Chapter 6: The Feast of Daggers
By the time dusk draped its cloak over the manor, the ceremonial hall had been remade into something resembling grandeur.
Tallow candles sputtered in tall iron sconces, their flames fighting stubbornly against the encroaching dark. The air was thick with roasted venison, honeyed pears, and spiced wine smells meant to mask the mildew that clung to the stones no matter how much Marta ordered them scrubbed.
Great banners of crimson and gold hung along the walls, bearing the falcon crest of House Alistair. Their edges were frayed, but freshly brushed, as if pride alone could mend cloth. Silver platters gleamed, some borrowed, some stolen from storage where tarnish had nearly claimed them.
On borrowed silver, platters gleamed. On borrowed pride, our house stood.
I sat small beside my father on the dais, my legs dangling above the floor, watching nobles file into the hall like crows upon a field. Silks rustled, goblets clinked, laughter rang sharp as steel. The scrape of chairs became dissonant music.
The feast had begun.
The Entrance of Lords
Lord Carroway rose first to greet my father. His serpent-emblazoned cloak rippled, arrogance stitched into its very threads. His bow was shallow enough to remind us of our station, yet deep enough to keep within etiquette.
"Lord Julian," he said, his voice polished smooth for the crowd. "It heartens me to see the falcon still stretches its wings."
Father stood, meeting him with equal courtesy, though his tone carried steel. "Wings are made for flight. And a falcon yet hunts, when serpents slither."
Polite laughter followed uneasy, brittle. I caught the shifting of shoulders, the pursing of lips. Each word was a blade, wrapped in velvet.
Next came Lord Theron, hawk crest in blue and white, his stride measured, his smile thin. "We are honored, Julian," he said. "It has been too long since your halls rang with such life."
"Life remains," Father replied simply.
Behind both lords trailed household knights in gleaming armor, banners held high, retainers drilled into flawless formation. Our own dented armor and weary guards looked like rusted shadows in comparison. Yet Father did not flinch. His dignity was armor no wealth could tarnish.
Banquet and Barbs
The feast began in earnest. Servants moved like nervous phantoms, balancing trays with trembling hands, pouring wine until goblets overflowed. Their eyes flicked constantly toward Father, toward me, toward the nobles whose judgment hung heavier than any sword.
Clusters of laughter rang out. At one table, minor barons traded stories of hunts. At another, knights compared their training regimens. Yet beneath the chatter, sharper words cut:
"Taxes rise, but their coffers are empty. How long can they last?"
"The falcon clings to old glory. The serpent coils. The hawk soars."
"Pride cannot patch crumbling walls."
They spoke near enough that silence itself became complicity. Each remark was not carelessness—it was theater, performed to remind us, and remind each other, of House Alistair's fragility.
I bowed my head, silent, as though dutiful. But inside, I memorized every phrase, every smirk, every dagger hidden behind wine.
The Family Presented
At length, Father rose.
"Lords and ladies," he said, voice steady as a drawn bow, "allow me to present my sons."
The hall quieted partially. Whispers still slithered at the edges.
Lorien stepped forward first. Thirteen now, broad-shouldered, face flushed with eagerness. He bowed with the stiff grace of a boy too desperate to prove himself. A murmur followed "strong build," "too hot-headed."
Orion came next, lean and sharp-eyed, his bow precise, his movements controlled. Whispers again "studious," "unremarkable."
And then, at Father's motion, me.
My feet dragged like iron. The long walk to the dais's edge felt heavier than the hall itself.
"Lorien, Orion, and Ren," Father declared, voice ringing out. "My blood, my heirs, my hope."
Polite applause scattered like rain on stone. Hollow. Dutiful. A formality, not approval.
I bowed as I had been taught. When I raised my head, I did not look away. I met their eyes the noble sons and daughters, bearing their medallions and affinities like crowns. Water. Wind. Flame. Proof that they were chosen, that they belonged.
Their gazes slid over me with disinterest. Some with pity. A few with contempt.
I memorized every face.
Masks Behind Wine
The feast rolled onward. Platters emptied. Goblets refilled. Yet the true feast was never the food it was the words.
Lord Carroway spoke of border disputes, slipping barbs about the need for "stronger hands at the helm." Lord Theron mused on the Church's influence, each phrase cast like a net to test loyalties. Even lesser barons, emboldened by drink, offered "suggestions" about levies and duties, their remarks angled like spears at Father.
Father parried with dignity, each answer wrapped in courtesy, each refusal disguised as deference. But I saw the toll the tightening of his jaw, the whiteness of his knuckles.
Mother smiled serenely, as though carved from calm, though I saw the way her fingers clenched her goblet.
I remained silent at Father's side, a child's mask concealing the mind within. My thoughts turned the hall into a ledger: debts of words, weights of silence, balances of power. Every ally, every rival, every whisper was an entry in the great equation I was building.
The Silence Before the Storm
By the time the torches burned low, the hall sagged under the weight of wine, heat, and expectation. Nobles had laughed, eaten, and traded daggers in the shape of compliments.
But beneath the laughter, they waited.
Waited for the orb.
Waited for the priest.
Waited for the verdict.
My father's sons had been shown. The feast had ended.
Only the ceremony remained.
The silence pressed on my shoulders until even my bones felt it.
And I knew: the storm had not broken
Not yet.
But when it did, it would either shatter us… or lift us beyond their reach.
End of chapter 6