The Essence Flow

Chapter 97: Farmboy Meets High Society

The Drunken Hound’s common room had been hastily rearranged—tables shoved against the walls, chairs stacked like nervous spectators, and the floor swept clean of ale stains (mostly). Herb stood in the center, arms crossed, while Cassia lounged on the bar, swinging her legs like a gleeful executioner.

Towan, eyed the makeshift "ballroom" with growing dread.

"Alright, flame-boy," Cassia grinned. "Time to learn how not to embarrass yourself in front of Lockeheart’s most stab-happy aristocrats."

"I’ve fought cultists," Towan muttered. "Why is this scarier?"

"Because cultists just want your blood," Herb said, dragging a finger across his throat. "Nobles want your dignity. Far worse." He clapped his hands. "Lesson one: The Stance."

Cassia hopped down and yanked Towan into position, her hands clamping his shoulders like a drill sergeant. "Stand like you’re balancing a book on your head and a dagger in your boot. Shoulders back, chin slightly up—not enough to look arrogant, just enough to avoid eye contact with anyone’s shoes."

Towan adjusted, wobbling. "This feels ridiculous."

"Good," Cassia said. "Now own the ridiculous. Nobles invented standing like this to weed out the weak."

Herb cleared his throat. "Lesson two: The Walk." He demonstrated, gliding forward with unnatural smoothness. "No stomping. No sauntering. Imagine you’re a ghost who’s very proud of their shoes."

Towan tried. His first step was a disaster—his boot caught on a floorboard, and he lurched like a newborn deer. Cassia snorted.

"Wow. It’s like watching a bear attempt needlepoint."

"Shut up," Towan grumbled, but his ears burned.

"Again," Herb ordered. "And this time, breathe. You’re not marching to war. You’re… floating through a cloud of your own superiority."

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After the fifth attempt, Towan managed something resembling grace. Cassia gave a grudging nod. "Less ‘angry badger,’ more ‘confident swan.’ Progress."

"Now," Herb said, rubbing his hands together, "the real test: Dancing."

Towan blanched. "No."

"Oh yes," Cassia said, cracking her knuckles. "The Lockeheart Waltz is a minefield. Step on a lady’s toes? Scandal. Hold her too close? Duel. Hold her too far? Insult." She grabbed his hand and yanked him into position. "Lead with your eyes, not your arms. And for stars’ sake, don’t stare at your feet like they’re about to betray you."

Herb hummed a mangled approximation of a waltz tune while Cassia dragged Towan through the steps. His first attempt ended with her toe crushed under his boot.

"Gah! Farmboy," she hissed, hopping on one foot. "I’m not a plow!"

"Sorry!" Towan winced.

"Again," Cassia growled.

By the tenth try, Towan could manage a basic box step without causing permanent damage. Cassia, panting, wiped her brow. "Okay. You’re functional. Now, the Dip."

"The what?"

Before he could protest, Cassia threw herself backward, trusting him to catch her. Towan fumbled, barely preventing her skull from meeting the floor.

"That," she wheezed, suspended precariously, "was the worst dip in history. But at least you didn’t drop me. Points for effort."

Herb sighed. "Just… don’t attempt the dip. Stick to nodding and standing near the dessert table."

"Finally, modals," Cassia said, straightening. "Nobles don’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ They say ‘indubitably’ and ‘I shall consider it.’"

Towan groaned. "This is a language now?"

"Exactly," Herb said. "If someone asks if you’ve met Lady Len before, you say, ‘Our paths have crossed’—not ‘She liked my stew.’"

"But she did—"

"No." Cassia and Herb said in unison.

"Fine," Towan muttered. "What if someone asks about my family?"

Herb and Cassia exchanged glances.

"Vague answers," Herb said carefully. “Say you were ‘shaped by the shifting winds of fate.’ Nobles eat that crap up.”

"In other words," Cassia added, "lie like a rug."

Towan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Anything else?"

"Yes," Cassia said, deadly serious. "If Lady Len’s father glares at you—do not glare back. Smile like you’ve just tasted bad wine and politely vanish."

"And if all else fails," Herb said, tossing him a small, ornate dagger from behind the bar, "slip this into your boot. Nobles love a hidden blade. Makes them feel interesting."

Towan stared at the dagger. "This is the worst etiquette lesson ever."

Cassia smirked. "Welcome to high society, farmboy. Try not to get betrothed by accident."