The long obsidian dining table stretched across the hall, polished to a mirror sheen. Candles flickered in silver chandeliers, casting a soft, golden glow over dishes far too fancy for Ray to pronounce. Around that table sat a collection of apex predators:
- Grand Duke Sebran Avery: Stern and unreadable, cutting his food with surgical precision.
- Lady Mirelle Avery: Serene yet terrifying, sipping her soup like a queen who tolerated no nonsense.
- Elaine Avery: Perfect posture, her expression a mask of quiet grace.
- Prince Cassian Draegor: Elegance incarnate, radiating a cold, royal halo.
- The Melborne Siblings: Garret, already judging Ray with his eyes; Isolde, stoic and braced for embarrassment.
- Niva and Alden: Sitting perfectly still, visibly suffocating under the weight of the formality.
- Ray Melborne: Trying very hard not to choke on his own tongue.
The clinking of silver against porcelain echoed like distant battle drums. Suddenly, Ray realized everyone was looking at him. It was the curse of being the least elegant organism at a table full of high-society sharks.
Ray cleared his throat, the sound agonizingly loud in the silence. “…Uh. Nice soup.”
Sebran Avery slowly lowered his spoon. His voice was like grinding stone. “…It is venison stew, Raymond.”
Ray died a little inside. Venison stew. Right. Obviously. Alden kicked him under the table—encouragingly—while Niva hid a giggle behind her napkin. Across the table, Cassian’s lips curled into a smirk. It was a look that clearly said: Pathetic.
But Elaine immediately put down her spoon, her tone perfectly level. “It is good stew.”
The table subtly relaxed. Ray could have kissed her out of pure gratitude. Lady Mirelle gave a small, rare nod of approval, and the silence returned—though this time, it felt slightly less like a noose.
“So, Ray,” Garret spoke up, stabbing a piece of roast. “I heard you nearly died. Again.”
“Brother,” Isolde hissed.
“What? It’s statistically impressive,” Garret shrugged.
Cassian sipped his wine, his silver eyes cool and mocking. “That seems to be a recurring pattern with him.”
Elaine set her fork down with a deliberate clack. “Ray is progressing,” she said, her voice cutting through the banter. “In fact, he has achieved his Foundation Vein.”
The table went still. Sebran turned his heavy, ruler’s gaze toward Ray. For a moment, it felt like being weighed on a scale. “…Is that so?”
Ray sat straighter, meeting the Duke’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”
A long pause followed. Then, Sebran gave a single, firm nod. “Well done.”
Ray’s heart soared. Garret looked murderous, Isolde blinked in genuine surprise, and Cassian’s eyes darkened. The Prince looked genuinely annoyed that Ray had managed to accomplish anything at all.
The Prince swirled the dark vintage in his glass, the liquid catching the candlelight like a pool of fresh blood. He didn't look at Ray. He didn't have to; his presence alone was enough to dominate the side of the table.
“Achievement is a strong word, Duchess,” Cassian said, his voice smooth and cold as silk. “Though I suppose for some, simply managing to function is an accomplishment.”
He finally turned his silver gaze toward Ray, a thin, razor-edged smile touching his lips. “I was quite captivated during our journey back,” the Prince continued, his tone mockingly conversational. “Ray was demonstrating his… unique methodology. It’s fascinating, really. Most Knights-in-training strive for silent, efficient execution. Yet, Ray seems to have discovered that his magic only responds when he shouts at it in that peculiar, invented tongue of his.”
Ray felt a bead of sweat prickle at his hairline. He kept his eyes on his plate, but he could feel Elaine’s clinical gaze shifting toward him.
“What was it again, Melborne?” Cassian leaned forward slightly, the golden light of the chandeliers glinting off his platinum hair. “The one where you launched yourself into the foliage? Something about a… Enku Panchi?”
Garret snorted into his wine. Isolde looked like she wanted to disappear into the floorboards.
“It’s a mnemonic device,” Ray muttered, his grip tightening on his fork.
“A mnemonic device,” Cassian repeated, tasting the words with audible disdain. “Tell me, Duke Avery, is the Academy lowering its standards to accommodate those who require theatrical shouting to ignite a spark? Or is Ray simply a pioneer of a new, louder form of warfare?”
He looked back at Ray, his eyes dancing with a cruel, superior light. “Go on, Ray. Enlighten the table. Give us a demonstration of that 'ancient battle tongue.' I’m sure the Grand Duke would love to hear the phonetic structure required to activate a simple Smoke Fist.”
Ray looked up, meeting the Prince’s gaze. The table was silent, the air thick with the smell of sunstag and the suffocating weight of social execution.
Before Ray could even open his mouth, Elaine cut through the silence.
"It’s impressive, in its own way," she said, her voice carrying a calm authority that demanded attention.
The table went dead silent. Everyone turned to her in surprise, their forks hovering mid-air. Even Ray felt a jolt of confusion—he hadn't expected her to jump to his defense, let alone with such a cryptic compliment.
"He’s creating his own language," she added, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
The shock in the room was palpable. Ray’s eyes widened as he looked at her; he was just as lost as the rest of them. What is she talking about? he wondered. Is she making fun of me, or did she actually figure it out?
Elaine leaned back, enjoying the spotlight for a fleeting second before turning her gaze directly toward him. "Take that word you keep using for me, Ray. What was it? Your osananajimi?"
The group exchanged bewildered glances. The word sounded foreign, rhythmic, and strangely intimate. "You've called me that since we were kids, but you never actually told me what it meant," Elaine prompted, her eyes narrowing playfully. "What did you say it was?"
Ray felt the heat rush to his face, a deep crimson creeping up from his collar. He looked down at his plate, suddenly finding his venison stew incredibly interesting. He had used that word as a shield for years, a way to say something true without having to deal with the consequences of being understood.
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"It... it means 'childhood sweetheart,'" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Cassian’s smirk didn't just fade; it disintegrated. He looked at Elaine, then at Ray, his silver eyes narrowing until they were mere slits of icy disbelief. The mockery he had been building like a house of cards was flattened by a single word.
Garret actually choked on his wine, coughing violently into a silk napkin. Isolde sat frozen, her fork halfway to her mouth, staring at Ray as if he had just grown a second head made of gold.
“Childhood... sweetheart?” Cassian’s voice was no longer smooth. It was tight, strained. “You’re telling me, Melborne, that you shout romantic endearments to summon your strength?”
Ray looked up, his face burning but his jaw set. “Yes.”
“And it’s not for demonstration,” Ray added, his voice low and steady.
“Ah,” Cassian smirked, leaning back and trying to recover his footing. “I see. A warrior who can only perform when the stakes are life and death—or perhaps, only when there’s a tree nearby to stop his momentum.”
The mockery was a trap, a lure to make Ray look like a fool in front of the most powerful man in the room. Ray looked at Sebran, then at Elaine, and finally back at the Prince.
“I’ll show you the next time we’re on the training grounds, Your Highness,” Ray said, his voice surprisingly firm. “But I don't think you'd like the phonetic structure of a hit to the jaw.”
The clinking of silverware stopped completely. Even Niva and Alden froze, their eyes wide. Cassian’s smile didn’t falter, but the temperature at the table seemed to drop five degrees.
“I look forward to it,” the Prince whispered.
“Speaking of accomplishments,” the Prince said lightly, swirling the wine in his glass, “it seems your father has finally claimed victory against Thornmarch.”
He shifted his gaze to the Melborne siblings. Garret stiffened. They had heard whispers through messengers, but nothing concrete. Certainly nothing about the war being over.
The Prince smiled thinly. “Of course, it appears Lord Hadrian required… assistance. The Advisor recommended deploying two of the Fingers to ensure the campaign concluded properly.”
The words landed like a physical slap. Garret’s jaw tightened so hard his muscles bulged. Isolde’s fingers curled into claws against the tablecloth.
Before they could respond, Lord Sebran Avery set his goblet down with a soft, ominous clink. “You mean,” the Grand Duke said calmly, “that Marr sent them to steal the credit.”
Silence. Cold and absolute.
“That is a gross interpretation, Duke Avery,” Cassian snapped.
Sebran finally turned his head. The air in the room shifted. This was a man who had commanded armies and watched kingdoms burn without blinking. He met the Prince’s gaze—and the Prince was the one to look away.
Ray, meanwhile, had gone very still. The Fingers.
The word echoed in his head, bouncing around like a loading screen hint. Fingers, fingers… they belonged to a Hand. And then, his "babyhood" memories started to activate. All the time he spent reading books and listening to tales and everything started to slam into place.
The Fingers weren’t knights. They weren’t generals. They were the Emperor’s personified will. Ten monsters wearing human shapes, sent not to fight wars, but to end them. In gamer terms? You didn’t send the Fingers to win a fair fight. You sent them when you wanted to delete a location from the map.
If the Fingers were involved, Thornmarch wasn't being "assisted." It was being erased.
Ray took a slow sip of water, his face a mask of neutral calm. Definitely end-game content. Definitely not something I want spawning anywhere near my current level.
He looked around the table. The Empire was about to celebrate a victory at the Founders Festival, but that victory had already been paid for in blood. For now, Ray’s path was clear: Survive the next engraving.
He needed to be ready. Because when the Emperor’s "Hand" finally closed into a fist, Ray didn't want to be the one caught inside it.
“So…” Niva piped up suddenly, tilting her head. “Does that mean we can go home now?”
Every head turned. The question was innocent, perfectly timed, and devastating in its simplicity. Duchess Mirelle’s expression softened immediately. She leaned toward the girl, her voice a rare, gentle melody.
“No,” she said kindly. “Not just yet. Your father still has loose ends to tie up.”
Niva’s shoulders drooped, just a fraction. Alden noticed at once. “…You don’t want to play with me anymore?” he asked, his voice quiet and uncertain.
Niva spun on him, horrified. “No! I am having fun,” she insisted. “I just… I wanted to know.”
The tension eased, but only for a breath. Then, the Prince cleared his throat—a sound that was awkward, deliberate, and entirely too loud.
“As for the Founders Festival,” Cassian said, steering the conversation back onto safer, more royal rails. “His Majesty will be making a comprehensive public appearance.”
Mirelle didn't look impressed. “Oh?” she asked coolly. “And will the King be addressing his people?”
The Prince stiffened. “Of course,” he replied after a heartbeat. “He will announce the great victory achieved by the Empire against Thornmarch.”
Silence. Mirelle didn’t smile. Sebran did not miss the phrasing, and neither did Ray, nor garrete and Isolde.
The Empire’s victory. Not Hadrian Melborne’s. Not the victory bought with the blood of the Thornmarch border forces. Mirelle’s eyes flicked briefly to Sebran—a single glance, sharp and knowing. Sebran said nothing, but the air around him shifted, growing heavy with the weight of old wars and unspoken displeasure. The Prince, sensing the shift too late, looked away.
The awkward silence didn’t so much end as it was gently buried. Servants entered in a practiced flow, their footfalls soundless against the polished stone. The atmosphere changed first—a richness, the unmistakable scent of a noble kitchen, announcing itself before a single dish was set.
Silver domes were lifted. Steam rose. Ray’s stomach betrayed him immediately.
At the center of the table was the main course: a slow-roasted sunstag haunch, lacquered in a glaze of honeyed amberwine and crushed fire-pepper berries. The skin had been basted to a deep, gleaming bronze, while the interior promised a tenderness that would part at the mere suggestion of a fork.
Alongside it came a root gratin from the Avery lowlands—layers of pale gold tubers and violet earth-yams baked in cream infused with thyme. Emerald greens followed, tossed with citrus oil, and blackgrain rolls, still warm, crackled softly as they were torn open and slathered with herb butter flecked with goldleaf.
Utensils clinked. Ray took a bite and nearly closed his eyes. It was obscene. It was layered—first the sweetness of the glaze, then the savory depth of the meat, followed by a slow bloom of warmth from the fire-pepper that settled comfortably in his chest. It felt like the afterglow of a hard-won fight.
Around the table, shoulders relaxed. Alden focused entirely on demolishing his portion with single-minded devotion. Niva tried to eat neatly, failed, and ended up giggling as Mirelle dabbed her mouth with a silk napkin. Even the Prince partook—his movements precise and restrained, but unmistakably appreciative.
Then Elaine spoke. “Ray,” she said casually, setting her fork down with deliberate grace. “Have you made any plans for the Founders Festival?”
The question was simple. The effect was not. Ray felt the subtle shift in the room, the way the Prince’s jaw tightened just a fraction. Not enough to comment on, but more than enough to feel.
Ray swallowed and wiped his mouth, buying himself a second. “Plans? Uh… not really. I figured I’d just… exist.”
Elaine blinked once. Then she smiled. Not her sharp, public smile. Not her amused one. Something softer. Decided.
“In that case,” she said smoothly, “you’ll accompany me for the first few days.”
The words landed like a legal verdict. Ray choked—just slightly. “W–with you?”
“Yes,” she replied, entirely unbothered. “The festival lasts a month. I’ll be occupied for much of it, but there are days I’ve set aside. You’ll join me then.”
She said it the way one might announce the weather. Natural. Inevitable.
The Prince’s annoyance was now visible—silent, controlled, but unmistakable. His fingers tightened briefly around his wineglass until his knuckles turned white before he smoothed his expression back into polite neutrality.
Ray, meanwhile, was spiraling internally. Spend days with Elaine. Publicly. During the most important festival of the year. This was a massive political statement.
“…I mean,” Ray said carefully, “if that’s what you want?”
Elaine’s blue eyes met his. “I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.”
Mirelle watched the exchange with quiet interest, her lips curved faintly upward. Sebran said nothing, but his approval was written in the ease of his posture. Ray nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”
Elaine picked up her fork again, satisfied. Conversation resumed. The food cooled slowly. And somewhere between bites of sunstag and sips of wine, Ray realized: the festival wasn't going to be restful at all. It was going to be a different kind of Crucible.