Aeneas's brow creased, his thoughts already drifting far beyond the dining hall. Three hundred men—barely enough to guard the manor, the fortress, and the nearby villages within ten kilometers. Thirty? That was stretching the supply line to breaking point. Intelligence was thin. If an expedition that far failed, the manor would be left hollow, defenseless. And across the sea, the shadow of Greece never truly left their shores.
Anchises closed his eyes and drew in a long, steady breath, as if forcing the weight pressing on his chest back down where it belonged. When he spoke again, his voice had regained the calm authority of a seasoned lord.
"Our real sphere of control doesn't reach that far. Sending troops before we have solid intelligence would be foolish. As long as they keep clear of our borders, as long as they pose no threat to our villages... we'll send scouts, nothing more."
The air at the table thickened instantly. Aresya, serene as ever, refilled her husband's cup. Her gaze was gentle, but a shadow lingered behind it. The servants, sensing the shift, held their breath. What had begun as a warm family meal had quietly turned into a council of war.
Aeneas chewed his bread slowly, his expression composed, but his mind was already racing. This wasn't just a conversation—it was the opening move of a much larger game.
The hall grew still, save for the faint crackle of the candles burning in their bronze holders. Moments ago, they'd been talking of bandits and trade routes. Now, the topic had drifted toward the safety of the entire estate. A single pebble dropped into a quiet river, rippling outward—yet no one spoke.
Anchises shifted in his seat, leaning slightly on his oak cane. His eyes—weathered by years, yet still sharp—fell on his son. There was sternness in that gaze, yes, but also something gentler: pride, and the ache of a father preparing to let go.
His voice came low, deliberate, touched by a trace of self-mockery.
"Aeneas, you've already proven your courage and your wit. I'm not getting any younger, and this leg of mine—well, it listens less with every passing year. Perhaps it's time you started handling more of the estate's affairs and patrols. I'll be there to advise you, of course."
What went unsaid was clear enough: Son, it's nearly time to hand this burden to you.
Silence deepened, as though the whole room had drawn in one collective breath.
Aresya's fingers brushed the violet ribbon at her chest. Her gaze moved first to her husband—softened for a heartbeat with sorrow—then to her son. Her eyes brightened with resolve, the way fire flares when stirred. Every bit of that look said, Go on. Mother's right behind you.
Achates, standing by the wall, had been utterly motionless through it all. But now, at those words, his back straightened like a drawn spear. His right hand clenched and tapped against his chest in a silent salute—wordless, but heavy with meaning: Whatever comes, my loyalty is yours.
Euryalus, ever the first to break tension, grinned wide.
"Well, that's good news! Lord Aeneas, if you need someone to run errands or chase a stag or two, just say the word!"
Nisus wasn't one for jokes, but he nodded firmly, eyes steady with quiet approval.
"Ah—" Terani nearly squealed, clutching her wine jug like she might start dancing right there. She slapped a hand over her mouth, but her sparkling eyes betrayed her completely. They blazed with unfiltered admiration—Young master's the best!—and her uncontainable excitement softened the gravity of the moment just enough for everyone to breathe again.
As for Aeneas himself—his mind went blank for half a second. Wait, what? Already? We're doing this now?
It felt like an intern suddenly being promoted to project manager—of a struggling company, no less, with gangsters next door and unpaid bills piling up. The stress was almost comical.
He sighed inwardly but forced a confident smile to his face.
In the warm slant of afternoon light, each face at the table carried its own emotion—expectation, surprise, resolve. The silence that followed was solemn, but not heavy. It felt like the air itself had just witnessed a silent vow: the balance of power had quietly shifted.
By the time the sun began to dip westward, the servants had returned, soft-footed, to clear the ceramic bowls and silver plates. The faint clink of dishes faded down the corridor. The laughter, the tension, the warmth—all slowly unraveled into stillness, leaving only drifting dust in the golden light.
Aeneas waited until his parents had withdrawn for their midday rest, and the servants were busy clearing the table. Then, with a casual smile, he rose from his seat and beckoned to Nisus and Euryalus. It looked like he was just taking a stroll—but in truth, he was leading them deliberately toward the veranda outside the hall.
The stone walkway still held the lingering warmth of noon. A soft afternoon breeze stirred the air between the columns, carrying with it a faint scent of olive leaves. In the distance, Mount Ida loomed in tranquil mystery. The Red Bean Forest couldn't be seen from here, yet its shadow seemed to spread like a veil across the trade road below.
Aeneas stopped and turned slightly, lowering his voice. His eyes, calm but earnest, held theirs.
"You both heard it today," he began slowly. His tone was no longer the lighthearted one from the banquet but heavy with responsibility. "The hills aren't safe. You know every inch of Mount Ida better than anyone. I'd like to formally ask you to help patrol and hunt for the estate. I'd be deeply grateful—and of course, you'll be properly paid."
The moment he finished, Euryalus burst out laughing, eyes bright with mischief and sincerity. He slapped his chest with a loud thud!
"It'd be an honor to serve you, sir! And don't worry about payment—just feed us well and pour the wine, and we'll call it even!" He grinned from ear to ear. "To be honest, the porridge from this place smells better than anything at home!"
Nisus, standing beside him, was quieter. He didn't jump in right away but simply watched Aeneas with a faint glimmer in his eyes. Then he placed his hand over his chest and bowed slightly, his voice low and steady.
"Our bows and blades are yours, my lord Aeneas—yours, and for the peace of Dardan Valley."
The brothers, one lively and one composed, reflected two sides of the same burning loyalty. Aeneas studied them both, a smile tugging at his lips—warm, yet edged with private satisfaction.
Excellent, he thought. Two SR-tier junglers successfully recruited. Next up: upgrading the main base tech tree.
At the other end of the corridor, Achates was supervising the servants as they checked the torches—those little copper sconces lining the columns, the kind of detail easily overlooked until disaster struck. Ever meticulous, he insisted on making sure every torch was in working order. When he turned, his eyes met Aeneas's across the hall. Neither spoke, but a single, silent nod passed between them—an unspoken pact, solid as bronze.
Achates thought quietly to himself, No matter what lies ahead, my sword and my life will always be his shield.
In the small dining hall behind the main chamber, long tables were now laden with plates of food. This was where the servants ate, finally taking their meal only after the masters were done.
Through the high windows, the outline of Mount Ida caught the fading sunlight. The golden glow softened the rough stone pillars and walls, bathing the humble room—part refectory, part meeting hall—in a gentle warmth.
Back in the main hall, the midday bustle had subsided into a comfortable stillness.
Aresya lifted her wine cup slightly. Catching a glimpse of her son's faraway look, still lost in the weight of earlier discussions, she decided to steer the mood back toward the familiar.
Her voice was calm and melodious, like a quiet stream:
"My dear, don't forget the offerings. Tomorrow marks the third day after the new moon—Athena's sacred day. A perfect time to dedicate your wooden sword and ask her for wisdom and valor. And the day after... well, that's Aphrodite's holy day. We'll go together to the Maple Ridge shrine and offer a boar in gratitude for her blessing."
Aeneas snapped out of his daydream, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He nodded as though casually acknowledging something, though his tone carried a weight of earnestness.
"Don't worry, Mother, I've got the schedule all noted," he said. Then he paused, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes. "After all—" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "we can't skip boosting the goddess's favor. Every single blessing and bit of gear counts."
The phrase "boosting the goddess's favor" left Aresya utterly baffled. It was one of those absurd, offbeat expressions her son had started tossing around lately, and she could only guess at its meaning.
Terani, crouched behind them gnawing at the last piece of crispbread, suddenly perked up at the word boar. Her eyes lit like lanterns. In her mind's eye, golden, glistening roast meat danced before her, and her stomach gave an audible grumble.
Instantly realizing she'd been a bit too loud, her cheeks flamed crimson. She hurriedly pressed her hands to her mouth, as if she could shove that unintended little sound back inside.
Aeneas, naturally, hadn't missed a beat. He tilted his gaze just so, out of his mother's line of sight, and shot Terani a cheeky wink. Silently, with his lips, he spelled out the words: little glutton.
The tips of the young maid's ears burned scarlet, as if lit from within by fire, and she couldn't help but let out a soft, muffled giggle. Her laughter carried that innocent, uncontainable joy—creating a curious contrast to the slightly solemn air that had settled over the hall moments before.
Aresya observed all this calmly, shaking her head with a gentle sigh, yet a warm, affectionate smile curved her lips. She didn't scold; if anything, she seemed quietly pleased by the brief, heartwarming moment.
Amid these small bursts of laughter and exchanged glances, the earlier heaviness of conversation melted away, leaving only the rare warmth and harmony of family life.
By the time sunlight began to take on a soft, amber hue, the estate kitchen was alive with its usual bustle.
The massive stone hearth belched waves of heat and smoke, painting the walls in mottled shades of soot under the dim glow. The air was thick with the sharp tang of rendered fat, the mingling scent of various herbs, and just a faint whiff of something that hinted at age, leaving one unsure whether this was a birthplace of delicacies or a battlefield of smoke and sweat. Piles of vegetables awaited washing by the water tubs, and a few maids had their sleeves rolled up, scrubbing away—but the damp floor still gleamed with a less-than-clean reflection.
Stepping into this "logistical fortress," Aeneas couldn't help the inner commentary that sprang to life:
Good heavens, this is a microbial party if I ever saw one! No wonder lifespans were so short back then. Fixing toilets and pushing soap usage—SSS priority, stat!
He let his lips twitch as though he could see billions of invisible little soldiers feasting on the chaos before him.
The kitchen simmered and roared, the clatter of pots and pans rolling like a drumline through the air. Soon, he located the undisputed master of this realm—the head cook, Marsha.
The plump woman, hands on her hips, barked instructions to the kitchen maids in a voice that could have drowned out the hearth itself. Aeneas approached with an affable grin and a lively greeting:
"Mrs. Marsha, the hunter brought in a very fresh roe deer today. I was thinking… perhaps we could try a—well, a mysterious cooking technique from the Far East?"
He spoke with mock solemnity, eyes twinkling with that "bet you can't guess" mischief. Of course, there was no Far East involved; he just liked making ordinary methods sound impressive.
Marsha, stirring a pot of stewed lamb, nearly dropped her spoon at the words. She spun around, suspicion painted across her face, and asked, voice echoing with disbelief:
"F-Far East? M-Master, what on earth are you talking about?"
Aeneas leaned in, lowering his voice as if about to reveal a forbidden secret recipe:
"First, we need to deal with the head and hide, keep only what's worth saving. Now, this venison… you can't just throw it on the fire, that's far too crude. We've got to—uh—give it a little… pre-treatment."
He paused, then noticed Marsha's face, blank as a washed-out wall, clearly saying I have no idea what you just said. He coughed lightly, swapping out his "modern terminology":
"Ahem… I mean, we let it rest a bit, add a touch of something while it dreams, and when it wakes up… it'll smell divine!"
Marsha's eyebrows shot up in alarm. Resting meat? Was the master joking, or did he seriously want her to tuck the venison under a bedspread? Oh, what on earth am I supposed to do?
Aeneas kept a perfectly serious expression, his hands moving like a conductor orchestrating a sacred rite. "Cut the meat this thick—" He measured a finger's width in the air, then held his palm right in front of her, "evenly all around. Don't make toothpick-sized chunks, or… um… disaster."
"Dis-as-ter…?" Marsha blinked, utterly baffled.
Quick to recover, Aeneas switched to a solemn tone. "Uh… it'll fail. Got it? The kind of failure that makes the goddess frown."
A chill ran down Marsha's spine. Great, this has got to be god-related. I can't slack off. What if it's an actual divine decree? I really don't want Zeus striking me with lightning!
Seeing her flinch, Aeneas couldn't hide his smirk and continued gesturing wildly. "Then, put the meat in a clay pot, cover it completely with wine, olive oil, salt, rosemary, and mashed garlic… yes, cover it all. Oh! Oh, and the lavender buds—this is… the core buff!"
He nearly burst out laughing at the word buff, hastily pressing a fist to his mouth to cough: "Ahem… I mean, the sacred aromatic blessing!"
Marsha's mind went fuzzy. Blessing? It sounded… almost like an actual goddess's benediction. But! Can you even eat the buds?!
A bead of sweat ran down her temple. She was torn, terrified to argue.
Aeneas paused, then added mysteriously, "Seal the jar, place it somewhere cool, and let it rest overnight. At least twelve hours. Uh… I mean, until sunrise tomorrow."
"What?" Marsha's eyes went wide, her head spinning. "You mean… mix all this together and just… leave it alone? That… that's supposed to make a miracle happen?"
Aeneas nearly burst out laughing, but quickly straightened up. "No, no, this isn't a miracle—it's… divine technique. Tomorrow, when you're getting breakfast ready, just set the clay pot by the hearth. Yes, by the hearth. The residual warmth is enough. Then, once the pot cools, you can tuck it away. Later in the evening, take out the tender meat—you can either roast it directly or slowly warm it in a pan."
He gestured animatedly. "Finally, roast it over olive-wood embers, basting with the leftover marinade as it cooks. When the surface is slightly charred and the inside still blushes pink—perfect!"
Seeing Marsha still staring blankly, he pressed on. "As for the sauce, take the remaining marinade, add a splash of wine and some dried figs, simmer until thick, then drizzle a little olive oil, and finish with a touch of lavender. You'll get a herb-and-wine reduction unlike anything anyone's ever tasted. Then, slice the venison, pour over the sauce, and serve with roasted onions, mint, or wild greens—I promise you…"
He slipped an arm around her shoulders, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Tomorrow, you'll see. The venison will be tender as a newborn lamb's leg, melting in your mouth, paired with my special wine sauce… Everyone at dinner will swear it's a gift from the gods, kneeling down to sing hymns to the goddess herself!"
Marsha's lips trembled as she tried to process instructions that flouted every convention she'd ever known. She'd spent decades in kitchens, seen every manner of stew and roast, yet never had she heard of letting meat soak in wine and oil to sleep.
But then she caught the gleam in Aeneas's eyes—equal parts confidence and mischievous glee—and her heart thumped like a drum. Is this a miracle or madness? she wondered. Better just do what he says… what if it really works?
Gripping her wooden spoon until it squeaked, she forced a shaky smile and nodded. "O-okay, master, I'll… do as you say."
"Tomorrow, I'll be off to Ilion, but this task is yours, Mrs. Marsha." Aeneas patted her arm warmly, a hint of mystery in his grin. "Rest assured, this will be the star of tomorrow's dinner table."
—Conquer their stomachs first, then their hearts and minds! He chuckled inwardly, utterly absorbed in his grand "conspiracy."
Marsha had no clue what was going on, but his unshakable confidence intimidated her into silence. She could only pray quietly in her heart: Goddess above, please, don't let this meal turn into disaster!
The clamor of the kitchen gradually faded. By the time Aeneas pushed open the door and stepped out, dusk had already begun to settle. The corridor was dim; torches were unlit, and the stone floor glimmered with the last glow of the sunset.
He lifted his eyes to the distance—Mount Ida's dark silhouette rose like a silent giant guarding the land. Farther east, the Red Bean Forest lay swallowed in shadow, quiet and unassuming, yet exuding a subtle, undeniable sense of danger.
Tomorrow was Athena's day of worship; the day after, a ceremony for Aphrodite. Aeneas knew that whether it was a small culinary experiment on the dinner table or the looming religious festivals, all of it marked the opening act of his grand "reform performance."