The Marshall dining hall was not designed for comfort.
It was designed for hierarchy.
A vaulted ceiling arched overhead, its beams carved from dark ironwood shipped from frontier worlds. Chandeliers hung in descending tiers, crystal refracting the amber glow of Chukdem's evening sun. Long banners bearing the sigil of House Marshall — blade over broken chain — draped between stone pillars.
At the centre stood a single elongated table of black stone.
Four high-backed chairs stood at the head.
One for the Duke.
Three for his other wives.
Maverick walked beside Kaelira as they entered.
Conversations softened but did not cease.
Good.
Silence meant fear.
Measured noise meant balance.
Duke Roland Marshall already stood at the head of the table, speaking quietly with the eldest son — Mickey Marshall — auburn hair tied back neatly, blue eyes steady and sharp. He wore a naval officer's jacket despite being off-duty, posture rigid even at dinner.
Beside him sat Seraphine Marshall, the second-born daughter. Dark brown hair braided tightly, grey eyes calculating. Her fingers drummed lightly against the table in a rhythm that suggested impatience.
At the Duke's right sat Duchess Elara — Maverick's mother — composed, red hair immaculate, gaze calm and assessing.
To the Duke's left sat Lady Valenne, the second wife.
Valenne was Celestial-blooded. Silver hair fell to her waist, ears tapering elegantly behind strands. Her eyes were pale gold, expression controlled and distant. Three children sat near her — twin boys of fourteen with matching silver hair, and a younger daughter of nine who watched everything with unnerving stillness.
Further along the table sat Lady Thalia, the third wife. Human. Dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, former planetary governor's daughter. Her presence was commanding rather than decorative. Two sons and one daughter sat near her — all strong-featured, all visibly competitive in posture.
At the far end sat Lady Mirelle, the fourth wife.
Beastfolk — horned bovine lineage. Curved ivory horns framed her dark hair, and her eyes were deep amber. She radiated quiet strength. Three children clustered near her — one dragonkin hybrid boy with faint scale patterns along his jawline, and two daughters with subtle horn ridges beneath braided hair.
Nine children from three wives.
Twelve in total.
Maverick was the last.
He stepped into the hall without hesitation.
Roland's gaze flicked to him.
"Marsh."
Not Maverick.
Not Twelfth.
Marsh.
Acknowledgement.
Maverick inclined his head slightly — not a bow, but respect.
"Father."
Eyes tracked him as he moved to his seat beside his mother.
Valenne studied him openly.
"You appear recovered," she said.
Her tone was smooth, but the question beneath it was sharp.
"I am," Maverick replied evenly.
Thalia leaned forward slightly.
"Rapid recovery from toxin is unusual."
Observation.
Not accusation.
"Perhaps he is simply resilient," Elara replied before Maverick could answer.
Mirelle's amber eyes remained on him longer than the others.
"You were targeted," she said plainly.
Not a question.
Fact.
Maverick met her gaze.
"Yes."
A murmur moved subtly along the table.
Mickey spoke first.
"Who would waste resources on the Twelfth?"
Seraphine shot him a look.
"Anyone who understands symbolism."
Roland raised a hand lightly.
"Enough."
Servants began placing dishes along the table — meats, grains, steamed root vegetables, nutrient-balanced stews. The estate never overindulged in spectacle.
Function before luxury.
Maverick watched carefully as cups were placed before each member.
He did not reach for his.
Valenne noticed.
"You distrust your own table?"
"I distrust patterns," Maverick replied calmly.
Thalia's mouth twitched slightly — amusement or approval, difficult to tell.
Roland's gaze hardened briefly.
"The cups are secure."
"I am certain they are," Maverick said.
He waited three seconds longer before drinking.
Just enough to signal awareness.
Not enough to accuse.
Seraphine leaned slightly closer.
"You are different," she said quietly.
"Yes," he replied.
She studied him.
"I prefer it."
Mickey snorted softly.
"He speaks like he's already briefing fleets."
"Fleets will require briefing," Maverick replied without looking at him.
Mickey's grin widened.
"I like him."
Valenne's daughter — the nine-year-old — spoke for the first time.
"You are being watched by more than this table."
Maverick turned towards her.
Her eyes were unnaturally steady for her age.
"I assumed as much," he replied.
Mirelle's dragonkin son leaned forward eagerly.
"Will you train with us?"
"Light training only," Kaelira answered from the wall before Maverick could speak.
All eyes shifted briefly to her.
She stood in shadow, white tail still, posture neutral but ready.
Thalia raised a brow.
"The fox instructs the Duke's son now?"
Roland answered before Kaelira could.
"She instructs where I permit."
Silence fell for half a breath.
Power reasserted.
Dinner resumed.
But beneath the measured exchange of food and polite conversation, currents moved.
Nine siblings from three wives.
Different bloodlines.
Different ambitions.
Different alliances.
Maverick listened more than he spoke.
Valenne's twins discussed fleet procurement inefficiencies.
Thalia's eldest argued for aggressive border patrol expansion.
Mirelle's dragonkin son spoke enthusiastically about cross-species combat simulations.
Every voice revealed alignment.
Every alignment revealed potential fracture.
Roland finally addressed the table.
"The Empire has increased movement along the eastern corridor."
Forks paused.
Seraphine leaned forward.
"How close?"
"Three systems beyond our outer claim."
Not immediate.
But deliberate.
Valenne's gold eyes narrowed.
"They test reaction speed."
"Yes," Roland said.
Maverick spoke quietly.
"Then alter patrol cadence twice."
The table went still.
Roland's gaze settled on him.
"Explain."
"If they anticipate reinforcement patterns after the poisoning attempt, they will anticipate standard fleet shifts. Change it once, they adjust. Change it twice, they miscalculate."
Silence lingered.
Mickey's grin faded into something more serious.
Seraphine's drumming stopped entirely.
Thalia regarded him with new weight.
Valenne studied him as if recalculating a board position.
Mirelle nodded once.
Roland did not smile.
But he did not dismiss it.
"It will be considered," he said.
Which meant implemented.
Dinner concluded without further confrontation.
But lines had shifted.
As the family dispersed in controlled clusters, Kaelira stepped forward.
"You handled that efficiently," she murmured.
"I spoke only what was necessary."
"Yes."
She gestured subtly towards the training yard.
"You wished to begin more than walking."
"Yes."
The night air was cooler now as they stepped into the enclosed training courtyard behind the main estate. Lanterns illuminated practice dummies and wooden staves arranged neatly along a rack.
"You are still weak," Kaelira said plainly.
"I am aware."
She handed him a short wooden staff scaled to a child's size.
"Grip."
He adjusted his hands instinctively — too advanced for a beginner.
She noticed.
"Again."
He repositioned deliberately to match a child's expected awkwardness.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"You corrected yourself."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because observation must be controlled."
She watched him for several seconds.
Then:
"Strike."
He stepped forward.
Too fast.
Too precise.
She tapped the staff aside effortlessly.
"Again," she said.
He slowed deliberately this time.
Measured movement.
Child pace.
She struck his ankle lightly with her own staff.
He stumbled but did not fall.
"Pain teaches faster than pride," she said.
"I do not lack pride," he replied evenly.
"No," she agreed. "You lack fear."
He considered that.
Perhaps.
She circled him slowly.
"You will not train as heir alone."
"No."
"You will train as target."
"Yes."
She lunged without warning.
He reacted instinctively — pivoting too cleanly.
Her eyes sharpened.
"Where did you learn that?"
He did not answer.
Because the answer did not belong to this life.
She lowered the staff slightly.
"Control it," she said softly.
"Control what?"
"The part of you that moves like it has already killed."
Silence fell between them.
The lantern light flickered.
He met her gaze steadily.
"I will."
She nodded once.
"Then again."
They continued for another twenty minutes — basic stance adjustments, balance corrections, measured strikes.
His muscles burned.
His legs trembled.
Sweat dampened his collar.
But he did not stop.
At the far edge of the courtyard, Riven had reappeared unnoticed, perched atop the low wall again, watching with open fascination.
When Maverick finally lowered the staff, breath steady but shallow, Riven grinned.
"You're rubbish at that," he called out cheerfully.
Kaelira's ears twitched.
Maverick allowed himself the faintest smile.
"For now," he replied.
Riven hopped down.
"When do we get blades?"
"When we earn them," Maverick said.
Riven nodded solemnly.
"Then we'll earn them."
Maverick looked towards the banners shifting in the night wind beyond the courtyard walls.
Twelve children.
Four wives.
One dukedom built in defiance.
An Empire testing the perimeter.
And somewhere ahead — though he did not yet know when — a battlefield that would cost him the boy laughing beside the wall.
But for now, there