Shooting Yourself in the Foot

In the dim corridor, Thales face turned grim as he put his hands on Morat's "wheelchair" that was covered with black-veined vines (he struggled with the idea for a long time before touching it reluctantly), and became Morat's reticent mobility aid, pushing The Black Prophet forward as instructed.

The black-veined vines seemed to be able to sense his presence. Hissing and squirming, they "politely" made room on the back of the wheelchair, just enough to accommodate a pair of hands.

This only made Thales feel weirder and more hesitant.

"Don't worry, they don't bite people."

As if he could see the duke's expression behind him, The Black Prophet chuckled.

'They just eat them,' the elderly Chief of Intelligence thought casually.

Thales twitched the corners of his mouth and continued forward.

It wasn't that he never thought of refusing, but since a vulnerable(?) and disabled old man made such a request, he had no choice but to do as asked.