Switched

Chapter 2 Part 2 : The Supper

Half an hour later, another slave came and guided him to the dining hall. The timing couldn’t be better. Aeverith was starving. After being sustained for seven years by his amulet’s unlimited life-force, he almost forgot how food tasted like in his mouth and how it felt to need food.
And being hungry sucked.
As he stepped into the hallway, painted murals on the ceiling distracted him from his stomach’s chaotic rumbling. Rolling clouds, heroes, monsters, battles, bloodshed… Not the best thing to have as house decoration. The painter had a great artistic skill, though, so they still kind of looked nice. Those severed limbs and decapitated heads seemed realistic enough.
Turned out, Dellin’s bedroom was located in the Southern Tower of Fenain Royal Palace. What a surprise. A welcome one at that. The tower was home to Tandraria’s most distinguished mages. A long time ago, Aeverith would have done anything to even get a chance to peek inside this legendary place. But now that he had seen its insides, nah, one out of ten. Bad design choices. Too much unnerving decorations.
He followed the slave down a spiral staircase made of thin transparent crystals, obviously strengthened with Ochre magic. Otherwise, it would crack on the slightest touch.  Upon reaching the bottom of the tower, they walked out, entering what seemed to be an empty open training ground. Good. No disciple mages anywhere. Judging from Dellin’s reputation, those disciples groupie would flock around him the moment he appeared. A shower of love and adoration would then begun.
Aeverith shivered on the mere thought of it. He couldn’t afford to spend his precious energy interacting with strangers, especially over-enthusiastic ones.
He entered the palace’s southern wing. The decorations were better now. Less blood, more flowers and patterned potteries. Ten out of ten. On his way, some members of the court greeted him with polite nods and bows. He returned their greeting like the stud that he was—or at least the stud that he thought Dellin was. Of course he had no idea who those people were. Everything felt unusual to him. The real Aeverith in his natural habitat would make himself look inconsequential, trying not to be noticed. But now...
I’m the embodiment of perfection, he thought, while strutting across the hallway with artificial confidence.
He arrived at the dining room.
“Dellin, my boy!” a cheery voice greeted him. It was King Selgor himself.
Shit, what should I say?!
“Uh… Selgor, My King!” He performed a low and overly stiff bow.
“Sit down, sit down.” Selgor pointed at a chair beside him on the dining table. “You’re the hero of the world, boy. There’s no need to be so formal.”
Aeverith sat obediently. All this time, he only recognized Selgor’s face from those official royal portraits scattered throughout the continent. The man sitting next to him was at least twenty years older than those paintings. His hair and beard had turned gray. A couple of wrinkles had appeared here and there. He was a little shorter than what Aeverith imagined, though. Wearing Dellin’s towering body had something to do with it, he supposed.
“How are you feeling?” the king asked.
What would a man of culture say? Quick. Think of something!
“Formally, I’m great, uh… Your Highness. My wounds have recovered with not a single scar remains. Your Viridian healers have done a wonderful job,” Aeverith answered with a smile. “But honestly, I’m starving.”
The king laughed, patting Aeverith’s shoulder with delight. He internally let out a sigh of relief. Underneath the table, his hands fiddled with the tassels of the tablecloth.
A few days ago, the first thing he would do if he ever come face to face with Selgor Thalden was to kill him. Draining his life-force until he was nothing more than a pile of dust sounded nice. Now things wouldn’t be so simple anymore. First, he needed to see just how much Selgor could be useful for him.
A figure entered the room. He was a hunched lanky man with the complexion of a naked mole-rat. His beady eyes scanned the room before settling on Aeverith. The lack of bright emerald color in his irises suggested that he was not part of the Thalden family. From his grand clothing, though, he must hold an important position within the Fenain court.
“My King, Chosen. You two have arrived early,” he said. A wide smile formed on his thin lips, showing off a row of pearly white teeth.
Selgor beckoned him near. “Come, sit down, Jholric. No time for small talk. The chosen one is starving, so let’s fill him up with some sustenance, shall we?”
The man called Jholric sat on the other side of the king. Selgor clapped his hands twice. Five Rhadunese slaves dressed in plain white clothing entered the room. Table-slaves, Aeverith remembered their term. They held a huge tray on each hand, filled with delicacies Aeverith couldn’t name. The food smelled amazing, they watered his mouth in an instant. His stomach even made a rumble so loud that Aeverith was sure everyone in the room heard it, but they kept their mouths shut for propriety.
“Let’s eat,” said the king.
Aeverith didn’t need a command to start. He reached toward the—
Oh, shit.
Next to his plate, there were a bunch of questionable cutleries, most of them he had never seen before. If used a little differently, some of them may or may not be instruments of torture. Aeverith stared at them for a while. Although he came from a wealthy and reputable family, he was raised in a provincial estate of Ulevar Kingdom. And, boy, did Ulevari courtesy not come close at all to whatever those Fenains call ‘codes of decorum’.
So, yes, he had no idea how to use them. But Dellin must have been an expert.
Aeverith studied Selgor and Jholric for a while. After gathering enough information, he imitated them. His attempt on eating could be called successful, if it was done by a toddler. As he was on his way to a miserable failure, the other two people on the table finally broke their decorum and stared.
“Are you alright, Dellin?” Selgor asked.
“I’m fine. Just a little… dizzy.”
Selgor placed his hand on Aeverith’s arm. “You should rest, then. If your condition is still unwell, you don’t need to attend my invitation. Just stay in your room and recover.”
“I’m fine, Your Highness. Uh… Don’t worry about me.”
Aeverith managed to shove a chunk of meat into his mouth. And then he chewed. Oh, the flavor. Oh, wow. Just… wow. Shit. That was good. That was real good.
Alright, he didn’t care anymore. Screw his secret identity. Screw those codes of decorum or whatever. He wanted to eat, and he wanted to eat good. If he made a mess out of himself, then so be it. This was the first actual meal he had in seven years, and he deserved to enjoy every bit of it.
Jholric put down his cutlery with a slight cling. Bafflement flashed through his face. “Are you sure you’re alright, Chosen?”
“Positive,” he answered, stuffing his mouth with both caviar and cinnamon cookies.
Selgor couldn’t hold his laugh any longer. “Dellin’s last meal was five days ago, Jholric, and it was standard battlefield ration. If I were him, I could gulp down the entire palace.”
Touché. He wiped out almost the entire table.
The supper ended with Aeverith feeling better than ever.
An elderly table-slave poured the world-famous Fenain blue wine into their crystal glasses. Aeverith sipped the wine. A rich sweet taste with a hint of alcohol delighted his tongue. Correction. Now is when I’m feeling better than ever.
“Dellin,” the king called.
“Yeah… I mean, yes, Your Highness?”
“Now that we have finished eating, I suppose this is the time I tell you why I called you here. You, and Jholric.”
Both him and Jholric straightened their backs attentively.
“First, I would like to thank you. For everything. You saved us all, Dellin. Without you, Aeverith will still run rampant in the Wasteland. The continent of Tandraria, especially Fenain, will forever be indebted to you.” Selgor’s words sounded sincere, without any pretense.
Aeverith nodded his head, feigning respect. Before he could reply, Selgor had already continued. “Thus, the High Leaders of Tandraria would like to throw a banquet on your honor. Tomorrow evening, in Fenain Royal Palace’s Ballroom.”
Banquet? More food?! Aeverith beamed up. Fill me up with sustenance, Selgor!
“It’s unnecessary, Your Highness,” he answered, as dignified as possible. “Defeating the Overlord was only a duty to me. I fulfilled it. It is done.”
“Even if you don’t want it, it is still necessary,” Jholric spoke up. “The banquet will be a declaration that the war has ended, the Overlord lost, we won. It’s good for morale.”
Yesss… Foooood.
Aeverith made a polite nod. "If you say so…”
“Then, it’s decided,” Selgor wrapped up the topic. His face was dead serious. “Which brings us to the next matter. I noticed that there’s something happening between you and my daughter.”
Aeverith nearly dropped the crystal glass he was holding.
“Y-your Highness, I… we...” he stuttered. Dellin, you damned stud. Why do I have to be the one who suffers because of your mess? Aeverith had to gulp down a mouthful of wine to clear his throat. “This isn’t what you thi—”
“That’s why I’m offering her hand to you. In marriage.”
A spray of blue wine almost rained upon the King of Fenain if Aeverith didn’t immediately covered his mouth. He swallowed it with much difficulty, almost choking on it.
On the other side of the table, Jholric stiffened. Disagreement was written all over his face. “But, Your Highness… Dellin is indeed a hero, but he is not of noble blood—”
Selgor silenced him with a flick of his hand. “As you all know, Celyra has come of age. Now suitors from all over the land have flooded my palace, asking for her hand. Some even went as far as proposing her formally in public according to the codes of decorum.”
Aeverith was at a loss of words. “Y-your Highness, I wouldn’t dare…”
The king stared daggers at him. “Are you implying that the finest girl in the continent doesn’t suit you?!”
“Ye—no…”
I’m not even into girls!
“She loves you, you know,” Selgor said softly. His emerald eyes pierced right into Aeverith's. “And I can’t let this kingdom fell into the wrong hands. I know I can trust you, Dellin.”
That was when it struck him.
Celyra was King Selgor’s only daughter. Whoever marries her would become the sole heir to the throne of Fenain. He would become one of the most powerful men in the continent.
And, specifically for Aeverith, Celyra Thalden was the final key to his grand scheme. It was exactly because he kidnapped her that the final siege happened in the first place. With Celyra in his grasp, his master plan would have succeeded if Dellin hadn’t defeated him back then. Well, it turned out, nothing could beat the wrath of an angry boyfriend, especially when he was the chosen one on a rescue mission.
If I marry her, I’ll get both the throne and the girl, he thought. All the while being worshipped as Dellin.
Now that sounded like a perfect plan.
Aeverith made up his mind. “If that’s what you want, Your Highness, then I’ll—”
“My King,” Jholric interrupted him. “As your Prime Chancellor, I believe that I have a say in this.”
Selgor eyed him for a moment. “Go ahead.”
“With all due respect, Chosen, I don’t think you're suitable for this position,” Jholric said bluntly. “You may be the chosen one, the most powerful mage in the world, and the savior of Tandraria. But wielding a special magical sword is not the basis to determine whether or not someone is qualified to rule a kingdom."
Aeverith almost clapped his hands right there and then. Ah, there it is. Good ol' common sense. If things were different, he would love to be this man's friend. It's a shame they ended up on different sides.
"How dare you said that, Jholric!" Selgor raised his voice. "Dellin has every qualification needed."
Jholric continued, "Again, with all due respect, Your Highness, need I remind you of our Chosen's upbringing? His father was an Ulevari farmer and his mother was the daughter of a peddler. He was literally a farm boy."
Damn, his argument is solid.
"Are you suggesting that a man who used to plough the land can't be a good leader?" asked Selgor.
"No. I'm saying that Dellin lacks competence and is inexperienced. Your future heir needs to be well educated on how to run a kingdom, along with its intricate web of politics, economy, law, diplomacy, public relations…" he trailed off.
If it was Aeverith, he actually knew how to run things. He spent a huge chunk of his adolescence being educated in the matters Jholric talked about, even though his were smaller in scope. Minus interacting with a bunch of random strangers, he was in fact quite competent.
But it was Dellin they were talking about.
After some thoughts, Aeverith finally opened his mouth. "I get what you're saying, Chancellor. You love your kingdom. You care for Fenain's future. Like, a farm boy turned mage who runs around swinging a magic sword is not the best choice for its future monarch." He put on a charming yet modest smile on his face. "That's why I need you."
His words stunned Jholric. The Chancellor's beady eyes widened. "Chosen, I—”
"You see, I may not be qualified, but you know the ropes. With me in the lead, you can and should keep your position as long as needed. I'll rely on you. You're the expert, Chancellor. I would be grateful if you are willing to show me the ways. I hope you can stick around to guide me or even take some matters into your hands." He paused for a bit. "That is, if you truly care for your kingdom."
With that, Jholric fell silent. There were still traces of disapproval on his face, but the promises of everlasting power had won him over.
The Wicked Supreme Overlord has done it again, Aeverith thought, mentally patting himself on the back. Who came up with that title, by the way? It sounds so stupid.
“So are you willing to do it?” asked Selgor. “Marry Celyra?”
Me, the future King of Fenain. Fuck yeah.
Aeverith gave him a noncommittal nod. “I will think about it, Your Highness.”
“Very well,” the king said. “You may return to your chambers.”