The hall was vast and bright. A table stretched over ten meters down its length, laden with enough food to feed an army.
Young women in black dresses—off-the-shoulder, fitted close—moved silently through the glittering space, their service flawless, their presence decorative. Pale arms. Full chests. Demure expressions that hinted at more than they delivered. Intoxicating before the first sip of wine.
Silver gleamed. Crystal sparkled. Fine dishes rested in carved vessels, and amber wine waited in decanters.
At the head of the table sat the blond young man—blue-eyed, handsome, radiating charm. His smile came easily, his conversation flowed smoothly, his manners were immaculate. The knight's uniform he wore suited him, lending an air of dashing confidence to his every move.
Acting City Lord of Kaiton, though you'd never guess it from his easy grace. He played the part of the perfect host like he'd been born to it.
His name was Havinsson. Elder son of Anmissa, the bedridden City Lord.
There should have been another at the table—a thinner youth, also blond, also blue-eyed, sharing Havinsson's features if not his bearing. But that boy, Sessche, had taken one look at Raymond and retreated into himself. Before the meal began, Havinsson had found some excuse to send him away.
"My younger brother," Havinsson explained with a warm smile, watching the boy depart, "is terribly shy. Not suited for dining with a Wizard of your stature." He shook his head ruefully. "I've failed him, I'm afraid. Haven't drawn him out of his shell. A failing on my part."
Raymond raised his glass in response and smiled back.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
The hall's golden walls bore old murals, faded now, chipped in places—but enough remained to suggest the grandeur this room had once known. Twenty serving girls stood arrayed behind the two diners, awaiting commands, their posture perfect, their movements trained. Someone had spent years teaching them how to serve.
Before Raymond sat a small deep bowl. Within it, a dark red liquid churned with something alive.
Havinsson lifted his own bowl, noting Raymond's hesitation. "A local delicacy, Master Raymond," he said warmly. "Harvested from the deep sea. Quite rare. Quite exquisite."
He removed the lid, tipped the contents into his mouth—
A faint, feminine shriek echoed from between his lips.
He chewed.
Raymond lifted his bowl and peered through the crystal. Inside, something the size of a pigeon egg thrashed against the walls—a tiny octopus, perhaps, or something like it. The dark liquid distorted its shape, but every impact sent tremors through Raymond's fingers.
Then it struck the side near his face, and he saw.
A face. Miniature. Delicate. The features of a young woman—clear eyes, small nose, full lips—frozen in an expression of pure despair. It hurled itself against the glass again and again, desperate, frantic.
"This delicacy," Havinsson said, wiping crimson liquid from his lips with a napkin, "is particularly... beneficial for men." He made a gesture that needed no translation.
Raymond's stomach turned.
He removed the lid. Dumped the contents into his mouth.
Tentacles writhed against his tongue. He swallowed without chewing.
From somewhere deep in his gut, a tiny feminine scream echoed for three full minutes before fading into silence.
Havinsson smiled warmly, politely ignoring the sound. Good host that he was.
The rest of the meal passed more conventionally. Course after course arrived. The nausea gradually faded. Two men, one lavish feast, a hundred invisible servants.
Havinsson raised his crystal goblet. "My father sends his regrets, Master Raymond. He's been bedridden for years now—hasn't left his chambers since last winter. As Acting City Lord, permit me to welcome you properly." He drank.
Raymond sipped.
"Kaiton has belonged to my family for over two centuries," Havinsson continued, his tone conversational, reminiscent. "The western coast's finest port, if I may boast. We don't often receive visitors of your calling. A third-level apprentice..." He let the words hang. "Your master must be renowned. I don't suppose you might share his name? I'd consider it an honor."
Raymond set down his glass. "I studied with him in the deep forest. He was... insistent on privacy. His name isn't mine to share."
Havinsson drained his wine and laughed—warm, unbothered. "Of course. Forgive my curiosity."
As the main course arrived, Havinsson spoke of his family. Of Kaiton's history. Of the legacy he carried.
The port was ancient. The Torrie family had ruled here for over two hundred years, granted their charter by the Kingdom of Orjaso. Their founder had been a second-level apprentice—wizard-blooded, as they said. That blood had bought them privilege: Kaiton and three neighboring cities, all under Torrie control.
But the blood had thinned. Children grew scarce. The family shrank.
Anmissa Torrie, the current City Lord, would not survive the winter. The physicians were certain.
Havinsson's voice turned melancholy as he raised his glass. "To my father. To his decades of service to Kaiton."
Raymond lifted his own goblet.
And in Havinsson's eyes, for just an instant, he caught something that didn't match the sorrowful words.