Freshly groomed and dressed in a tailored doublet of deep midnight-blue velvet, Julian stepped out into the grand gallery.
His jet-black hair was still faintly damp from the lavender bath, resting softly against his pale nape.
Two broad-shouldered footmen in gold-trimmed livery pulled back the tall double doors leading into the main dining chamber.
The Falcon estate’s dining hall was less a room for meals and more a monument to terrifying, unbridled wealth.
Suspended from the high timber ceiling hung three massive iron chandeliers, each studded with dozens of beeswax candles whose flames reflected off thousands of tiny, cut-glass drops.
Down the center of the hall stretched the dining table itself—a single, massive slab of polished mahogany imported from distant southern seas, long enough to seat thirty lords, yet currently set for just four.
The table was draped in a runner of white Flanders lace that gleamed under the warm candlelight.
At its center rested an elaborate silver centerpiece depicting a winding vine, surrounded by a lavish, steaming feast that defied the harsh medieval reality outside their gates.
A roasted young boar glazed in wild thyme and dark honey sat flanked by platters of roasted partridges stuffed with spiced chestnuts and cold sliced venison preserved in berry jellies.
Beside them rested a high glass pedestal bearing salted oysters packed in mountain ice alongside cured sturgeon imported from distant coastal city-states.
Loaves of pristine white wheat bread—a pure, fine flour unavailable even to local baronets— sat near porcelain dishes filled with candied almonds, dried figs, and fresh yellow butter stamped with the Falcon family crest, while heavy crystal decanters filled with dark, aged red wines shimmered alongside tall Venetian cristallo goblets.
Yet despite the warm steam rising from the roasted meats and the rich scents of cloves, burnt honey, and wine filling the air, no one in the room possessed an appetite.
Lady Pulchra sat at the head of the table in a dark crimson gown, her vibrant red hair pinned up with silver combs.
She sat with rigid, military posture, her hands folded neatly over her linen napkin while her eyes fixated on the empty high-backed chair at the opposite end of the table—the seat that belonged to Dan Falcon.
Her lips were pressed into a tight, white line, her chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths as her mind raced through what only she knew.
To her right sat Luna.
Luna picked aimlessly at a slice of roasted partridge with her silver fork, her blue eyes swollen and red-rimmed from her earlier weeping.
Every few seconds, she would glance toward the tall stained-glass windows, flinching at the subtle creak of the wind against the lead frames as if expecting to hear her father’s horse galloping into the courtyard.
Father Luik sat across from Luna, looking like a dark, silent raven perched in a golden cage.
His plate contained only a small heel of coarse bread and a bowl of clear broth—the modest fare dictated by his Gaia vows—yet he hardly touched even that.
His sharp, calculating eyes darted continuously between the family members, his brain weighing the immediate power vacuum.
If Dan does not return within three weeks, the local guilds will panic.
The trade routes will freeze.
The Duke of Vane will move from covert ambushes to legal seizure…
Julian took his place beside Pulchra.
A footman immediately moved to ladle a light, fragrant chicken broth into his silver bowl, but Julian merely held the warm spoon, his thoughts far away.
The dining hall was suffocatingly quiet.
The only sounds were the soft clinking of silver against porcelain, the crackle of beeswax candles, and the distant, low howling of the afternoon wind outside the estate’s high stone walls.
It was a strange, haunting scene: four people sitting before a feast fit for an emperor, utterly consumed by the cold, creeping terror of their suddenly fragile existence.
The immense luxury surrounding them felt less like a shield now and more like a heavy target painted squarely on their backs.
Julian quietly observed his family, his mind working alongside the baseline data of the Technology Tree.
The moment the surrounding lords realized the Falcon family’s martial strength was broken, this mahogany table would be chopped into kindling by invading men-at-arms.
We need steel, Julian thought, his violet eyes darkening as he mentally pulled up the baseline node for blast furnace design and basic black powder compositions.
We need walls that don’t crumble, and weapons that ignore their heavy armor.
Suddenly, the heavy silence of the hall was shattered.
From the outer courtyard beyond the dining hall’s heavy oak doors came the distant, muffled sound of iron-shod boots marching in rapid, chaotic sync across the cobblestones.
Shouts echoed through the outer corridors—muffled, urgent, and laced with panic.
Pulchra’s head snapped up instantly.
Luna gasped, dropping her silver fork, which clattered loudly against her crystal goblet.
Father Luik’s hand froze mid-air, his sharp eyes darting toward the entryway as his fingers instinctively tightened around his green jade stone.
Julian braced his hands against the polished mahogany table, his sickly heart giving a sudden, violent thud against his ribs.
The heavy iron bar locking the double doors from the outside was slammed upward with a deafening metallic bang.
Slowly, agonizingly, the massive, carved oak doors swung inward.
The bright, pale afternoon light from the main courtyard flooded into the candlelit hall, casting a long, dark silhouette across the marble threshold.
A figure stood framing the doorway, drenched in the cold shadow of the entrance, covered in mud and dust from the road, holding something wrapped in heavy, blood-soaked cloth in their right hand.
No one in the room dared to breathe as the mysterious figure took a single, heavy step into the hall.