The dining hall held light differently than the garden. Where the garden embraced the sun openly, the hall filtered it through tall arched windows framed in muted silver and obsidian trim. The late afternoon glow entered at an angle, spilling long amber streaks across the polished stone floor and climbing halfway up the paneled walls before fading into cooler shadow. The table itself long, dark, and carved with ancestral motifs reflected faint halos of that light, and the silverware resting upon it gleamed like quiet sentinels awaiting instruction.
When I entered with the others, three seats remained empty. The room carried the low murmur of servants completing final adjustments, the soft slide of chairs against stone, the subtle clink of glass meeting wood. The air was warm near the center of the hall, where light pooled and mingled with the scent of food, but cooler near the periphery, where shadow lingered along the edges like something waiting.
Mother entered first, her laughter preceding her, rich and unrestrained in a way that belonged more to the garden than to formal dinner. Auntie Fatimata followed, her voice melodic as she spoke of simpler times stories from youth that existed before titles grew heavy and obligations became carved in stone. Uncle Lucius walked with them, broad and relaxed, his deep voice occasionally rising above theirs as he added commentary or embellished some shared memory. Their laughter filled the hall in warm waves, pushing gently against the structured air of formality. I took my seat and looked along the table.
Diana sat poised, her posture elegant even in ease. Sofia swung her legs beneath her chair, barely containing her excitement. Quentin leaned slightly back in his seat, one arm draped over the chair behind him as though the hall were simply an extension of our earlier chaos. Jabir sat more upright, though the faint glint in his eyes betrayed the humor still simmering beneath the surface. Sextus occupied his space like a mountain contained within silk, broad shoulders barely restrained by the high-backed chair.
For a moment, I realized something.
Everyone I loved was at this table.
Everyone except Whitescale.
The absence was small but tangible, like a missing note in an otherwise perfect chord. I told myself he was merely attending to business beyond the manor walls, but the thought lingered longer than comfort allowed.
The first course was served sweet potato soup, thick and velvety in porcelain bowls etched with our crest. Steam rose in soft spirals, carrying with it the sweetness of root vegetables balanced by the sharp brightness of fresh herbs. I lifted my spoon and tasted it slowly. It was warm, creamy, touched with garlic and onion and a faint thread of chili that bloomed gently at the back of the throat. The bread placed beside each bowl was still warm from the oven, crust crisp and interior soft, perfect for dipping. When I tore a piece and pressed it into the soup, the texture absorbed without collapsing, holding flavor like memory.
We ate quietly at first, allowing the elders to guide the conversation. The murmur of voices layered over the faint scrape of cutlery and the soft hum of distant wind brushing the manor's outer walls. The hall felt insulated from the world beyond, warm in its center, cooler toward its corners where shadows pooled beneath decorative arches.
Then Quentin, unable to resist the lull, leaned slightly forward and directed his voice toward Uncle Lucius. "Who are you betting on winning the Warrior Summit this year?"
My eyes lifted immediately, instinct answering before restraint could temper it. "Vicius Titius Superba," I murmured, barely above breath. Uncle Lucius nodded once, his gaze thoughtful. "The man is an honorable fighter with years of experience," he said evenly. "They say he once trained under one of the Lord Emperor's Fingers."
Sextus let out a low, amused laugh that rolled across the table like distant thunder. He wiped at his eye with exaggerated drama. "Uncle," he replied, "when will you learn these are tales for entertainment, nothing else?"
Laughter rippled around the table again, lighter now, less guarded. Jabir added a measured comment about strategy and discipline. Quentin countered with a ridiculous exaggeration about fighting styles stolen from forgotten monasteries. Even Diana contributed occasionally, her tone controlled but playful. Sofia attempted to imitate warrior poses with her spoon until mother gently corrected her posture with a smile. The warmth of it all felt fragile in retrospect. It was easy. It was familiar.
The taste of salmon followed the soup rich and delicate, cooked perfectly so that it flaked under the lightest pressure of the fork. Fresh vegetables carried a brightness that balanced the fish crisp greens, roasted roots, a drizzle of oil infused with herbs. The scent of citrus glaze hovered faintly in the air. And yet beneath it, I felt something else. Father had not spoken.
He sat at the head of the table, silent, composed, observing. The light struck his profile sharply, one side illuminated in warm gold, the other held in shadow. His presence altered the air subtly not enough to choke laughter, but enough to remind it of its limits.
The conversation rose and fell in waves, youthful teasing colliding with seasoned perspective. Quentin's gestures grew animated when describing hypothetical matchups. Jabir's corrections were precise and occasionally cutting. Sextus leaned back, arms crossed, occasionally interjecting with blunt practicality. To an outsider, it would have seemed harmless a gathering of spirited young men speaking boldly in the presence of their elders. But then father stood. The movement itself was not violent. It was controlled. Yet the effect was immediate.
Chairs creaked softly as posture straightened. Shadows shifted across the walls as his height altered the angle of light. Even the faint clink of silverware ceased.
When he reached his full height, it felt as though the ceiling lowered to accommodate him. The warmth at the center of the hall receded, leaving only clarity. My ears felt suddenly cold, as if frost had brushed against them. My pulse sharpened.
He looked first at me.
Then Quentin.
Then Jabir.
And lastly Sextus.
Whatever he said next did not echo loudly.
It did not need to.
I did not hear my own breath as he spoke. I did not hear the distant wind. I did not hear the subtle rustle of fabric as mother adjusted in her seat. I only felt the weight of his words descend.
I looked instinctively toward Quentin and saw the color drain from his face. The mischief vanished from his eyes. Jabir's jaw tightened, his fingers pressing lightly against the table's edge. Sextus, who rarely appeared unsettled by anything, had gone utterly still not relaxed stillness, but coiled restraint.
The warmth in the room evaporated. The innocence of moments ago felt impossibly distant. And whatever father had just declared had altered the air in a way that could not be undone.