The long hall smelled of roasted meat, wax, and spiced wine. Banners hung along the walls, their colors muted under the flickering torchlight, yet they proclaimed loyalty, victories, and losses in equal measure. Elias sat at the lower end of the long table, his posture straight but relaxed, observing with a careful eye. His chains were gone, but he still felt the invisible weight of scrutiny pressing down. Every glance from knights, retainers, and priests seemed to weigh him, measure him.
The returning knights were loud, recounting border skirmishes with booming voices, clashing goblets punctuating each tale. Lords nodded gravely, tallying gains and losses in silence. Priests muttered blessings and prophecies, tongues twisting in cadence that Elias recognized from the lessons with Kael, yet not fully comprehended. Names of faraway duchies, clans, and cities rolled off tongues with familiarity he did not possess; his mind stored each, filing them like tabs in a ledger.
Elias' inner thoughts were alive with patterns: trade routes mentioned in passing, garrisons' failings, lords' tendencies to exaggerate or underplay their deeds. The feast was a tapestry of information, each thread telling him where the weak points lay, where chaos could bloom, where opportunity waited.
Silven sat diagonally across the table, eyes sharp and calculating. He leaned slightly forward, voice dipped in faux joviality.
"Foreigner," Silven began, his words measured, carrying the weight of authority and hidden threat. "Do the tales of the border raids reach even the lands of your… homeland?"
Elias' fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the table, mind racing. He did not flinch, but instead let a small, polite smile curl. "Stories travel, yes," he said carefully, "though sometimes the distance adds embellishment. Sometimes, the closer the teller, the truer the tale."
A ripple of laughter passed through nearby knights, some appreciating the wit, others suspicious of his confidence. Silven's eyes narrowed. He was testing, probing, seeing if the man—or boy—was dangerous, or merely clever.
Kael, seated nearby as a silent observer, raised an eyebrow. His notes would later remark: The prisoner is no longer trembling. He moves like someone who belongs here, though the threads of his story are still being sewn.
Elias' gaze flicked toward the high table where Hadrien sat, mask of casual interest hiding the calculating mind beneath. The lord watched silently, letting the exchanges unfold, yet Elias could feel the subtle tension in the room. Every movement mattered; one misstep, one word poorly chosen, and he could fall from scrutiny into punishment.
As the conversation shifted to the Church of Radiance, priests spoke of new tithes, holy mandates, and miracles claimed at distant shrines. Elias' ears picked up on inconsistencies: coinage collected in excess, resources misallocated, garrisons left unguarded for weeks. He filed it away for later, mental notes shaping strategies, contingencies, and solutions that no one had yet considered.
A minor lord, drunken and loose-tongued, made an offhand comment about Elias' unusual attire when first brought to the keep. The memory of that capture—chains, dirt, and suspicion—pricked at his skin. But he did not flinch. Instead, he smiled thinly. "I fear you recall me too well," he said lightly, letting the remark pass as a jest. Some laughed politely; others stiffened.
The feast continued with music, dancing jesters, and the low hum of whispered gossip. Elias noticed a pattern: knights divided by loyalty, priests divided by influence, lords divided by pride. Each faction revealed weaknesses without knowing it, laying bare opportunities. He did not speak of them, only watched and cataloged.
Silven leaned back slightly, exchanging a subtle glance with Hadrien. Though Elias did not hear the words whispered, he felt the undercurrent: this one is clever, too clever, yet he hides it well.
By the end of the feast, Elias had mapped the room in his mind: who could be trusted, who feared what, who wielded power quietly versus loudly. He left the table with Kael trailing unobtrusively, the guard's presence both comforting and suffocating.
In his chamber later that night, Elias thought back on the evening. The mark itched faintly under his sleeve, a reminder that some power, some awareness, watched him even when no one else did. The whispers from earlier—chains, endurance, destiny—lingered in his mind. He flexed his fingers, feeling the burn of suppressed energy. He was no longer merely a prisoner; he was something else, something being studied, measured, and tested.
I have survived by words alone, he reflected. I have survived by observation. And if I survive further, it will be by shaping those who think they shape me.
Elias lay awake for hours, thinking, analyzing, planning. The Feast had been more than a display of wealth and power—it had been a lesson in human nature, in politics, in leverage. And for the first time, he felt the thrill of having tools no one else suspected he wielded: intellect, foresight, and the quiet, glowing promise of the mark hidden beneath his sleeve.
Outside, the keep settled into silence, but Elias' mind was alive, calculating the threads of the world stretching before him. The world has given me no place. Then I will carve one.