The Corrupted Syndicate

Mavislin remained silent, her gaze fixed on the blonde as he began his meal with meticulous precision.

She observed how he deftly peeled the edamame, the motion smooth and practiced, and how he skillfully wielded a pair of slender chopsticks to lift pieces of meat from the platter.

There was a certain elegance in the way he ate, each movement controlled and deliberate, betraying the disciplined nature beneath his imposing presence.

It was a small, almost intimate moment, one that contrasted sharply with the chaos and brutality she associated with him. Yet, even in this quiet act of dining, Zenos maintained an air of cold detachment, as if he were savoring a victory as much as the food itself.

"If you choose not to eat, I'll have no qualms about forcing it down your throat myself. And spare me the indignity of groveling in the dead of the night, whining for substance simply because your delicate palate finds this offering unworthy."

Something within the dragoness fractured, not with rage or the urge to silence Zenos, but with a sense of deep, unnameable sadness—a sorrow she had long buried, unsure of where it could safely spill out. Was this meant to be the feeling of sadness?

Mavislin had always kept her grief carefully concealed, even from those closest to her. Not even Mattheos, whom she considered a dear friend, had ever seen her cry.

She had endured unimaginable pain—losing an arm in battle, enduring beatings that would break lesser beings—yet she had never let a single tear fall.

As she sat before the lavish meal, her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the meals of her past. She blinked, and suddenly she was a child again, forced to scavenge for insects because her so-called guardians could not be troubled to feed the unwanted burden they had created.

The memories clawed at her, stark and raw, contrasting so painfully with the feast before her that it felt almost absurd.

How ironic that her enemy would be the one to offer her something as simple, yet as profound, as a meal she could actually savor—a meal that didn't carry the sting of suffering.

Despite all the heavy rumors about this one blonde man, whose thirst for combat knew no bounds, Mavislin would forever deem him as someone better than the guardians that gave birth to her.

She didn't realize she was crying until the tears slipped silently down her cheeks, trailing warmth against the chill in her chest. Maybe she did still have a bit of emotions left in her... Maybe it wasn't too late for her to truly enjoy this life to the fullest.

After all, to create the most magnificent rainbow, the most dangerous and darkest thunderstorm must first occur. The dragoness knew that she was earning no pity points from the Viceroy. Zenos, ever the inscrutable observer, remained silent, his gaze impassive.

Without a word, he methodically took portions of the various dishes and placed them atop her rice, his movements precise and deliberate. When he finished, he set the plate before her with a soft but deliberate thud, snapping her back to the present.

Startled, Mavislin quickly wiped her tears, embarrassed by her moment of vulnerability. Yet the sight and smell of the food, warm and inviting, quelled her unease.

Her hunger—both physical and emotional—took over, and she dug in with fervor. Each bite was a revelation, a burst of flavor she had almost forgotten could exist.

For once, she allowed herself to simply eat, to relish the rare luxury of a meal prepared not out of obligation or cruelty, but as something resembling kindness, even if from a twisted source.

"Had I known your taste would be on the saltier side, I would've tweaked the dishes tonight," noted Zenos as he watched Mavislin devour the food before her with tears.

The girl remained silent, her focus solely on finishing her meal with single-minded determination. The Viceroy, having finished his own plate, let out a quiet sigh before rising from his seat.

Without a word, he moved to sit beside the ravenous dragoness. Slowly, with an unexpected gentleness that contrasted his usual cold demeanor, he raised a hand and placed it on her back.

His touch was surprisingly soft, his palm moving in slow, deliberate strokes as if offering a quiet comfort amidst the unspoken tension.

The warmth of his hand, the steady rhythm of his touch, seemed to carry a fleeting, almost reluctant tenderness—a rare gesture from one so accustomed to wielding power rather than offering solace.

"I care not for the details of your past, save for the fact that you were swept into the Syndicate's grasp at a tender age. My own upbringing was a far cry from such struggles, steeped in privilege as the favored son of power and influence."