Chapter 87: Dining

They were heavily armed and radiating an immense amount of petty, judgmental energy.

"Look at those sconces," Sir Gallahan murmured to Sir Lucas, gesturing with a pristine, silver-gauntleted hand toward a wall fixture shaped like a screaming boar. "Solid brass, yet they haven’t been polished in a month. And the rubies on that pillar? Asymmetrical. It is an aesthetic tragedy. I feel visually assaulted!"

"And I am being physically assaulted by the temperature," Sir Boris grunted, his massive chest heaving as a bead of sweat rolled down his scarred face.

The giant of the Vanguard was practically baking inside his heavy plate armor. "If this dinner does not feature an ice-cold keg of ale, I am going to throw my war hammer through the nearest glass window."

"Focus, Vanguard," Sir Lucas snapped quietly, his hand resting on his broadsword. "The Duke of Voran was just humiliated in his own courtyard. Men like him don’t possess the emotional maturity to accept defeat gracefully. He will attempt to regain his footing. Be ready for anything."

The grand dining hall was, if possible, even more aggressively opulent than the corridors.

A rectangular table carved from a single block of polished obsidian dominated the center of the room.

It was laden with a feast that looked less like a meal and more like a hostile display of caloric dominance.

There were entire roasted iron-boars, beasts native to the crags with flesh notoriously tough to chew.

There were towering mounds of salted meats, heavy, thick gravies that bubbled ominously in silver tureens, and root vegetables roasted in spiced oils.

It was heavy food meant for men who swung pickaxes for fourteen hours a day.

Duke Voran was already seated at the head of the table.

He had changed out of his blacksmith’s apron, but his formal attire was no less abrasive.

He wore a doublet of woven gold wire that strained dangerously against the rolling fat of his midsection, and his orange, singed beard had been oiled and braided into thick, messy knots.

He was still nursing the wrist Kaelus had frozen in the courtyard, shooting venomous, bloodshot glares at the Archduke from beneath his bushy eyebrows.

"Sit, sit!" Voran barked, waving a heavily ringed hand toward the high-backed iron chairs lining the table.

His voice still possessed that grating, rock-crushing quality. "The hospitality of the Forge is unparalleled! We eat meat here, Nacht. Real meat. Not the frozen fish you barbarians chew on in the North!"

Kaelus did not immediately sit.

He walked to the chair positioned to the immediate right of his own designated seat at the head of the table.

With a casual flick of his wrist, a pulse of dark, freezing mana washed over the iron chair.

The invisible layer of dust instantly crystallized and shattered, falling to the floor, leaving the seat perfectly clean.

Only then did Kaelus lower Seraphina from his arms, setting her gently onto the purified chair.

He pulled it out, waited for her to settle, and then pushed her in, ensuring she was positioned optimally before he finally took his own seat.

Duke Voran watched this display of gentle, meticulous fatherly care with an expression that looked like he had just swallowed a live toad.

"By the flames," Voran sneered, picking up a massive goblet of dark wine. "You actually brought the stray to the banquet table? I thought you would leave it in the kennels with the squires."

The temperature in the dining hall instantly plummeted by thirty degrees.

Behind Kaelus’s chair, Sir Lucas, Sir Boris, and Sir Gallahan simultaneously took half a step forward.

The clack of their armor was deafening in the suddenly silent room.

Sir Boris’s hand twitched toward his war hammer.

Kaelus did not raise his voice or yell.

He picked up his silver fork, his violet eyes locking onto Voran with the cold certainty of an executioner.

"My memory is exceptional, Reginald," Kaelus said, his voice a silky, lethal whisper that carried across the obsidian table. "I recall explicitly warning you about your choice of vocabulary regarding my daughter. Would you like me to audit the strength of your other wrist? Or shall we move directly to your jaw?"

Voran paled, the ruby-studded goblet rattling against the table as his hand shook.

He coughed loudly, a sputtering, nervous sound, and frantically waved his remaining functional hand.

"A jest! Merely a jest of the Forge, Your Grace!" Voran backpedaled aggressively, sweating profusely. "We are rough men here! We lack the delicate sensibilities of the capital! Eat! Please, enjoy the bounty of my lands!"

Seraphina, sitting comfortably in her pristine chair, watched the red-faced Duke sweat.

’This uncle is so loud,’ she thought, kicking her short legs under the table. ’And he looks like a giant, angry tomato wrapped in tinfoil!’

Kaelus turned his attention away from the trembling industrialist and focused on the food in front of him.

He did not allow Seraphina to serve herself.

He pulled a pristine silver plate toward him.

With meticulous precision, Kaelus began auditing the food.

He selected a piece of roasted root vegetable, sliced a sliver off it, and cast a subtle mana through it to check for toxins, heavy metals, or excessive industrial spice.

Only when it passed his standards did he place it on her plate.

"No," Kaelus muttered, pushing a bowl of thick, bubbling gravy away. "Too high in sodium and unknown animal fats. It will disrupt your digestion."

He selected a piece of relatively lean, white meat from a roasted mountain fowl, stripped away the heavily spiced skin, cut it into perfect, toddler-sized, easily chewable cubes, and placed them next to the vegetables.

"Eat slowly," Kaelus instructed, placing the curated plate in front of her. "The cuisine here is too dense."

"Thank you, Papa," Seraphina chirped happily, picking up her fork and digging in.

It wasn’t as good as Marquess Julian’s extra-butter cookies or the food she ate on her way to this place, but she was hungry, and Kaelus had made sure it was safe.