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The night deepened. The wind was cold, but the table of the Old Nobles’ Circle was particularly freezing. The elder nobles glared at Keter. The wrinkles on their faces were proof that they had survived countless battles and schemes.
“You seem overly excited from all that drinking. Why don’t you go inside and rest?”
Gerald, the council’s second-in-command, showed a measure of adult leniency. However, Keter lifted his cup.
“Do you know what I can’t get used to in this kingdom? It’s that old people are supposed to be shown respect and deference. I just don’t accept it, but it’s the culture, so I try. Consider this my courtesy.”
Slowly, Keter extended the cup toward Gerald.
“Drink. Don’t have any regrets later.”
Clang!
Then, one of the elder nobles who had been watching sprang to his feet and pointed at Keter.
“You’ve gotten unbearably arrogant because Sir Gerald is indulging you. Just because you’re from a master family and now the Sword of the South, you think you can do anything you want. Do you really not know who we are?! One word from us and Sefira’s standing—including yours—could be shaken to the core!”
“Hm…”
Keter set down his cup and strode up to the shouting noble.
“So you’re saying that if you flap that greasy mouth of yours, Sefira will be in danger?”
“You insolent brat! Fine. I’ll show you. One word from me and the Royal Inspection Corps will descend on Sefira and…”
“The royal family is awfully far away, isn’t it? My fist, however, is...
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