21XX.07.21
Morning, and the world awoke with the first glimmer of neon light beyond the window.
"Five more minutes... or ten? Or maybe not get up at all?" he mused inwardly, squinting at the soft vibration of the body-molding cocoon chair. But the "breakfast in fifteen minutes" signal was relentless.
"Alright, getting up. Same routine again."
He slowly opened his eyes, watching the ripples of light clouds drift above the city. Around him, faint sounds – the rustle of synthetic silk sheets, the muted noises of the palace he inhabited, and the quiet footsteps of a maid outside the door.
"Should meditate... though no. Sleep is better."
He threw off the covers, his feet met the cool floor, and he mentally calculated: "Pajamas, bath, breakfast, board meeting... then speech rehearsal for the ball... somewhere in there, I need to find time to study the new stock quotes."
— Milord, — a quiet voice sounded from behind the door. — Forgive the disturbance, but it is time to rise.
— Ah, yes, thank you, — he ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame the unruly strands, and offered a slight smile. — You may leave the door ajar. I don't require complete silence.
The maid nodded, entered, and paused for a moment at the bedside. In her hands, a pale grey handkerchief and a silver tray holding a wakefulness pill and half a glass of water.
— The day is blessed, — she said, placing the tray on the bedside table. — An important meeting with the Guardians' Council awaits you this morning.
He rose, catching sight of the virtual calendar on the tray's screen:
07:30 — Morning Breakfast. 08:15 — Guardians' Council. 09:00 — Market Report Analysis. 10:00 — Audience with Trade Guild Ambassadors...
He took the pill, washed it down with water, and leaned back from the tray to give the maid space.
— Thank you, — he said softly. — Call me in ten minutes if I'm still in bed.
The maid bowed her head and left, leaving the door slightly open. He sank into the room's cool air, breathed it in deeply, and headed towards the bathroom.
--
Water filled the deep basin, thick steam laced with jasmine and ylang-ylang essential oils flowed from a special tap. He shed his black pajamas of the finest velvet, wrapped them in a towel, and carefully lowered himself into the water.
"Steam... just a little more steam..."
He closed his eyes, and in the mirror opposite, his face was reflected.
Hair: black, tousled, medium length. A touch of carelessness spoke not of a chase for perfection, but of using style as a weapon – emphasizing mystery.
Eyes: bright, golden-yellow, piercing. They shone with predatory curiosity and cold intellect.
Skin: fair, almost pale, like porcelain. Contrasting with dark eyebrows and the deep color of his eyes.
Face: sharp cheekbones, a straight jawline, lips thin and calm. Its expression remained unchanged from birth to death – always quiet, almost lazy.
He opened his eyes, looking straight at his reflection.
What story could this face tell?
No joy, no anger, no sorrow. Only calm and a faint weariness.
He stood up, tied a towel around his waist, and took a robe from the dark wardrobe: long, black, with a high collar. He put it on, feeling the fabric settle gently on his shoulders.
Good cut. Even here, in the bathroom, one must look perfect.
Finishing his ablutions, he stepped out of the bathroom onto the soft carpet and headed towards the staircase leading down to the dining room. Each step sounded quietly – here, in the palace corridors, any echo was an unnecessary detail that spies' ears might catch.
"Sometimes it feels like the walls here listen more than the people."
Downstairs, a luxurious hall with floor-to-ceiling windows awaited him. Morning light played on marble columns, and at the center stood a long table, around which sat his closest associates: the financial advisor, the master of protocol, and two bodyguards in light armor.
He paused at the foot of the stairs, straightened his shoulders, and offered the advisors a slight nod. The air was filled with the scents of fresh pastries, cardamom-tinged coffee, and citrus.
"Breakfast," he thought to himself. And took his first step towards the table, where a new day began – full of intrigue, deals, and unspoken threats.
He slipped into the hall as quietly as a shadow coming alive and gliding across the floor. The black robe barely brushed the marble, each step assured, unhurried. He took his place at the long table, and his gaze, sharp as a blade, pierced each guest.
He looked at his father.
Sixty years old, yet his face and posture betrayed not an old man, but a man in his prime – thirty-eight, forty-five at most. Dark, thick brows above blue eyesockets, faint wrinkles at the corners of his mouth that didn't mar but added gravity. Skin smooth, slightly tanned, like someone often outdoors, but without excessive weathering. His gaze was detached, analytical, but today a spark of interest flickered in it – a rare detail in morning conversation.
"Dominic Arcadia, head of the family, head of the corporation..." he thought. "He holds a pause so well that instructions are born within it."
He looked at his stepmother.
Fifty-six, yet her figure as slender as a woman of thirty. Hair light blonde, gathered in a neat knot, only a couple of strands by her ear betraying a hint of awkwardness. Her face expressionless, yet restrained – as if carved from stone. No affect in her gaze, only cold reserve.
"Lady Merit, household controller. Her three children – my half-siblings. No enmity between us, no warmth either. Just... order."
He looked at his mother.
Forty-four. Ash-blonde hair, waves barely touching her shoulders. Skin porcelain, veins almost translucent at her neck. Green eyes slightly softer than the stepmother's, but no more: there was no loss of strictness. Eyebrows slightly raised, as if in a constant question.
"Arelia, mother... I am her only son, and the memory of the twins – a weight on her rosary." (Note: "rosary" implies prayer beads, suggesting grief/remembrance)
He looked at his uncle.
Sat nearby – forty-three, but lacking the starchiness characteristic of the older generation. Light brown hair, slightly disheveled, eyes bright, almost yellow in the sunlight, and a smile spread wide across his face – rare in this house. He was the corporation's public face, the chief master of goodwill.
"Lord Emilio, renounced inheritance and position. Believes the head's place – not for him. Laughs when I say it aloud, but his optimism isn't for show."
He looked at his elder brother.
Twenty-seven. Brows slightly darker than father's, hair black, slicked back smoothly. Grey eyes – from his stepmother's mother – mixing a shadow of shame with a spark of mirth. Figure straight, yet relaxed: shoulders slightly lowered, hands resting loosely on the table. He graciously raised his teacup and nodded to him.
"Kairen, my elder brother. He shuns power but shoulders crisis tasks. A quiet hero in the shadow of loud decrees."
He looked at his elder half-sister.
Twenty-two. Blue eyes, chestnut brown hair, slightly curling locks framing her face. She held more life than all the others at the table combined: her gaze blazed, lips slightly lifted in challenge. She leaned on an elbow, listening to the conversation, her energy seeming to charge the air around her.
"Linzya... her passion – like a flame, burning within and bursting out. She is my main unknown variable."
He looked at his younger sister.
Nineteen. Delicate features, cheeks still touched by youth, but eyes – the same blue as Linzya's. Hair black, in a strict ponytail. She sat upright, hands folded in her lap, her silence louder than any voice.
"Illysia. Self-possession and intellect. Entered the Academy on merit alone – without the aid of our name. Her strength lies in quiet confidence."
He surveyed them all once more, and that barely perceptible pause settled over the room: the scent of fresh pastries, the subtle tang of cardamom coffee, the muffled echo of servants' chatter in the foyer.
And only now, when all gazes were filled with expectation, did he allow himself a slight, brief nod – a hint of greeting, almost a smile.
"There is no open enmity between us. Here, at this table, neutrality reigns. But tomorrow – new moves. And I already know where to begin."
He lowered his gaze to the silver fork and made the first gesture. Thus began the morning breakfast in the House of Arcadia.
He bit into the first slice of bread with a thin layer of butter and barely touched his coffee cup when his father's voice, quiet yet distinct, filled the hall.
— Emilio, — he began, looking at his uncle, — how is the preparation for the next Board of Directors meeting progressing? I want all key reports on my desk by tomorrow morning at the latest.
Lord Emilio, smiling, set his cup aside and inclined his head:
— Olecz [Note: Polish/Russian affectionate for "Father"], everything is ready. The financial report is finalized, the presentation updated. I passed the materials to Kairen for final approval. We scheduled a rehearsal of the address for this afternoon.
He looked at his elder brother. Kairen nodded and, keeping a serious gaze on his father, replied:
— I've already made the final edits to the section on crisis impacts on Asian markets. I'll bring you the final version after breakfast.
— Excellent, — Father offered a slight smile. — The Board of Directors will tolerate no more delays. Our shareholders demand transparency and clarity. Emilio, ensure the press release goes out immediately after the meeting. Kairen, you'll handle operational questions.
— Understood, Father, — Kairen said, leaning back in his chair. Confidence flashed in his grey eyes.
Amid their conversation, they almost didn't notice Mother, Stepmother, and the sisters, occupied with their own plates and the silent contemplation of the family. As the Board discussion drew to a close, Father turned to his eldest daughter:
— Linyea, what news from your intelligence group's latest assignment?
The elder half-sister set down her fork, straightened her shoulders, and replied in a clear voice, tinged with a hint of challenge:
— Progress is standard. The team successfully embedded three new agents into the Eastern Provinces General Staff. Information on key rivals' movements has been gathered; this week I'll present an analysis of their political connections and propose countermeasure options.
Father nodded, raising an eyebrow approvingly:
— Excellent. Do you have access to the Trade Union's classified reports?
— Yes, — Linzya nodded. — My sources updated the data: steel shipment volumes this season rose by 8%, but interest is waning in the Tyrandor region. This gives us a chance to strengthen influence through financial channels.
— Good. Prepare a brief report by evening, — Father said. — And keep me informed.
He turned to his younger sister:
— Illysia, how are your studies progressing? What do the Academy professors say?
Illysia smiled faintly, expressing quiet confidence:
— Today I received notification from the Dean: my coursework on quantum financial models received top marks. I finished the project a half-semester early, allowing me to begin Master's research next month.
— Splendid, — Father said warmly. — Given your performance and independence, I want you to provide recommendations for optimizing our digital platforms. Contact the IT department after lunch and propose your ideas.
Illysia nodded and noted the plan in a small notebook before her.
Finally, Father's attention turned to him. He cleared away a second spoonful of porridge and straightened up:
— So, my heir… Tell us, how is the internship in the analytics division going? What's your progress on the corporation's P&L project for the last quarter?
He breathed deeply the coffee's aroma, then replied in an even, calm tone:
— The internship proceeds as planned. Under my guidance, the analysts have completed data collection from internal divisions: the retail segment showed revenue growth of 5%, while the production complex showed a 3% reduction in costs. We are now cross-referencing the figures with external reports for full verification.
Father nodded, thoughtfully rubbing his chin:
— Good. And how are the sessions with your mentor? As I recall, he was to instruct you in the intricacies of political etiquette and protocol.
— According to him, we have ten sessions left, — he said. — He explained all the nuances of formal receptions, from how to hold a glass to speech formulation. Last week I hosted a small reception for a delegation from the Trade Guild, and they noted the correctness and smooth responsiveness of my team.
An approving "Mhm" sounded from Uncle Emilio, and Mother offered a slight smile.
— Superb, — Father said. — I see you are managing. But it's time to broaden your horizons. Starting the first of next month, I want you to transition to working with Emilio.
He turned to his uncle:
— Emilio, do you have sufficient projects to occupy our young analyst?
His uncle responded with a friendly smile:
— Of course, Olecz. We'll start with negotiations with representatives from the Nordstar Corporation and the Kravin financial syndicate. I want him present during contract signings and leading some business meetings himself.
— That's crucial, — Kairen interjected. — Social connections aren't just smiles and obligatory handshakes. It's the ability to discern a partner's weaknesses and use their strengths for our family's benefit.
— True, — Father turned back to him. — I'm giving you the chance to learn from the two best: from me – strategic analysis, from Emilio – public relations.
He looked briefly at his son:
— Are you ready for this?
He nodded:
— Ready, Father.
— Then it is settled. Tomorrow you depart with Emilio for the meeting in the northern sector. Prepare everything necessary.
Father took a sip of coffee, then leaned back:
— Well then, tomorrow begins a new stage. But today – enjoy breakfast and family conversation.
The quiet clink of dishes echoed in the spacious hall. He looked at Mother and Stepmother, then at his sisters, and for the first time that morning, a faint movement touched the corners of his lips – the shadow of a smile, a promise of a new day, new opportunities, and trials.
Thus ended breakfast in the House of Arcadia. Over him already gathered the shadows of business meetings, strategies, and those very unspoken threats that wait on the threshold of the wider world.