Tiresio sat in silence, observing the pieces of roasted meat elegantly arranged on the porcelain plate with brass-rimmed edges set before him. They had not been placed at random. Carefully positioned at the center of the dish, they were meant to showcase the rare cooking of the meat and the thin layer of seasoning that coated it, all embraced by a small, fragrant sprig of rosemary. It had to be game, though he could not discern from which animal it came. The faintly spiced aroma was extremely pleasant, and the appearance undeniably inviting. Yet that evening, he had little appetite. Truth be told, none at all.
Still, noticing how the other guests seated around him at the long table—lavishly set and illuminated by numerous refined candelabra—were not standing on ceremony, he forced himself to take up the silver cutlery before him and begin eating as well. He did not wish to offend the hosts.
The moment the first bite touched his tongue, Tiresio could not help but be pleasantly surprised. He had expected a meal of quality, of course, but not one of such quality. Flavorful, delicately spiced, yet subtle, cooked to perfection. A taste nothing short of exquisite, spreading through his mouth decisively yet gently, never overwhelming. Lifting his gaze to his companions, he saw from their satisfied expressions that their impression must have been much the same. Even so, if he were honest, he still considered the fare at the inn to be superior.
“What do you think, Lucas?” a concerned male voice suddenly distracted him from across the table, slightly to his right.
Turning in that direction, Tiresio identified the speaker. Beniamin—a man a few years older than Lord Lucas, broad of build, with brown hair and eyes and an unkempt beard. Like all those present, he was among the Lord of Ravast’s closest friends, and like all of them, he was of humble origins. A tenant farmer, if Tiresio’s memory served him right. Proof that, despite what his noble birth might suggest—and contrary to the customs and unwritten laws of the Valley—the future groom felt neither reluctance nor embarrassment in fraternizing with common folk and forging genuine friendships with them.
“I think nothing, Beniamin,” Lucas replied, dabbing his mouth with the green napkin embroidered with golden floral patterns, perfectly matching the elegant tablecloth spread across the long table. “Because there is nothing to think about. The Bareths’ business has been going very well lately. It is said that Emma has become an excellent cook. That allows them to make use of more and more farmland and to increase both the sale of their produce and the inn’s reputation. They are breaking no laws, and I have no grounds to intervene. There is plenty of room in the village—plenty of land for all the fields you might want. And if the Bareths were to approach you with an offer to use yours, which I remind you are technically mine but granted to all of you in usufruct, you are free to refuse. No one is forcing you to give them up. I suggest you calm yourself.”
The man’s irritated and vexed expression, as he shot a glare at the Lord, darkened further when a sharp remark came from another of the guests.
“Well, actually… Emma *is* extraordinary. You really should try some of her dishes, Ben…” exclaimed sarcastically a young man a couple of years younger than Simon Ravast, with long blond hair, hazel eyes, and an ever-ready grin, as he noisily bit into a mouthful from his plate beside Beniamin.
“Andrel…” the latter almost scolded him, pride clearly wounded, while the jest—overheard by others above the clinking of cutlery and glasses—elicited a few scattered chuckles, particularly from Gwen and Lucien.
“In any case, jokes aside,” the host resumed from his position at the head of the table, “I personally wouldn’t trade Emma’s cooking for Philipo’s for anything in the world. Even this evening, everything is marvelous—as always, my old friend,” he concluded, casting a satisfied, complicit glance at the elderly butler.
Philipo, who was pouring red wine into his master’s cup, merely nodded, bowing his head with reverence and gratitude. “Thank you, my Lord,” he murmured before stepping away from the table and returning to his former position a few paces back, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, awaiting further orders.
As Lord Lucas drank from his goblet, the entire table, Tiresio observed, joined in praising the butler. Simon, Andrel, Lucien, and Gwen were openly pleased; Beniamin, Goldrick, and Liris rather less so; and Karak not at all—seated in silence at the far end of the table, still shrouded in a hood that had drawn more than a few questioning glances since the beginning of the dinner.
Among the guests there were also two who were noticeably more taciturn and shy than the others. A young, pretty woman named Clelia, about the same age as Anastasia—petite and graceful, with short, straight auburn hair, green eyes, and gentle features. And a man Lucas’s own age, tall and powerfully built, with long dark hair and beard, eyes of the same color, and a prominent nose dominating his face.
It was the latter who, as Tiresio continued to take in his surroundings with each bite, finally spoke, breaking the low murmur of the gathering.
“If I may, my Lord—” he began, only to be immediately interrupted by the future groom.
“Lucas. Just Lucas, Petr. How many years have we known each other?” he chided with a smile, echoed by a more pronounced, knowing grin from his younger brother seated to his left.
“Lucas,” the man corrected himself, somewhat embarrassed, pausing his meal and resting both forearms on the table. “I believe there are other problems in the village—far more troubling ones,” he continued, searching his listener’s face with an uncertain, hesitant look. “I saw something in the woods to the north, where I usually hunt. Something… threatening.”
“What do you mean? Be precise,” Lucas pressed, returning his gaze firmly, as the conversation had clearly captured everyone’s attention—Karak included.
“I don’t know how to explain it… I didn’t see it clearly. I only glimpsed it from afar, in the undergrowth. A large figure—it looked like a huge man, over two meters tall, with powerful arms and legs thick as tree trunks. I lost it in the vegetation… but I felt fear when I saw it. A sense of danger. And I believe it’s responsible for the disappearance of some of the animals I’d caught in my nets and traps. They were taken by it—I’m certain of it. That figure roams those woods, and it is nothing good. That’s why I’ve recently moved my hunting grounds to the eastern forest. We should—”
“I-I don’t know if it’s the same thing,” Clelia interjected timidly and politely, her voice barely audible, eyes fixed on the brass candelabrum before her. “B-but Daryna told me a few days ago that she f-felt as though someone was watching her from the brush while she was gathering medicinal herbs in the nearby northeastern fields. S-she didn’t see anyone… but m-maybe it’s best you don’t go into the eastern woods either, Petr…”
Surprise and unease fell over the table at those words. Suddenly, even the clinking of cutlery and glasses ceased, leaving only the crackling of the great fireplace warming the vast hall along the opposite wall.
Tiresio’s eyes wandered among the guests, curious to catch some telling reaction. Instead, it was his ears that picked up Andrel’s voice breaking the silence.
“Damn! You’re truly wonderful friends—congratulations!” the young man exclaimed, smiling somewhere between amused and patronizing after taking a drink. “We’re all gathered here tonight for Lucas’s Children’s Feast, and what do you do? You pester him and burden him with your fears, with these insinuations—nonsense, rather. Pure nonsense! Petr, you probably saw some bandit. A hungry bandit who stole a few of your catches and fled. From a distance, he just seemed bigger than he really was! Bandits who, by the way, shouldn’t even be a concern anymore now that these foreigners,” he added, gesturing toward the entire group, “have defeated them and presumably driven them off. And as for Daryna, Clelia, everyone in the village knows your ‘herbalist’ friend has a few screws loose! You all remember last year’s sheep incident, don’t you?”
“They’re not nonsense—these aren’t unfounded fears!” Petr protested, raising his voice, visibly upset, soon backed by a Clelia far more resolute in defending both her point and her friend’s reputation.
“Y-you’re wrong, Andrel! Daryna is very perceptive and attentive. If she said she felt that way, then it’s certainly true! And besides, the incident you mentioned—”
“Please, please,” Simon interjected calmly, raising his voice just enough to be heard. “I don’t wish to cast doubt on what you’ve said. But Petr, Clelia, don’t you think discussing such matters tonight is inappropriate? As Andrel said, this is Lucas’s Children’s Feast. Tomorrow will be his wedding. It will be a very important day for him, his bride, and all of us. We should celebrate, rejoice, and clear our minds of worries. Tonight is his last evening as a youth. Let any disturbances—there will be time for them—wait until he is an adult. More or less… in a couple of days.”
That final remark was met with a ripple of laughter and noticeably relieved glances exchanged around the table. A few well-chosen words, spoken with intelligence, were enough to lighten the entire hall and restore its cheerful, carefree atmosphere—even in the eyes of those who might have felt most affronted, Petr and Clelia.
While the others turned away, resuming their eating, drinking, and conversation as if nothing had happened, Tiresio watched Simon with interest. He himself had underestimated him—probably because of his condition. But there was far more to the second son of the Ravast family than met the eye. Beneath the seemingly weak, fragile, and precarious exterior of a slender man curled in his wheelchair like a dry twig lay polished manners, noble bearing, notable diplomatic skill, and a keen wit. And, very likely, much more besides.
