. Her crimson eyes swept over the establishment with the scrutiny of a queen inspecting a peasant's hovel. Finally, she let out a quiet, thoughtful hum.
"Hmm… I suppose, as far as commoner establishments go, this is not entirely intolerable." Her voice lilted with faint amusement, the tone of a goddess deigning to notice a mortal's effort. "You have a passable eye, Sword Saint. I shall allow this."
"I am honored to hear that, Lady Priscilla," Reinhard replied smoothly, the smile on his lips as calm as a still lake. He raised his water glass, his posture flawless—the very picture of a knight born to serve.
"Hmph." She waved her fan once, dismissively. "Naturally."
Gojo leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and kicking his legs out under the table. His grin couldn't have been more opposite to Reinhard's restraint.
"Not bad, huh? Guess that means Rein didn't take us here for nothing. Though honestly, I could eat in a back-alley stall and still be happy. As long as they have something sweet, I'm game."
"That," Priscilla said without sparing him a glance. "is the difference between those born beneath the sun's radiance, and those who crawl in its shadow. To be satisfied with swill is the mark of a beast."
Gojo chuckled, the sound vibrating in his chest.
"Heh. Gotta hand it to you, Princess—you've got a way with words. Pretty ones, too. Almost makes me forget you're insulting me every time you open your mouth."
Al shifted uncomfortably beside her, his armored fingers tapping the table with a faint, rhythmic clink-clink.
"…She doesn't really almost insult, y'know. It's kind of her default setting, pal."
Priscilla's fan flicked open in a flash, snapping shut again just as quickly—a warning sharper than a blade. Al stiffened, muttering a quick apology, but didn't retract the statement.
Reinhard, ever the diplomat, interjected with a gentle tone.
"The food should be arriving soon. I hope it will prove worthy of your palate, Lady Priscilla."
"It had better." she replied coolly, though her eyes flicked briefly toward the kitchen, where a nervous waiter nearly dropped a tray under the weight of her gaze.
"The world exists to please me, after all. It would be a shame if the chef forgot that."
Gojo leaned across the table suddenly, lowering his voice, though his grin never dimmed.
"Y'know, Rein, I think she's secretly enjoying this. Watching everyone squirm. She's got that look. Like a cat playing with a mouse before it bites the head off."
"Careful..." Al muttered, his voice low beneath the helm. "You're playing with fire, bro. Seriously."
Priscilla snapped her gaze toward Gojo at that, her crimson eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight. Yet rather than scolding him, she smirked, fanning herself lazily.
"At least one among you has eyes keen enough to see the obvious." She let the words hang, savoring them as though they were fine wine. "Tell me, clown… what do you see when you look at me?"
Gojo didn't miss a beat. His grin widened, sharp and careless.
"An absolute pain in the ass."
For a moment, silence reigned. The waiters froze mid-step. Al's shoulders visibly tensed. Even Reinhard's polite smile flickered—just for a microsecond.
Then, Priscilla laughed.
It was a rich, arrogant sound that rang through the restaurant, sending shivers down the spines of those unfortunate enough to overhear.
"Hmph… Hah! Perhaps you are not entirely worthless after all."
Gojo leaned back, satisfied.
"See? Knew you'd warm up to me eventually. They always do!"
Reinhard sighed softly, his smile returning, though his eyes hinted at a deep, spiritual exhaustion. Al slumped in his chair, dragging a hand down his faceplate.
The plates arrived, steaming and fragrant—grilled meats dusted with northern herbs, bowls of vegetables simmered in broth, and a basket of freshly baked bread. The servers practically bowed their way out of existence, vanishing as if their lives depended on being anywhere else.
Gojo didn't wait for ceremony. He tore a piece of bread in half, popped it into his mouth, and chewed with a pleased hum.
"Mmm. See? Totally worth dragging everyone here. Not bad at all."
Priscilla's fan fluttered lazily in her hand as she regarded him with half-lidded eyes.
"To find satisfaction in scraps unworthy of a banquet for the divine… truly, you are a fool to no end."
"Mhm. Maybe~" Gojo said around his mouthful, unbothered. "But funny thing about scraps—they taste pretty damn good if you stop pretending you're too important to enjoy them."
Al couldn't help but sigh in disbelief and terror, shooting a subtle glance at his mistress out of the corner of his visor.
Reinhard, for his part, simply set down his utensils with a soft clink, hands folding neatly in his lap.
"…You seem to place value in simple pleasures, Satoru...?" Reinhard said at last, gently steering the current before it became a tsunami.
"Damn right I do~" Gojo replied, swallowing. "It's the little things. Food, drinks, a nap in the sun, a good fight to stretch your legs. Life's not worth living if you don't let yourself enjoy it." He tilted his head, his blindfolded gaze sliding toward Priscilla. "Not that I'd expect Her Majesty to get that."
Priscilla's laugh rang out again, sharp and disdainful.
Gojo tapped his chin, pretending to think, then snapped his fingers.
"Ohhh, but I get it now. You're the type who walks into a room and thinks, 'Wow, I must've made this place beautiful just by existing.'"
Priscilla leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming, smile sharp as a guillotine.
"Not thinks. Knows."
Al let out a low groan. "…And here we go."
Reinhard exhaled softly. "Lady Priscilla, I do not believe Satoru intended disrespect. His ways are… unorthodox, but his strength is undeniable. He simply views the world differently."
Priscilla's fan snapped shut. Her gaze slid from Reinhard to Gojo, comparing two paintings: one immaculate, one abstract chaos.
"And yet you waste your radiance by tethering yourself to duty, Sword Saint. How dull. And this one—" she gestured at Gojo with a flick of her fan "—squanders his brilliance on childish mockery. What a pitiable contrast. Both of you, so bound. Neither free."
Gojo leaned forward now, elbows on the table. His grin softened into something cooler, something that didn't reach the rest of his face.
"Free, huh? Y'know, that's funny coming from someone who thinks the whole world should bend over backwards for her. Sounds less like freedom and more like a cage built out of your own ego."
Al nearly dropped his fork. "Hey, hey, pal—word of advice? You don't just toss lines like that around unless you're really eager to find out what the famed Yang Sword tastes like..."
But Gojo didn't flinch. He never flinched. His eyes sparkled with amusement, daring her to press further.
Priscilla tilted her head, as if in disbelief.
"…So you would oppose me, fool? You would raise your voice to the sun herself?"
"Oppose you?" Gojo chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. "Nah. I just think you're hilarious. All that talk about being the sun, but at the end of the day, you're just another human being. Strong, sure. Gorgeous, no argument there. But still just a person."
Priscilla grinned.
"Truly spoken like a man who has never once touched the true radiance of power. You grasp at crumbs, while I stand bathed in the eternal brilliance of the heavens. All things exist to serve me, to adorn me, to prove my supremacy. This world is not a garden for your trivial indulgences—it is my stage."
Gojo finally set down his knife and fork with deliberate care.
He then laced his fingers together, resting his chin on them as he leaned forward. The playful air evaporating in an instant.
"Y'know… there's one thing you've gotten wrong this whole conversation, Priscilla."
Priscilla's brow shifted. Her crimson eyes narrowed, sensing the shift in pressure.
"And what, pray tell, would that be?"
Gojo's grin widened, though his tone dropped lower, quieter.
"Thinking I'm beneath you."
The words were practically a declaration of Gojo's ego, his refusal to sit back and allow Priscilla's arrogance to run rampant unlike most.
Priscilla's lips parted in a soft laugh—short, sharp, and scornful. But there was something in her gaze now. A flicker of heat. A recognition of a fellow apex predator.
"…Hmph. You speak boldly for a jester who has yet to prove his worth before me. Perhaps I should simply burn away your ego here and now, so that only your ashes may remember the cost of insolence."
Gojo didn't flinch. He leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily, his smirk unshaken.
"Cute threat. But I wouldn't recommend it. Trust me—you'd honestly regret trying."
Reinhard finally interjected, as he doubted either Gojo or Priscilla would hesitate to brawl, even in a place like this.
"Please, you two... this is not the time nor place for conflict. Lady Priscilla, Satoru. I must ask you both to restrain yourselves. The food is getting cold after all."
Priscilla closed her fan with a sharp snap, her gaze lingering on Gojo for a moment longer—calculating, assessing—before she finally leaned back with an exaggerated air of boredom.
"Hmph. Very well. Consider yourself fortunate, Satoru Gojo, that the Sword Saint wishes to dine in peace. I shall spare you… for now."
Gojo laughed, grabbing his fork again.
"Thanks, Rein! You're a lifesaver. Now pass the butter, would ya?"