A Journey Unwanted

Chapter 470 - 459: The Mortifer is confused

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Quadling Country]

[Glinda’s Castle]

Snow was quite confused—though that word felt insufficient for the intense look settling behind her gaze.

Her cold blue eyes shifted first toward Glinda, who was happily and rather elegantly cutting through her food with precise movements. Then, just as gradually, Snow’s gaze moved back to Grimm.

The man seated across from her.

The man who had already finished his meal.

The man who now merely sat there with his arms folded, his presence was too obvious despite his silence. The armor and vibrant red hair did no favors.

With his gaze hidden beneath that helmet, it was rather difficult—no, borderline impossible—to discern whether he was looking at her specifically, or simply through her, or perhaps not at anything at all.

At that moment, the small fairy nearby and the large lion standing off to the side may as well not have existed in her perception. They blurred into irrelevance.

She continued staring at Grimm.

("Descendant...")

She let the word linger, rolling it over in her mind as though testing it, what it may really mean and its place within everything she thought she understood. The way Glinda had spoken of them suggested she had a level of interest in them. And when someone like the Good Witch held that interest, it spoke volumes. And yet she had never heard of them.

("Granted, it makes sense, if they truly are from another realm...") she reasoned internally, her thoughts flowing smoothly. ("Even then, that alone should not be enough to warrant this level of interest.")

Her eyes sharpened ever so slightly.

("But the Good Witch sees this man as important enough to extend assistance for such a mediocre, almost laughably light price.") Her lips pressed together slightly, it was not quite a frown, but something close. ("The more I uncover, the less sense he makes.")

It irritated her.

It was not because she lacked answers, it stemmed more from the fact that there were too many possibilities. Too many directions her thoughts could branch into, none of them settling into something concrete.

Still, she silently praised her earlier decision of sending her Legatus back and expanding the search beyond Álfheimr. That had been the correct move; something would surface, it always did.

But even with that assurance, her curiosity did not fade, nor did her gaze.

("What is this woman staring at?")

Across from her, Grimm finally acknowledged it—if only internally.

His hidden gaze dipped briefly, glancing toward Puck, who was still stuffing her face with her smaller portions of food with an almost shameless enthusiasm. Their eyes met for a brief moment.

The fairy had noticed.

Of course she had.

She gave him a dry, unimpressed look—one that carried far more meaning than words ever needed to. Her tiny head shook slightly, as if silently warning him.

Don’t say anything stupid.

Grimm lingered on that unspoken advice for a moment longer than expected. He weighed it, considered it, then, inevitably, dismissed it.

His attention shifted back to the Mortifer.

("Still, she exudes the same presence as the lion. But where his is dull, hers is refined. Powerful as well.") His thoughts settled. ("A Nil as well, though far more potent.")

There was something worth understanding.

("I am curious on how her ability would function. How it would interact with mine.")

That curiosity lingered, it was a consistent curiosity if anything. But even beyond that he found her annoying. Not for what she was but for how she looked at him.

That gaze.

It wasn’t cautious or merely observant, those cold blue eyes were condemning. As though he were something foul or inherently wrong. Worse than any monster she had faced and more vile than any criminal.

And that bothered him.

Because he had done nothing to her.

There was no history, provocation, or any action that justified that level of disdain. And yet she looked at him as though his very existence was an offense.

Now—he was not under any illusion about himself.

He was not a good person.

But he preferred to be judged for what he had actually done. Not for what someone decided he represented. He did not enjoy being the target of hatred without reason.

His posture shifted ever so slightly.

He was about to speak, about to address that gaze directly.

But someone beat him to it.

"My, my, you two have been staring at each other for quite a while now," Glinda mused lightly, her tone playful, a small smile curving her lips as she observed the silent exchange. "You’re making me feel rather left out, you know, and I do so dislike being excluded from interesting moments."

The Cowardly Lion had noticed it as well.

Unlike Glinda, however, he did not find it amusing.

He shifted back, one step at a time, as though instinct alone was guiding him away from something he did not want to be caught in.

Snow blinked.

The realization settled in.

How long she had been staring.

Without a word, she tore her gaze away from Grimm, redirecting it toward Glinda instead—composed once more, as though nothing had happened.

"My apologies," she said smoothly, her tone soothing once more. "His lack of mana was simply too noteworthy to ignore."

Her wording seemed careful.

"Oh, think nothing of it," Glinda waved it off effortlessly, her smile remained. "You’re both quite young, after all. It would be far more natural for you to engage in conversation rather than silent observation. Though—" her golden eyes lingered on Snow now, curious, "it may be impolite of me, I admit, but I do find myself wondering about your age. You are remarkably fair, after all. It’s rather striking."

Snow paused for only a fraction of a second.

Then answered.

"It is no issue," she said smoothly, her voice unaffected. "I do not place much importance on idle details such as age, but if you are curious, I am twenty-four."

She offered it plainly without embellishment.

Glinda’s brows lifted slightly, her expression shifting into a more intrigued look.

"Twenty-four?" she echoed, tilting her head just a fraction. "A remarkably young age for a Mortifer, would you not agree? There is a certain expectation that comes with that title and yet here you are."

Snow’s expression did not change.

"It is not as impressive as it may sound," she replied calmly. "When compared to the other members, my standing is unremarkable. Age alone does not define capability, nor does it guarantee distinction."

There was no false humility in her tone, just the facts of the matter. Or at least—what she believed to be fact.

Glinda hummed softly, her smile deepening just slightly, as though she found that answer far more interesting than a boast would have been.

"Oh, but I would disagree," she said lightly. "Youth has its own value and flexibility. And its own potential. It allows for growth in ways that more established individuals often resist."

Her gaze lingered just a moment longer.

But just as quickly as her attention had steadied elsewhere, Glinda’s gaze shifted back to Grimm.

"And what of you, Grimm?" Her voice followed not long after, smooth-sounding and lightly curious, as if the question had simply come to her in passing. "You do seem rather young, or perhaps that is merely an impression. It’s difficult to tell with you."

The shift in topic was abrupt; Grimm noticed it immediately. It was hard not to. There was no real connection between what had just been discussed prior and this—age, of all things. It was extremely mundane and irrelevant.

He could have questioned it.

Could have pressed on why Glinda chose to redirect the conversation in such a way.

But he did not care enough to dwell on it, not even slightly.

"Twenty-three," he answered simply, without pause or hesitation, his tone flat. There was no reason to avoid the question, no reason to obscure something so trivial.

Glinda’s smile widened just a fraction at that.

"Merely a year apart," she mused, her gaze drifting between him and Snow with amusement, as though she had stumbled upon something entertaining or meaningful. "What a small, almost charming coincidence, to think the two of you stand so close in age, and yet carry yourselves so differently."

Her fingers lightly tapped against the table, an idle motion.

"You’re closer in age than I initially expected, truly," she continued, her tone thoughtful for a moment, though still laced with that ever-present ease. "It would be quite prudent—perhaps even beneficial—if you two made the effort to engage in simple conversation. Not everything has to be weighed down by tension or purpose, you know."

There was a pause as her eyes settled on Grimm again.

"Still, you specifically are much younger than I thought," she added, almost as an afterthought, though her gaze lingered with interest.

Grimm tilted his helmeted head slightly at that.

"Do I sound old or something?" he questioned, his tone unchanged.

Glinda answered without missing a beat.

"It’s difficult to tell with that helmet," she said smoothly. "Your voice carries a certain tone people tend to associate with age, whether rightly or not. You only seemed young due to that lovely attitude."

Before Grimm could respond, another voice cut in—

"I mean, I thought you were some old man too before I knew how old you were," Puck mumbled around a mouthful of food, her words slightly muffled as she spoke without any concern for decorum.

Grimm did not even turn his head fully toward her.

"The opinion of a fool does not count," he said plainly, his voice carrying indifference, as though the statement required no further elaboration.

Puck’s response was immediate as well as predictable. She stuck out her tongue at him; it was childish and exaggerated.

"Real mature," she shot back, though her tone lacked any real bite, more habit than hostility.

"My point proven," Grimm replied just as easily.

Glinda, for her part, simply watched the exchange unfold.

Her expression remained soft and now amused.

("How cute,") she thought.