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Mikleo is, for the lack of a better term, a double-edged sword. While Sorey’s opinion of Hyland’s crown prince has considerably changed, keyword being considerably here, he still completely thinks that Mikleo is a horrifying force to reckon with—engaging against him guarantees anyone a one hundred percent mortality rate, with or without a sword.
No one could’ve guessed that, though, not when Mikleo is batting his curled eyelashes at the Rolance soldiers, smiling his perfect smile as he sweet talks them, his lithe fingers playing with the curls of his hair.
“I am so very grateful for your help,” Mikleo says, voice thick with Hylandic accent, “I will not know what to do if you have not come our way. My men are very useless, yes.” Sorey hears Sergei make a sound of protest at that. It’s audible enough that Sorey is sure Mikleo heard him, but he just continues talking, smiling sweetly at whom he believes is the captain of the group that helped them. “We are lucky that we’re already close to this inn, yes!” Mikleo looks at the captain with a tilt of his head, curiosity in his eyes. “You are off to the border to find the lost prince, Sorey, yes?”
That’s quite a sneaky way to get information. “Not a prince anymore,” the captain corrects with a shrug. “He’s labeled a traitor for killing his father, the late Emperor. You wouldn’t have come across him, have you? Brown hair, green eyes, tanned skin.”
“No, of course not, no,” Mikleo says with a dramatic shake of his head, as if the thought offends him, and he seems to notice the captain is looking behind him when he adds, “you would not think one of my servants is him, would you, no?”
Sorey freezes up at that, and he feels himself go tense as the captain looks at Sergei, then at him. “You, what’s your name?”
He feels his stomach drop. “Uh—”
“Mikurey,” Mikleo immediately cuts in, and the captain looks suspiciously at him. “He is a mute, cannot talk. Just uh, uh. Very useless.” He spins to look at Sorey and Sergei, eyes wide with warning, but it’s mostly directed at Sorey. He then looks at Sergei. “Isn’t that right…” A pause, “…Gei?”
“…Yes,” Sergei starts, though Sorey can tell he’s trying so hard not to roll his eyes at Mikleo and his ridiculous naming sense, “you’re right, um—”
“—Rose,” Mikleo cuts in again, and he feints irritation, “remember my name, Gei! Rose, Gei! You forget again and I will fire you, yes.”
The captain blinks, surprise obvious in his body language as he eyes Mikleo again, taking a step back. There’s confusion in his face as he repeats the name Mikleo uttered. “Rose?”
“Yes! Rose, yes,” Mikleo says again, turning to look at the soldier, and the latter turns to look at the innkeeper, who’s mostly occupied with something else, before looking back at Mikleo.
“As in Rose the renowned Hylandic cloth merchant?”
The what. “Yes!” Mikleo cries anyway, flipping his ponytail behind him as if for emphasis. “My name goes far and wide across the continent. I see you are not ignorant, yes.”
The captain, though, narrows his eyes at Mikleo, completely unconvinced, and Sorey has to wonder why for a moment—Mikleo’s lies are convincing, as far as he can tell, and he’s infinitely better at lying than Sorey could ever hope to be, a product of being in the centre of the web that is Hyland’s political affairs—until the captain speaks again, and it makes Sorey’s blood run cold. “That’s impossible, Rose the renowned Hylandic cloth merchant is here.”
A moment of silence, and Sorey can see panic flash in Mikleo’s eyes before he blinks, and then it’s gone. “What?”
“Rose the renowned Hylandic cloth merchant is here!” the captain repeats. “She has been here for a day now.” And Mikleo shakes his head.
“Lies! Whoever that Rose is is an impostor. I am Rose.”
“You are not Rose.”
“I am Rose, yes!” A pause, and then, looking at the innkeeper who’s also been eyeing him suspiciously, “you, summon that woman here, and we will see.”
Sorey’s eyes widen at that, and he looks frantically at Sergei, whose eyes are just as wide as his. His friend takes a step forward, his hand raised, as he tries to voice his rejection at whatever it is Mikleo is planning, because this is going to be disastrous. “Wait a minute—”
But it’s too late now. The innkeeper has gamely sent for a serving boy upstairs, and only seconds pass until someone is barging downstairs, obviously angry, obviously offended, and when they reach the lobby, Sorey fights the strong urge to grab Mikleo and flee.
Rose the renowned Hylandic cloth merchant stands in front of them, scowling. “Who the hell claims to be—” She pauses, stares at Mikleo, then at Sorey, and back to Mikleo. Then, with a voice that could rival a war horn, Rose shouts, “ROSE!”
Sorey blinks, and there’s another moment of (awkward) silence.
The soldier looks incredibly confused by this. “If she’s Rose,” he asks Rose, “then who are you?”
“Uh,” says Rose, “I’m—”
“Rose,” the innkeeper says, finally deciding to join the conversation and still eyeing Mikleo suspiciously. “She is Rose. I have known her since her father is leading their caravan.”
“That’s right!” Rose exclaims, too loudly that even the captain takes a step back, “I am Rose; she is Rose. We’re cousins, named after our grandmother, Rose.”
“Thank you, Rose,” Mikleo says with a smile, “it seems this officer has mistaken me and my servant Mikurey to be allies of the traitor Sorey.”
Rose looks dejected at this, and she looks at the soldier with an eyebrow raised. “So this punk is the reason I’m called down here?”
“That’s—” the captain starts, but Rose cuts him off.
“Whatever,” Rose says with a wave of her hand, as if in dismissal, and she looks at the innkeeper, looking very displeased. “Is this all? I’d like a formal apology for this ruckus. Rose would, too, I believe.”
Mikleo simply shakes his head. “Oh, no, not at all,” he says, looking sweetly at the officer, “I believe he is just doing what he is tasked to do. Safety for the empire of Rolance, yes?”
“…Yes,” the captain answers, and he stiffly bows his head, “but I must still apologise for this inconvenience. It was not my intention.”
“Apology accepted.” Mikleo then glances at the innkeeper, who looks embarrassed, at the very least. “You. May I ask a night’s stay for free?”