Viktoria: Leave! I never want to see you again!
Angelina: No! I'm not leaving! I won't leave you!
Viktoria: Get out right now, or I'd rather die here!
Angelina: You're telling me to leave… You're heartless! You're cruel! You're impossible!
Viktoria: How am I heartless?! How am I cruel?! How am I impossible?!
Angelina: How are you not heartless?! How are you not cruel?! How are you not impossible?!
Viktoria: Even if I were heartless! Even if I were cruel! Even if I were impossible! I'd still never be more heartless, more cruel, more impossible than you!
Angelina: Me? More heartless than you?! More cruel than you?! More impossible than you?! You're the most heartless, most cruel, most impossible person I've ever met!
Viktoria: Hmph! I'm not as heartless as you! Not as cruel as you! Not as impossible as you!
Angelina: Fine! Since you say I'm heartless! I'm cruel! I'm impossible! Then I'll show you heartless! I'll show you cruel! I'll show you impossible!
"Goddamn it!" The furious tycoon finally snapped, unable to take another second. He hurled the cup in his hand straight at the screen. "And they dare call this 'based on real events with slight changes'? Aside from the names, everything's completely unrecognizable!
"No—scratch that, even the names are different now. And this so-called 'Battle of Clearwater Lake' was never some romance scene. Worst of all, what kind of sane person talks like this?
"Adaptation isn't an excuse to just make things up! A dramatization isn't—"
His rant dwindled into silence, because the ordinary young woman had already clicked the pause button. Her big eyes—still shining with moved tears—glared up at the tycoon.
Pouting, she said, "If you don't want to watch, then don't force yourself. I never asked you to watch it with me!"
Ah. Damn it.
That angry, puffed-up expression on her face was absurdly sweet.
Woman… you have my attention.
And so, for love, the tycoon finally surrendered and sat back down to keep watching. He convinced himself that at least one thing about this "legendary drama" was acceptable: the actor playing the Flamebearer Sage was beautiful enough.
Even if they'd changed the Sage's gender, they still couldn't stray too far from the chronicles that described a face like something carved by the gods—grace beyond compare, the kind of beauty that made you forget your vows the moment you looked.
…
After spending far too long arguing, Victor finally got Angoulême to leave. He rested by the lakeshore for a short while, stretched lazily, and packed the alchemy materials she'd brought into his herb satchel. Then he stood and walked over to Tailles's body.
A knight's dead face, bleeding from eight openings, wasn't peaceful by any definition. The ninth "opening" was Angoulême's handiwork—she'd given him a neat little "third eye" in the forehead. Still, at least all three eyes were closed in the end.
Victor picked up the visor Tailles had worn. Even after taking a Grapeshot blast, it was only slightly warped—hard enough that it must have been forged with a bit of black steel mixed in. The upper armor plates showed scorch marks and powder staining as well. Victor collected those pieces and stowed them in his bag.
Tailles's death had created a massive problem for him.
Yesterday, Victor never should have gone downstairs asking commoners where the scenery was best. With Tailles throwing money around, there were countless people in the temple who'd happily sell Victor out.
Which meant the conclusion was obvious: someone knew Tailles was still in Ellander. Someone saw the witcher apprentice head to Clearwater Lake today. And someone knew the knight went there to "deal with" the witcher apprentice.
So Angoulême's suggestion—destroy the body, or run far away—had become meaningless.
After checking carefully to make sure he hadn't left behind anything he shouldn't, Victor filled Tailles's flask and rinsed the blood from the knight's face. As death loosened the muscles, that once-twisted, snarling expression relaxed, and the old look of stern, martial handsomeness returned.
Limping away from Clearwater Lake, Victor knew he'd have to trouble Mother Nenneke again.
…
Seven days later, Count Falwick of Moën—a knight of the Order of the White Rose—stormed out of the temple's main hall without looking back, furious, and rode straight off from the stables.
The manner of his departure looked like acceptance of Melitele's judgment.
But the glance he threw at the witcher apprentice before he left—his eyes full of hatred—burned itself into Victor's memory as he stood at the doors of the main hall.
Trouble.
This wasn't over.
"Trust me, it ain't over," said Dennis Cranmer, the dwarven captain of the guard, strolling up beside Victor. "If I were you, I wouldn't have waited these seven days for him to come knocking. I'd have started running the same day—run far, far away, and crawl back to Mahakam."
"And let the count put out a warrant for 'fleeing justice'?" Victor shook his head. "So there's nowhere left for me in all of Temeria?"
He rejected it flatly.
"Thanks to King Foltest and the protection of impartial law, at least he can't haul an innocent man like me to the gallows over Sir Tailles's bizarre death."
"Spit on that." The dwarf hawked and spat. "Don't feed me that. If you truly trusted kings and laws, you wouldn't be standing here—you'd have been in the morgue already.
"You went to the lake—someone saw it. You came back half-dead—someone can swear to it. And Tailles died at the lake that same day, after spending the whole day sniffing around your arse, looking for a chance to kick you where it hurts.
"What more proof do you need?"
"Pity for you that Melitele, in her mercy, sees the truth," Victor said calmly. "I, Victor Corion, have never killed anyone. I have never taken a life.
"That rite of judgment hasn't been performed in a long time, but it's written clearly in the law, and you saw the oracle the goddess sent down yourself. Everyone must accept its authority. It proved I did not kill Tailles."
"Ah… yeah… I saw it," Cranmer said, eyes like iron. "But it don't mean much. At best it proves you didn't strike the blow. What if you had help?
"Falwick knows, and I know, there's a hawk that keeps flying into your window. I'll find that hawk sooner or later!"
"Captain Cranmer," Victor replied, polite as ever, "how can you put any faith in commoners' nonsense? For a five-oren reward, if the count needs it, they'll swear they saw anything—griffins, wyverns, whatever you like."
The dwarf's steel-gray eyes didn't waver.
"Listen, witcher apprentice Victor. Let's skip the pretty little probing and be honest.
"We both know what really happened. But since Duke Hereward doesn't care about Tailles being dead, I don't care either. Truth is, I'm damned glad that son of a bitch got put down.
"Now—because I'm a fair dwarf—I'm telling you first: get out of Ellander. Fast as you can. This place doesn't welcome murderers.
"Second: since you've made this mess, I'm giving you a warning. Falwick's got a few mercenaries with very dirty hands. So run quick. If they catch you, they'll make you feel like the gallows is a blessing."
Victor listened, pinched the bridge of his nose, and thought for a moment.
Then he bowed slightly.
"Thank you. I'll remember your warning, Captain Cranmer."
…
Later, people told the tale like this:
"He came from the east, passing through the Shepherd's Gate.
"He rode a magnificent, proud warhorse, and the wisdom in his eyes shone like morning stars.
"He was the first, and he will be the last.
"He was the Flamebearer."