The cavern was silent, save for the pathetic sound of Amien's soul leaving his body.
"A rocket launcher?" Kazriel stared at his 'disciple' with the same look one might give a cockroach that suddenly started reciting Shakespeare. "You're a scholarship student in the middle of a medieval empire, and your first thought is a tactical explosive delivery system? What's next, Amien? Are you going to ask if I have Wi-Fi in the Duchy so you can update your Spotify playlist?"
Amien blinked, his face turning a shade of pale that made the surrounding ice look vibrant. The shivering stopped. He stood up, looking at Kazriel with an expression of pure, unadulterated regret. "I... I was a rockstar. Famous. Massive. I died on a tour bus, okay? And in that life, you were the intern I used to send to get my artisanal, lukewarm lattes."
Aria leaned against the wall, dropping her wind-blade and staring at Amien with genuine, mocking curiosity. "So, let me get this straight. You spent your previous life being a pampered brat who got paid to scream into microphones, and you somehow managed to make Kaz—a guy who once threw a sword at a mountain because it looked at him funny—your personal coffee-fetcher?"
Kazriel didn't scream. He didn't erupt into a dark, soul-crushing aura. Instead, he started laughing. It wasn't a noble, Duke-like chuckle; it was the shrill, hysterical laughter of a man who had just realized his entire life was a poorly written sitcom.
"Oh, this is glorious," Kazriel wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "I spent my entire previous existence being treated like a glorified coat rack by a guy who wears spandex for a living, and now, by some cosmic joke, you're my intern?"
Kazriel leaned in, his face inches from Amien's. The "Duke Heir" smirk was gone, replaced by the look of a man who had just won the lottery of pettiness. "Do you have any idea how many times I dreamed of being your boss? I didn't want to kill you in the last life, Amien. I just wanted to see you try to perform a sold-out concert while I made you wear a mascot suit of a giant, singing pickle."
Amien's jaw dropped. "That's... that's oddly specific."
"It's going to be my new training regimen," Kazriel said, his voice dripping with demonic glee. "Forget dragon scales. When we get back to the capital, you are going to spend six hours a day cleaning my armor with a toothbrush. And you're going to do it while singing the national anthem in a tutu."
Aria let out a loud, undignified snort, nearly collapsing from suppressed laughter. "I'll pay for the tutu, Kaz. It'll match his 'dragon' aesthetic perfectly."
Amien looked at the two of them—one a sadistic Duke planning his revenge through domestic chores, the other a wind mage who was literally betting on his humiliation—and realized his past life's fame was worth absolutely nothing here.
"Master," Amien whispered, his spirit officially broken. "Can I at least have a snack before the pickle suit?"
"No," Kazriel chirped, walking toward the exit with a skip in his step. "But I'll let you carry the luggage. All of it. Even the stuff Aria didn't pack."