9 friction

The name rolled off Careth's tongue smoothly. "Dotilda... looks like she really hated being down here, giving her entries were full of unsophisticated words," he said, reading swiftly. Then, he found what he was looking for and gasped.

"Look! It says she wanted to escape to Accruxia!" He exclaimed, turning to Merry excitedly. "That means there's a possibility... a possibility that I can find family there!"

He gave Merry a hug, to which she returned equally happily. Rian didn't know whether to smile or be disgusted.

"But we don't know for sure if she really escaped. What if she was brought back?" He said, with no intention to spoil the mood, but did so anyway.

Careth let go of his friend and shuffled his collar. "Of course I expected that. But if she was brought back, she would've written it down too. Looking at how this Tradition sounds, my family would've carry out each and every step of the execution perfectly, thus needing some time, so she could've been locked down here again before she died."

Rian stroked his chin, accepting his point.

"So now that we know Dotilda may be alive, you can say that you're looking for her as an excuse to enter Accruxia," Merry said, to which Careth nodded.

"I'll use her as a reason to get past the border. Then, I'll try to find her. But if she really didn't make it, I guess... I'll just have to find a job and settle down there. With the amount of knowledge I have, it shouldn't be a problem." He closed the leather-bound book, sliding it back to Rian. "Thank you, Rian. And thank you, Merry. Today was really fruitful."

The girl rounded an arm around his small shoulders. "We'll get you out safe and sound. Don't worry."

Rian yawned. "That's it, right? Judging from the position of the sun, I'd say you have fifteen minutes left till seven."

As they heard this, both children got up abruptly and headed for the door, racing down the tunnel and pulled on the lever, before finally disappearing above the surface. Rian chuckled at their haste, adjusting the chairs in place and put the book back in the cupboard. As he was doing so, he thought to himself that maybe, just maybe—escaping really is possible after all.

—

Careth and Merry heaved as they threw themselves on the bed, feeling their hearts pounding and its every beat resonating in their veins. Their short run from the library was more tiring than expected when one has the additional fear of getting caught red-handed.

"I'll remember... to check my pocket watch from now on," Careth panted, laying flat on his bed.

Merry recovered from the run first and rested her chin and arms on the mattress, looking at him determinedly. "Now that we've got a plan, you need to get some resources to survive in the woodland."

Careth sighed as a response. This meant pilfering from the kitchen, stealing weapons from the armory, and possibly other supplies he finds useful. Additionally, he would need to lie in some situations, trick the servants and maids, and probably feign or act until he gets what he wants.

To put it short, Careth was going against every rule his father had imposed on him since birth.

"Is this what it feels like to be a rebel, Merry?" He asked, covering his eyes with his arm.

She didn't have a proper answer to that. "It's either this or your life in two weeks. Everyone rebels in their life anyway. And frankly, I'd say now is the best time to be rebellious."

Careth sat up. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

Merry looked at him, a little dumbfounded. "Hello? Did you forget I sneaked out at night to accompany you to the library?"

"Then I guess I'm glad to have your help," he said, smiling at her sincerely. "You don't know how much I appreciate you, Merry."

She looked away before his gaze started to burn her up—she was elated of course, but right now guilt outweighed that spring feeling a bit more. "What are friends for?"

—

At seven o'clock sharp, Careth had reached the dining hall and was waiting for dinner to be served. He sat on his place quietly, taking note of the direction the servants were coming from as they set up the table; he had to figure out a way to enter and leave the kitchen without being noticed, and judging the routes the servants were taking, he knew that's where he shouldn't be going.

The dining hall was a rectangular room, with the table located in front of the mantle, and two doors on its side. Careth sat facing the mantle, and noticed that the servants filed in from the right door, which meant that the left one either leads to somewhere else, or the servants merely do not have authorization to use it.

His train of thought came to a halt when the servants suddenly bowed towards the entrance, and Careth stood up immediately and crossed his right arm over his chest.

"Evening, Master Willdyer," they chorused.

"Evening, Father," Careth said.

Their superior waved his hand and went to his seat. As he ambled, Careth was thinking: he's oddly showing up for dinner lately.

When their meal had been completely served, Careth narrowed his eyes at the bowl of soup. Yet again, it emanated an unpleasant aura, with its green and gooey liquid swirling like a dooming whirlpool. Careth started to question if that can even be called soup.

He was going to brace himself for the taste again, when he remembered Merry's words.

'Everyone rebels in their life anyway. And frankly, I'd say now is the best time to be rebellious.'

Yes, this was his chance. Although being rebellious may compromise his escape, but this merely concerns food; it's not like he's refusing to do homework. Careth was being overwhelmed with workload anyway—he believes he should at least have the right to good food.

He tapped his spoon on the glass cup to get his father's attention. Master Willdyer looked up, asking, "Yes, son?"

Careth kept a calm voice even though he felt anxious. "I've been served with this soup for months now. But honestly, it tastes really terrible. Perhaps the chef could brush up on his cooking skills, or just stop serving me this viscous concoction entirely."

Master Willdyer averted his eyes back to his meal. "The nutritionist says it's good for you. And the chefs I hire is always of the highest quality, so it couldn't taste as terrible as you make it seem to be."

"Then, Father, why don't you try a sip?"

At this, the master's head snapped up, slightly annoyed. "Careth. Are you talking back to me? Where are your manners? This is utterly shameful of you!"

"You don't believe me. And I will prove my point even if it means I have to disrespect you, dear Father," Careth said sternly. "This soup makes me sick to the stomach. What if it affects my performance in class?"

"You've been performing perfectly well for the last few months, so I don't think it will cause any harm now," Master Willdyer remarked. He cleaned his hands with the napkin, eyeing his son sharply. "Your body is weak, Careth. Just because healthy things taste horrible to you doesn't mean you shouldn't consume it."

Careth could feel fury and injustice clogging up his thoughts. However, he remained patient, as he will make his voice heard no matter how many criticisms he had to take.

"If you're not going to stop serving me this, then I won't drink it. I have had enough."

His father was seething. "Stop being childish, Careth. I expected better of you."

"No! I have felt no improvements to my body, which means that the effects of this soup are null and void. So I see no reason to take it."

"Careth! You're being unreasonable!"

"Why are you so adamant on making me drink it?"

The argument came to a stop when Master Willdyer struggled to come up with a response. All that transpired within the room now were his heavy breaths, mixed with Careth's own as the father and son finally rested from their row.

In the end, he muttered, "Fine. Don't drink it. Dump it to the meadow for all I care."

The master got up suddenly, startling the nearby servants. They sprung into action and hurriedly cleaned up his plates and utensils, acting as if they had not just witnessed the quarrel.

Careth relaxed on his chair, letting out a long breath. For the first time in fourteen and a half years, he fought with his father. The once smooth relationship that he tried so hard to maintain is now gone with the wind,

For he has made friction.