Chapter 13: Spaghett About It

I sit at the head of the long dinner table in my dorm even though it's breakfast time. A mountain of steaming spaghetti piled high on the fine china plate before me. A generous heap of plump meatballs nestles among the pasta, their surface glistening with a sheen of savory sauce. Lydia sits to my right.

"Brother," she begins, her voice tinged with exasperation, "don't you think spaghetti and meatballs is too heavy for breakfast? Especially on the first day of classes?"

I twirl a hefty forkful of pasta, the noodles wrapping around the utensil like a silken cocoon. As I lift it to my mouth, a particularly plump meatball loses its precarious perch atop the spaghetti mountain. It tumbles down, leaving a trail of sauce in its wake before landing with a soft 'plop' on my pristine white trousers.

"Fuck," I mutter, watching as the red sauce begins to seep into the expensive fabric, spreading like a crimson inkblot.

Lydia sighs, reaching for a napkin. But before she can offer it to me, I spear the fallen meatball with my fork and pop it into my mouth.

I turn to her, my cheeks bulging slightly as I chew. "Look, Lydia," I say, my words slightly muffled by the mouthful of food, "I'm locked the fuck in on this spaghetti thing right now."

I gesture expansively with my fork, a few droplets of sauce flying off to spatter against the crisp white tablecloth. "This is my next month," I declare with the fervor of a religious convert. "If you're not all about this too, I don't know if we can hang out until it's all over then."

Lydia's eyes panic in disbelief, her fiery hair seeming to crackle with barely contained exasperation. She opens her mouth as if to argue, then closes it again, clearly at a loss for words in the face of my spaghetti-fueled conviction.

Finally, she shakes her head and flags down a passing server, a young woman with pointed ears and blue hair.

"Do you have a life magic mage here?" Lydia asks, her voice tinged with urgency.

The server nods, her delicate features creasing with concern as she takes in the scene before her.

"Go get them," Lydia commands, her tone brooking no argument.

The server scurries off, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous dining hall. As she disappears around a corner, Lydia turns back to me, her hazel eyes filled with a mixture of frustration and fondness.

"Brother," she sighs, running a hand through her fiery locks, "you are a mess, you know that?"

I grin at her, sauce clinging to the corners of my mouth. "Do you want some?" I offer magnanimously, gesturing towards the towering plate of pasta with my sauce-covered fork.

Lydia recoils slightly, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "Brother," she says, her voice heavy with exhaustion, "It's like i just said, it's far too heavy for a swordswoman like me. I'd throw up during training."

I slurp up another forkful of spaghetti, the noodles disappearing between my lips with a soft, wet sound.

Lydia watches me with a mixture of fascination and horror as I demolish the pile of pasta before me.

"So," Lydia says, breaking the silence that had fallen between us, punctuated only by the sounds of my enthusiastic eating, "how was your date yesterday? I heard you blinded a waiter."

I pause mid-chew, a single noodle dangling from my lips like a limp mustache. Slurping it up with a quick flick of my tongue, I nod, swallowing the mouthful of pasta before responding.

"Yeah," I confirm, reaching for my goblet of wine, because why not have wine with breakfast spaghetti? "But it's okay. Diana told me he'll get a better one."

The ruby liquid swirls in the crystal goblet as I take a sip, leaving a faint red stain on my upper lip. Lydia's eyebrows seem to be bristling with indignation.

"You know Rolo is my best friend, right?" she says, her voice carrying a note of warning.

I set down my goblet, the crystal making a soft clink against the polished wood of the table. "Yeah," I reply, my tone casual as I spear another meatball with my fork.

Lydia sighs deeply, the sound carrying the weight of years of dealing with my antics. She leans forward, her elbows resting on the table in a distinctly un-princesslike manner.

"Look," she begins, her voice softening slightly, "I honestly couldn't be happier with your choice, but if she hurts you, I'll kill her."

I wave my fork dismissively, a droplet of sauce flying off to land on my shirt. "Relax," I say, my voice muffled by another mouthful of spaghetti. I swallow before continuing, "I think she's the one."

"Fine, but go easy on her."

*****

After getting cleaned up by a mage we apparently have on retainer I was off to the races.

The lecture hall is a grand amphitheater, its tiered seating arranged in a perfect semicircle around the central podium. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment and leather-bound books.

I sit in the middle row, my quill poised over a blank sheet of parchment, ready to take notes on "Introduction to World History." The seat next to me creaks softly as someone settles into it, and I glance over, my breath catching in my throat as I meet a pair of piercing golden eyes.

Octavia Darkmoon sits beside me, her presence as commanding as a queen on her throne. Her snow-white hair cascades down her back in a silken waterfall, contrasting sharply with the deep blue of her academy uniform.

But it's her eyes that truly capture my attention. Those golden orbs bore into me with an intensity that's almost physical. I feel pinned in place. Despite the fierce concentration in her gaze, there's something in those depths that seems to pull me in, an invitation hidden behind the hard exterior.

As I meet her stare, I can't help but marvel at her beauty. Octavia's features are sharp and striking. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on.

For a moment, I feel myself being drawn in, captivated by the golden pools of her eyes. But then, like a splash of cold water, reality sets in. I shake my head slightly, trying to clear the fog of attraction that had momentarily clouded my thoughts. Rolo's face flashes in my mind, her crimson eyes and gentle smile a stark reminder of where my heart truly lies.

'Rolo is my girlfriend,' I remind myself silently, the words echoing in my head like a mantra. 'She's the one. My fated one.'

I clear my throat softly, the sound barely audible over the rustling of parchment and the low murmur of conversation filling the lecture hall. "Hello, Octavia."

The moment the words leave my lips, it's as if a spell has been broken. Octavia's golden eyes widen slightly, a flicker of something. Surprise? Embarrassment? Passing across her face like a shadow. She blinks rapidly, her long lashes fluttering like the wings of a startled bird.

In an instant, the intensity that had held me captive dissipates. Octavia pulls back, her body language shifting dramatically. Her shoulders hunch slightly, the perfect posture crumbling as if under an invisible weight. Her gaze drops, those mesmerizing golden eyes now fixed firmly on the polished wood of her desk.

A faint blush creeps across her cheeks, coloring her pale skin a delicate shade of pink that spreads down her neck and disappears beneath the high collar of her uniform. Her fingers, long and elegant, begin to fidget with the edge of her parchment, creasing and smoothing the paper in an unconscious rhythm.

"H-H-Hel," Octavia stammers, her voice suddenly reduced to a trembling whisper. The word seems to catch in her throat, coming out in fits and starts. "He-He-Hell"

She tries again, her brow furrowing in concentration, a bead of sweat forming at her temple. "H-H-He-"

With each failed attempt, the blush on her cheeks deepens, spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the high collar of her uniform. Her golden eyes, once so piercing and confident, now dart around wildly, refusing to meet my gaze.

After a few more valiant attempts, each one seeming to drain more of her composure, Octavia finally gives up.

"Are you okay?" I ask, concern coloring my voice.

Octavia doesn't respond. She remains turned away, her body language screaming discomfort. Her shoulders are hunched, her hands clenched into tight fists on the desk before her. The knuckles of her hands have gone white with the force of her grip.

"Did I offend you?" I press foreword wanting answers to whatever this is. "Because you said 'fuck you' when we met..."

At my words, Octavia's head whips around so fast I fear she might have given herself whiplash. Her golden eyes, gaping with terror, lock onto mine.

Her lips part, trembling slightly as she struggles to form words. "S-S-S-" she begins, her voice barely audible. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing with the motion, and tries again. "S-S-Sor-"

"S-S-Sorry," she finally manages to stutter out the word.

At this point, I'm wondering if she might have something wrong with her. Perhaps Octavia has an intellectual disability? I guess I'll be nice then.

Trying to ease the tension and perhaps help her relax, I decide to change the subject. I reach into my bag and pull out my lunchbox. It's a beautifully crafted wooden box. The Warbringer family crest is emblazoned on the lid.

I place the lunchbox on my desk between us, not intending to eat but just to have something to talk about. The scent of spices and herbs wafts from the box, a tantalizing aroma that hints at the gourmet meal within.

"Do you like spaghetti and meatballs?" I ask, my voice gentle and encouraging as if I'm speaking to a frightened animal.

Octavia's golden eyes lock onto the lunchbox, enlarging slightly. Her nostrils flare as she catches the scent of the food within. For a moment, she seems transfixed, her gaze never leaving the container.

"L-L-Lu, L-L-Lunch."

As she struggles with the word, something shifts in her demeanor. The nervous energy that had been radiating from her seems to coalesce, focusing into a strange, intense determination.

Suddenly, Octavia's arms begin to move. The motion is fluid yet somehow alien, reminding me of the undulating tentacles of a giant squid I once saw in a magical aquarium.

Before I can react, her arms snake out, wrapping around my lunchbox. The movement is so quick, so unexpected, that I can only watch in stunned silence as she lifts the box off the desk.

With the same fluid, otherworldly motion, Octavia brings the lunchbox to her bag. The leather satchel seems to open of its own accord, its mouth gaping wide like the maw of some strange beast. The lunchbox disappears into its depths with barely a sound.

As quickly as it began, the strange display is over.

Without a word, without even a glance in my direction, Octavia rises from her seat. Her movements are once again graceful and controlled, a stark contrast to her earlier nervousness and the bizarre display I just witnessed.

I watch, dumbfounded, as she weaves through the rows of desks with an almost preternatural grace. Her movements are fluid, each step precisely placed as if she's dancing to some unheard melody. The other students seem to part before her like water around the prow of a ship, their conversations faltering as she passes.

As Octavia reaches the door, she pauses for the briefest of moments. Her head turns slightly, and I catch a glimpse of her profile. For a heartbeat, I think she might look back, might offer some explanation for her bizarre behavior. But then she's gone, disappearing through the doorway in a flash of white hair.

*****

[Octavia's POV]

The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy of ancient trees in Starcrest Park, casting shadows across the lush grass. I sit cross-legged on a worn wooden bench, my back straight despite the relaxed setting. The dripping sound getting louder.

The stolen lunchbox rests in my lap, its polished surface gleaming in the golden light.

As I lift the lid, the rich aroma of tomato sauce and herbs wafts up, making my mouth water. The spaghetti inside is still warm, steam rising in delicate tendrils that dance in the gentle breeze. The meatballs nestle among the pasta like hidden treasures, their surfaces glistening with a sheen of savory sauce.

I twirl a forkful of spaghetti, watching as the noodles wrap around the utensil like silken strands. The pasta is perfectly al dente, the sauce a harmonious blend of tangy tomatoes and fragrant herbs. The meatballs are tender and juicy, seasoned to perfection.

With each bite, I feel a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the temperature of the food. It's as if I can taste Elwin's essence in every mouthful, his kindness and gentle nature infused into each carefully prepared morsel.

'I wish it was his cum.'

As I eat, my mind wanders back to our encounter in the lecture hall. The memory of my stuttering, fumbling attempts at conversation makes me cringe inwardly. A heavy sigh escapes my lips, carrying with it the weight of my frustration.

"I think I'm getting worse instead of better," I mutter to myself, my voice barely audible over the rustling of leaves in the breeze. The fork in my hand trembles slightly, a physical manifestation of my inner turmoil.

As I continue to savor Elwin's spaghetti, I suddenly hear footsteps approaching on the gravel path. Looking up, I see a familiar face, Jarsha, a girl I met just two days ago. Her brown hair bounces as she walks. She seems nice so far.

"Hey, Octavia!" Jarsha calls out cheerfully as she nears my bench. "I heard you skipped class today. Everything okay?"

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can say anything, Jarsha's eyes go wide with horror. She lets out an ear-piercing scream that echoes through the peaceful park, causing nearby birds to take flight in alarm.

"OH MY GOD!" she shrieks, her voice filled with panic. "YOU HAVE A SWORD IN YOUR STOMACH!"

I glance down casually at the gleaming blade protruding from my midsection, the polished metal slick with my blood. The hilt juts out from my stomach while the pointed tip emerges just shy of my spine, having cleanly impaled me.

With a weary sigh, I set down my fork and look back up at Jarsha's terrified face. "I know," I say matter-of-factly. "I fell on it because I'm mad at myself."

Jarsha's face has gone pale, her eyes wide as saucers. She begins to hyperventilate, her chest heaving as she struggles to process the gruesome sight before her.

"We need to get you to the infirmary right away!" she gasps out between ragged breaths. "You could die!"

I wave my hand dismissively, picking up my fork to twirl another bite of spaghetti. "It's fine," I assure her calmly. "I'm the hero. My body is incredibly resilient."