Aric woke in the gloom of Room Sixteen.
He lay still, bracing for the familiar spike of pain in his lower back.
His spine held firm.
He shifted his weight.
The canvas ticking yielded with a rustle, the goose down cradling his shoulders.
No knots pressed into his kidneys.
His muscles ached from Gorren’s grappling drills, but the soreness was just honest, earned fatigue.
He had slept for eight unbroken hours.
A long breath escaped him.
Falk’s repaired window latch kept the canal wind out, though the air remained cold without a hearth.
Yet beneath his thin wool blanket, Aric rested easy.
The floorboards offered no comfort, but the down mattress was a fortress.
Leaving the tailored Sunmere coat hung on a peg, he dressed in his standard clerk’s wool and walked down the three flights of stairs.
Halfway to the ground floor, his left knee bent without protest.
Woodsmoke and rendering fat drew him toward the staff kitchen.
Pushing through the swinging doors, the sweltering heat of the Hearth’s lower levels washed over him.
Brinna stood at the iron stoves, managing three cast-iron skillets.
The kitchen bustled with morning energy.
Marenna lounged near the prep counter, her equine flanks gleaming as she braided her dark hair.
Lyra sprawled across two chairs, idly brushing one of her six golden tails while stealing a slice of apple from Kaela’s plate.
Kaela wore a pair of loose linen shorts, her golden-furred breasts resting against the table edge as she stretched her arms.
Mera sat beside her in a crisp, high-collared dress, tapping a stylus against her slate.
Vaelisse occupied the head of the table, sipping tea from a porcelain cup, her white hair falling loose over a robe of sheer midnight-blue silk.
Aric took his usual spot at the far end of the wood.
Brinna turned from the stove.
She bypassed the bowls used for oat mortar and carried a wide ceramic plate over to the table, setting it down in front of him.
“Premium pantry, manager,” Brinna grunted, wiping her soot-stained hands on a rag.
Aric stared at the meal.
Three strips of pepper-crusted bacon sizzled in their own fat.
Beside them sat two eggs with rich orange yolks, accompanied by a steaming wedge of fresh bread smeared with sweet cream butter.
He picked up his silverware.
His hands trembled.
Cutting a piece of the bacon, he dragged it through the golden egg yolk and took a bite.
The crunch echoed in his ears.
The sharp bite of black pepper and sea salt gave way to a burst of savory, melted fat.
After fourteen days of basic rations, grueling physical drills on the basement mats, and humiliating emotional audits, the luxury of the food shattered his composure.
Combined with the absence of pain in his spine, the relief bypassed his provincial discipline.
Aric stopped chewing.
He stared at the wood grain.
A single tear spilled over his lower lash line and tracked slowly down his bruised cheek.
Kaela stopped talking.
Her golden eyes widened.
She pointed a clawed finger down the length of the table.
“Mera,” Kaela whispered.
“Mera, look.” Mera lowered her teacup.
Vaelisse tilted her head, her gray eyes locking onto the clerk.
Marenna paused her braiding, her horse ears flicking forward, and Lyra sat up, fascinated.
“Is he weeping?” Kaela asked, her tufted tail freezing beneath the bench.
“Gods…
Aric, are you crying over the bacon?” Aric sniffled.
He wiped his cheek with his knuckles, picked up his fork, and took another bite.
“It is mathematically impossible to replicate this flavor with oats,” Aric defended, his voice raspy.
He glared at his plate.
“The salt-to-fat ratio is well-managed.” Brinna let out a booming laugh from the stoves that shook her broad shoulders.
“See?
I told you.
The boy appreciates real dwarven craft.” Mera pressed a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Vaelisse offered a warm smile, her icy eyes curving at the corners.
“He spent two weeks sleeping on a rock and eating dirt,” Vaelisse noted, taking a sip of her tea.
“Let the man have his moment.” Kaela reached over and patted his shoulder, her claws retracted.
“You’re a mess, Aric,” the Lion Kin purred affectionately.
“A sweet, pathetic, handsome mess.
Eat your bread before it gets cold.” Aric finished the plate with reverence, dragging the final piece of bread through the remaining egg yolk.
When the ceramic was clean, he set down his fork and looked toward Mera.
“You said you would find another supervised booking before Lady Aris on Friday.” Mera set down her slate.
“I did.
Your second supervised booking is tonight at the eighth bell.” Aric squared his shoulders.
“Who is the client?” “Lady Selyna Vance,” Mera said.
“Daughter of the Silk Guild’s prime merchant.
She is twenty-two years old.
Her betrothal to a minor noble fell apart last week under public, humiliating circumstances.
She booked two hours of public escort at the Silver Swan to demonstrate to her social circle that she is unbothered.” “Atmospheric and social,” Aric noted, running the boundaries sheet through his mind.
“Hand-and-arm contact only.” “Precisely.
And she is paying the standard forty-silver rate,” Mera said.
“Lady Aris received the introductory discount.
You no longer require one.” Aric ran the math instantly.
“I have three silver and one copper remaining.
I need another twenty-one silver and nine coppers for the oak bed frame.” Mera smiled sharply.
“A sixty-percent share of forty silver is twenty-four.
You will have your frame tonight.
But she does not want bold flirtation.
Lady Selyna is young, insecure, and nursing a broken pride.
She needs to feel protected, admired, and envied by everyone in the room.
You are not there to be conquered tonight, Master Vale.
You are there to be her prize.” Vaelisse set her teacup down.
“It is an exercise in gravity, Aric,” she instructed, her voice dropping into the cool cadence of his nightly audits.
“When you walk into the Silver Swan, project unwavering devotion.
Do not scan the room.
Watch her glass.
When she speaks, lean in to listen.
Make the rest of the dining room cease to exist.” Aric met the Frost Elf’s gray eyes and nodded.
He understood the assignment.
He had to be the shield Lady Selyna hid behind.
“I will sit at the bar,” Mera added, slipping the slate back into her pocket.
“Acting as chaperone.
If she feels safe and looks triumphant when the booking ends, you pass.” Aric cracked his knuckles, rolling the tension out of his neck.
“I will be ready by the eighth bell.”