The Immortal's Guide to Accidental Courtship

Chapter 6: The Portrait of a Ghost

Aetherion let the silence stretch, watching the gears turn behind Alistair’s spectacles. The library air, heavy with the scent of old parchment and the residual hum of Aetherion’s brief display of power, seemed to vibrate between them.

Alistair’s hand trembled as he reached for the portrait again. “The Eternal Architect... the resemblance is too perfect. The aura just now... you can’t hide that from me twice.”

“Honestly, Al, you’re overthinking this,” Aetherion said, his voice returning to its usual lazy drawl. He plucked the ancient parchment from the table, examining the face of his past self with a critical squint. “You’ve heard of strong genes, right? My family has a very specific look. It’s called ‘The Boredom Stare.’ My great-great-great-grandfather had it, his dad had it, and I’ve got it. We’re a very consistent lineage.”

“Your great-great-great-grandfather lived five thousand years ago?” Alistair hissed, leaning in until his nose nearly touched Aetherion’s. “And he looked exactly like you, down to the crooked bridge of the nose and the specific shade of silver-blue hair that doesn’t exist in any recorded bloodline since the First Era?”

“Hey, we’re like weeds, Al. We’re very persistent,” Aetherion said, sliding the portrait back toward the scholar. “We don’t age much, we don't change much, and we generally try to stay out of the sun. It preserves the complexion. You should try it. You look like you’ve been living on a diet of ink and anxiety.”

“You’re gaslighting me,” Alistair whispered, his eyes wide. “A Tier-10 Imperial Mage, and you’re trying to tell me this is just a ‘common face’?”

“It’s a very common face in my village!” Aetherion lied, waving a hand dismissively. “You go down to the Grotto, you’ll see ten guys who look just like me. Well, maybe nine. One of them is a bit more muscular, but he does a lot of lifting. Look, if I were some ancient legend, would I be standing here asking you where the nearest bathroom is?”

“I... I suppose not,” Alistair stammered, his logic warring with his senses. “But the pressure... that weight I felt just now...”

“That? That was just a localized mana pocket,” Aetherion said, patting Alistair on the shoulder. “Common library phenomenon. All these old books, all that compressed knowledge—sometimes it just vents. It’s basically a magical burp. Don't worry about it. Now, where’s Zinnia? I’m starting to think she ditched me for a better-looking fiancé.”

The library doors creaked open before Alistair could formulate another question. Zinnia stepped inside, her silver eyes scanning the room with a sharp, protective intensity. She paused, looking from Alistair’s pale, shaken face to Aetherion’s relaxed posture.

“Master Alistair?” Zinnia asked, her hand resting habitually on her sword hilt. “Is something wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“More like a very dusty relative,” Aetherion interjected, stepping toward her. “Al here was just showing me some family trees. Turns out I have a famous face. Apparently, I look like a guy who used to design houses for the First Emperor. It’s quite the compliment.”

Zinnia’s gaze shifted to the portrait on the table. She stared at it for a long moment, her brow furrowing. “The resemblance is... striking.”

“Right? It’s the nose,” Aetherion said, steering her toward the exit. “Anyway, we shouldn't keep the Emperor waiting. Or the snacks. I’m primarily here for the snacks.”

Zinnia didn't move. She looked at Alistair, then back at Aetherion. “Aetherion, what did you tell him?”

“I told him I was hungry,” Aetherion said. “And that his library has a venting problem. Can we go now? The air in here is making my hair flat.”

Zinnia sighed, though the suspicion didn't leave her eyes. “Master Alistair, we will speak later. Come, Aetherion. The court is gathering in the Rose Garden for the pre-audience reception.”

*

The Rose Garden of the Jade Palace was a sensory overload. Petals the size of dinner plates floated in the air, glowing with soft bioluminescence, while nobles in shimmering silks milled about, sipping nectar from crystal flutes.

Aetherion, now dressed in his fine new robes, headed straight for a table laden with smoked meats and exotic fruits. He was halfway through a slice of honey-glazed duck when a shadow fell over him.

“So, this is the man who caused a riot in the Thousand-Cloud Peaks,” a melodic, honeyed voice purred.

Aetherion turned, his mouth slightly full. Standing before him was a woman who seemed to be made of autumn leaves and sunlight. Her dress was a daring cut of amber silk, and her eyes held a playful, dangerous spark.

“I’m Selina Dawnmere,” she said, stepping into his personal space, the scent of jasmine trailing behind her. “Daughter of the Duke of Dawnmere. And you must be the mysterious Aetherion.”

“I’m the hungry Aetherion,” he corrected, swallowing the duck. “Nice to meet you, Lady Amber. Is that your name? You’ve got a very orange theme going on.”

Selina chuckled, a sound like silver bells. She reached out, her fingers grazing the sleeve of his robe. “You’re much more charming than the rumors suggested. They said you were a vagabond. A beggar who stumbled into a blessing. But looking at you now... I see something else.”

“Probably just a bit of sauce on my chin,” Aetherion said, reaching for a napkin.

“I see a man who is playing a very clever game,” Selina whispered, leaning in closer until her lips were inches from his ear. “The Sword-Saint is a formidable woman, but she’s so... cold. Don't you find it exhausting? Always walking on ice? A man of your ‘talents’ might prefer a bit more warmth.”

Aetherion blinked, looking down at her. “Warmth? I mean, the palace is heated pretty well. And the duck is still hot. I’m doing okay.”

Selina’s eyes narrowed slightly, then she smiled again, her hand moving to his chest, tracing the embroidery of his robe. “You’re funny. I like funny men. They’re so rare in the capital. Tell me, Aetherion, if I were to offer you a tour of the private gardens... away from all these prying eyes... would you be interested in seeing the ‘True Splendor’ of the Dawnmere family?”

“Is that a type of cake?” Aetherion asked, genuinely curious. “Because if it’s a cake, I’m in. If it’s more walking, I might have to pass. My legs are still recovering from the carriage ride.”

Selina paused, her practiced seduction hitting a brick wall of pure, unadulterated denseness. She opened her mouth to reply, but the temperature in the garden suddenly plummeted.

A thin layer of frost began to creep across the stone tiles. The floating rose petals slowed in the air, their edges turning white and brittle.

“Selina,” a voice like a winter gale cut through the chatter of the garden.

Zinnia stood ten paces away. Her hand wasn't on her sword, but the aura radiating from her was so sharp it felt like a physical blade. A faint, icy mist swirled around her feet, and her silver eyes were fixed on Selina’s hand, which was still resting on Aetherion’s chest.

“Lady Zinnia!” Selina said, withdrawing her hand with a graceful, if slightly hurried, bow. “I was just welcoming your fiancé to the palace. We were discussing... heritage.”

“Aetherion doesn't have a heritage you need to worry about, Selina,” Zinnia said, her voice low and dangerous. The frost on the ground spread another foot. “And I believe his schedule is quite full. With me.”

“Oh, I wouldn't dream of intruding,” Selina said, her smile returning, though it was tighter now. She cast one last lingering look at Aetherion. “But a man like this... he’s bound to attract a lot of attention. You should keep a close eye on your ‘treasure,’ Saint. Someone might decide he’s undervalued.”

Selina drifted away, her laughter trailing behind her like a taunt.

Aetherion looked at Zinnia, then at the frost covering his shoes. “Whoa. You okay there, Zin? You’re leaking. Is it the season? Does the Sword-Saint have a winter mode?”

Zinnia turned her gaze to him. The icy aura didn't fade; if anything, it intensified. “What was she saying to you?”

“She was asking if I wanted to see a garden,” Aetherion said, picking up another piece of duck. “And she asked if I liked cake. Or something called ‘True Splendor.’ I assume it’s a pastry. People in the capital have very fancy names for food.”

“She wasn't talking about food, Aetherion,” Zinnia snapped, her cheeks flushing a faint, angry pink. “She was testing you. She’s a Dawnmere. They’re vipers. They use charm to find a man’s weakness and then they use it to destroy his reputation.”

“Well, she failed,” Aetherion shrugged. “My weakness is roasted pheasant, and she didn't have any. Why are you so worked up? You look like you’re about to duel the bushes.”

“I am not worked up,” Zinnia lied, her grip on her sword hilt tightening until her knuckles turned white. “I am merely ensuring that the honor of the Silver Moon Sect is not compromised by... by inappropriate displays of affection in public.”

“Affection? She was just touching my sleeve. Maybe she liked the fabric,” Aetherion said, leaning back against the table. He looked at her closely, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Wait. Are you jealous? The great Sword-Saint is worried someone’s going to steal her cave-dweller?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Zinnia hissed, though the frost around her feet suddenly shattered into a thousand tiny ice crystals. “I am protecting an investment. Nothing more.”

“Sure, sure. An investment that eats a lot,” Aetherion chuckled.

Before Zinnia could retort, a sudden hush fell over the garden. A man in golden armor, carrying a staff topped with a sun-shaped sapphire, stepped onto the central dais. He struck the ground three times, the sound echoing like a thunderclap.

“Hear the word of the Son of Heaven!” the herald boomed. “The union between the Sword-Saint Zinnia of the Everdawn House and the Traveler Aetherion has reached the ears of the Throne. However, a union of such magnitude, marked by the appearance of the Solar-Emperor Chimera, cannot be recognized by simple words alone!”

Aetherion froze, a grape halfway to his mouth. “Uh oh. I don't like the sound of that.”

“By Imperial Decree,” the herald continued, “to prove that this bond is truly favored by the Heavens and not a mere scheme of politics or luck, the couple shall be entered into the Ancient Trial of the Star-Bound Path! Within the Pillar of Trials, they shall face the Echoes of the First Kings. Should they emerge, their marriage shall be blessed by the Empire. Should they fail... the union shall be dissolved, and the interloper shall be exiled!”

The garden erupted into hushed whispers and shocked gasps. Zinnia’s face went deathly pale.

“The Pillar of Trials?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “That’s... that’s a death trap. No one has entered it in three hundred years.”

Aetherion looked at the herald, then at his plate of food, and finally at the sky. He let out a long, weary sigh.

“Exiled?” Aetherion muttered to himself. “Does that mean I have to go back to the cave? Because honestly, at this point, the cave is starting to look like a five-star resort.”

He looked at Zinnia, whose eyes were filled with a mix of terror and a new, burning resolve.

“Well,” Aetherion said, popping the grape into his mouth. “I guess we’re going on a field trip. I hope the Pillar has a snack bar.”