MTO C65

Chapter 65

“Throw it far and high, in an arc—like a parabola.”

Following the knight’s advice, Michel stepped forward toward the mass of golden eagles. They had already settled back along the crenellations, watching him in utter stillness. For a moment he felt like prey. A chill pricked his skin, yet anticipation sparked for what would come next.

“Dinner time!”

With all his strength, Michel hurled the meat skyward. The previous calm shattered—wings burst open, eagles diving all at once. In the blink of an eye the airborne chunk vanished. Dozens of golden eagles darkened the sky in a stunning spectacle.

“Master, me next!”

“Me too!”

“I want to try!”

“E‑easy, everyone!”

Seeing Michel feed the eagles, the children erupted. Barbara tried to rein them in, but not alone.

Michel turned to the knights.

“May the children feed them too?”

“Of course. Who’s first?”

With permission, they swarmed the buckets—only to balk at the bleeding raw meat. Some pinched noses; some gagged at the metallic tang.

“Ugh, it stinks.”

“What meat is this?”

“Best not to know… do you really want to?”

At the ominous reply, Charlotte shook her head furiously and backed away. The others’ faces went pale, edging back from the buckets. Michel grinned and lifted a piece.

“What, no one’s brave enough to feed the eagles?”

“I‑I will.”

Unexpectedly, Max stepped up first, surprising Michel. The twins, Dan and Max, usually avoided unfamiliar situations; typically, Max would watch others throw several times before daring himself.

“Good, Max. Here—take it!”

Meat as big as his head made the boy’s arms strain. The eagles rippled, ready to launch.

“Protect Your little lamb, Lord, and clothe him in the full armor of heaven…”

Barbara squeezed her eyes shut in prayer, as if sending Max into battle rather than feeding birds.

Tension gripped Michel too. Trained or not to ignore humans—would they spare a small child?

The longer Max fussed, the more his nerves showed. He kneaded the meat, studying the eagles. Surely his piece would be saltier than the rest by now.

“Hup!”

After the long standoff, he flung it. It flopped to the ground, never taking flight. The eagles, poised to burst skyward, folded their wings, interest fading.

“They don’t care for prey that doesn’t move. Hunters to the core,” a knight laughed, tossing the fallen piece high—only then did the eagles launch.

“It’s okay, Max! Try again!”

“R‑right—like this, throw it up. Whoosh!”

Encouraged by Michel and Barbara—who even mimed a throw now that she’d seen the birds weren’t quick to launch—Max picked a smaller hunk this time, easier to hold.

“Remember your kiai—put your spirit into it!”

Max nodded with grim resolve, gauging the flock—then:

“Aaah!”

His shout rang; the meat arced; the eagles surged.

“Eek!”

“M‑Max!”

But the birds ignored him, snatching the chunk midair, and Max plopped to the ground, dazed, mouth agape. Michel rushed over.

“You okay?”

“Th‑they ate it.”

“They did. Well done. Thanks to you, they’ll be very full.”

Max’s mouth twitched into a smile. He scrambled up without help and scampered back to the bucket.

“My turn now!”

“Then can I go after?”

With one success, courage returned. The knights offered the buckets, grinning.

“Throw all at once if you like. They’re annoyed we kept teasing them with scraps.”

“Sister, would you like a try?”

“N‑no, watching is plenty.”

No need for Barbara to join; volunteers abounded.

The taekwondo class had quickly become a golden‑eagle feeding session. Michel watched, fond, as the children hurled meat skyward with spirited shouts. Since they would be staying at Eglence—and were children of Valois—it would be good to grow used to living alongside the eagles.

“Saint, will you be joining the knight drills again?”

One knight, relieved of feeding by the children, sidled up. Michel’s shoulders slumped.

“I’d love to, but the Duke won’t allow it.”

“Hah, understandable—Sir Jerard oversees the knight training.”

Michel cocked his head. The phrasing struck oddly. He had assumed the Duke barred him to preserve saintly dignity—but the knight’s tone suggested it was specifically because of Sir Jerard.

The knight exaggerated a shiver.

“That day was so tense I thought at last they’d fight.”

“Me and the Duke?”

“His Grace and Sir Jerard.”

Michel’s confusion deepened. “At last” implied a long‑brewing friction. Had he made things worse?

“Are they really that at odds?”

“You must not know.”

The knight elaborated.

“Until recently, the commander of Eglence’s knights was the late Duke. Upon succession, His Grace inherited the post. First thing he did was rebuild the corps.”

“…Rebuild?”

“Few of us remain from the old roster—Sir Jerard among the handful.”

Where did the others go?

Understanding his unspoken question, the knight nodded.

“Sir Jerard, then vice‑captain, resisted the shake‑up. The Commander stripped his rank in response. If Jerard weren’t the one who knows the eagle‑training, he’d have been expelled outright.”

Michel’s jaw hung. He’d sensed something off—but this backstory jarred. Taken alone, it painted Kaidan as tyrant.

“That sounds… harsh.”

“Fair to think. But the old corps had become a disaster—drawing pay yet failing at even minor monsters; accidents nonstop. Now, only the North’s, no—the continent’s—finest serve here. The Commander built by merit alone—rank and age be damned.”

The knight’s pride in his corps shone through; he clearly stood with Kaidan.

“All hearsay to me, mind—only joined recently.”

Bragging laced his account; new knights outranked the old by skill. Michel only twitched a smile.

“There’s one more amusing rumor,” the knight added, warming to gossip.

“They say Sir Jerard taught the Duke the sword.”

“What? Truly?”

“Just a rumor—but a likely one. Their swordwork has a family resemblance.”

The knight enjoyed the tale; Michel hoped it was false. If true, it was brutal: to be deposed by a student one trained, nearly expelled—whatever the reason, a bitter fate.

Yet Michel also doubted Kaidan would act coldly from pettiness. The man he knew—stern, taciturn—was not without warmth. In the comic and in life, the Duke of Eglence was kinder than he looked. He must have his reasons.

“Perhaps His Grace kept Sir Jerard not for the eagles, but out of old affection,” the knight mused.

Michel’s slim brows lifted. The man’s tone strayed into disrespect. Whatever else, Jerard was the acting trainer of the corps—a teacher of knights.

Students should honor their instructors. A lifetime in taekwondo made Michel bristle at a pupil snickering over a master.