Two young servants were walking down the dim hallway.
They were arguing— not loudly, but in hushed, tense whispers.
The boy on the left, his hair a dark shade of copper, seemed to be the one lecturing. His worried expression contrasted sharply with the one on the right, who looked more irritated than concerned.
The boy on the left was telling the other not to get involved with the nobles.
"They're above people like us," he warned. "If not for Miss Grace stepping in, we'd have been in serious trouble."
"Arno, it's better to stay out of their business," He said calmly.
"Their business?" Arno muttered. "That Corvin guy was clearly blaming you for something you didn't even do."
"Hey, quiet down— someone might hear you."
Arno clenched his fists, his frustration boiling over. "Alaric… you're my younger brother. It's my job to protect you, no matter what it costs."
"But you—"
Alaric stopped mid-sentence as the sound of footsteps echoed from behind.
The hallway fell silent. Only the measured footsteps drew closer, then passed them.
A tall young woman, dressed in the same servant's attire, walked past and continued ahead.
As Alaric watched her, a thought flickered in his mind.
"That's the same girl I saw at the gala. Though I only caught a glimpse before she disappeared. I remember— she was carrying way too many drinks on one tray. Unusual… maybe she's new... Should I ask?"
Before he could finish his thought, Arno spoke up.
"Hey, miss— are you new here?"
The woman froze mid-step.
"Please don't get us wrong," Arno added, his tone cautious. "We've just never seen you around before, so we were… curious."
But his eyes, sharp and probing, betrayed suspicion more than curiosity.
She stood motionless.
"What's wrong? Are you—"
"She's an ancillary," a deep voice interrupted.
A man in gleaming armor appeared, his steps heavy and sure.
{ The ancillary staff comprised servants lent from the royal estates of the King or Queen of Elenor, summoned to the main palace for grand occasions— birthdays, festivals, and most notably, coronations. Their service there was brief, after which they returned to their appointed posts within the estates from which they came.
It was done so, for it was deemed wiser to employ those already known to the royal household than to hire complete strangers for so brief a period. The practice also spared both time and exertion. }
The sight of his polished armor and ornate helmet was enough to make both boys stiffen.
"Second Captain," they said in unison, bowing their heads.
{ In Elenor, the martial order was thus: at its pinnacle stood the Lord Commander, styled the Commander Royal; beneath him, the Knight Captain, known as the Captain Royal; and below them both, the Second Captain, who bore his title plain and unadorned. }
"I'm the one who arranged her assignment," the armored man said, his voice low and resolute.
"This captain is huge," Alaric thought nervously. "He could pin us to the wall with one hand."
"Hey, Arno— let's just go—"
But Arno, still uneasy, looked at the woman. "Miss, if that was the case, you could've told us earlier," he said, though his voice trembled under the captain's stare.
The woman nodded, her back still turned to them.
"Is something the matter? You aren't saying anything," Arno asked.
The man took a step forward. "She can't speak," he said flatly. "And she suffers from social anxiety."
The woman flinched slightly at his words.
Both boys fell silent.
"We're sorry," Alaric said, bowing. "We didn't know."
Arno quickly followed his brother's lead. "Yeah… we're really sorry."
"Let's go," Alaric whispered, tugging Arno by the arm.
As they walked away, the woman and the man stayed where they were.
Not long after, the brothers' hushed voices returned to their usual bickering.
But for a brief moment, Alaric looked back. His gaze narrowed on the two figures— a sharp, fleeting glance that lingered just long enough to hint at a thought he wasn't ready to voice— before he faced forward again.
Behind them, the woman let out a quiet, amused huff. "Can't talk? Anxious?" she muttered.
"There was nothing else I could think of," the man replied.
"Besides, you've got no reason to be upset— I did tell you to be careful, didn't I?"
"How was I supposed to know those kids would stop me and question me?" she said, frowning slightly.
"You stand out," he remarked. "No wonder they got suspicious."
"(You're one to talk)," she thought, eyeing his imposing frame and armor.
"Either way," the man said, his tone softening, "our work here is almost done. We just have to wait until midnight… then we head back... with Grace."
.
.
.
.
.
"She left?" Ray exclaimed, eyes wide with disbelief.
Across the table, Rui froze mid-bite— or rather, mid-attempt at a bite. A piece of roast chicken dangled precariously between her lips, clutched only by her front teeth as though she'd been caught stealing it from the platter.
"Something important must have come up," Grace said with calm certainty, folding her hands neatly on the table. "Otherwise, Aunt Sera would never have left so suddenly."
At that, both Ray and Rui's expressions drooped in perfect unison— two mourners at the funeral of dinner cheer. Rui still hadn't used her hands, letting the poor chicken leg sway slightly as she sighed through her nose.
She tried to speak, but the result was a series of muffled sounds that made Ray blink twice before saying flatly, "I have no idea what you just said."
Rui gave him and indignant stare, then finally tore off a piece of chicken, chewed with exaggerated dignity, and swallowed— all while Ray, Grace, Welfred, and Dasmon watched her as if attending some sacred rite.
Rui finally cleared her throat and spoke again. "Wow," he said, deadpan, still unable to tell what she was saying. "Still can't understand a thing."
Dasmon, who had been quietly observing the gloom gathering over the table, leaned back and spoke with mock injury. "You do realize I'm here too, yes? Three months away and not a single soul missed me— yet one evening without Lady Seraphine, and the world falls apart."
He punctuated his statement by stabbing a small tomato with unnecessary force, as though the fruit were personally responsible for his neglect.
Ray clenched his hands. "You know it's not like that," he said earnestly. "We just… wanted to have supper with everyone. Aunt Sera included."
Dasmon's tone softened. "I know. Truly, I do. But she isn't here tonight, so let us not bury our joy with her absence. Eat, laugh, and make merry— for once, with the people who 'are' here."
Ray lowered his gaze, voice quiet. "All right."
His eyes drifted to the empty chair beside him— the one that seemed reserved for Seraphine— before he turned back to his plate, where Rui had resumed her silent battle with the chicken leg.
.
.
.
The other nobles had already begun their feast, indulging in the lavish spread set before them, their laughter and murmurs blending with the faint clinking of silver and porcelain.
Grace, Ray, Rui, Welfred, and Dasmon soon joined in, though Rui had already set to her plate with unmistakable enthusiasm.
The grand hall stretched vast and resplendent, its vaulted ceiling upheld by carved stone pillars adorned with banners bearing the crests of old houses. Chandeliers of wrought gold hung high above, their candlelight scattering over the long rows of tables like fragments of starlight.
There were over a hundred dining tables laid out, each grand enough to host more than a hundred diners together.
Grace and her companions were seated at the center of the hall. She sat at the middle curve of the long rounded table, Rui and Ray to her right, Welfred and Dasmon to her left, the rest of the court filling the seats along it's sweeping length.
Despite the crowd, the hall was hushed—filled only with the soft symphony of movement: the shifting of dishes, the faint scrape of silverware, and the muted rustle of robes. Beneath the golden light, the feast carried on in a solemn, almost sacred quiet, as though the walls themselves remembered the weight of centuries.