The twilight recedes from the grand plaza of Carravin, swallowed by a deep, velvety darkness that crawls over the white marble architecture. The heavy stone buildings lose their stark daytime glare, turning into towering silhouettes against the stars. Suddenly, a soft hum vibrates through the air. One by one, the iron-wrought streetlights lining the cobblestone avenues spark to life. They do not flicker with the warm, dancing yellow of oil lamps or the harsh hum of electrical filaments. Instead, they emit a cold, steady, bluish hue. The light originates from raw chunks of manatite ore encased in clear glass lanterns, casting long, pale shadows across the stone floor and tinting the faces of the gathered crowd with an ethereal, icy glow.
The long banquet tables are cleared of the afternoon's remnants and reset with fresh linen. The heavy wood groans under the weight of silver platters, crystal decanters, and fresh floral arrangements that seem to bloom under the blue light. The aristocrats and their sprawling entourages filter back into the square, the silk and velvet of their heavy garments rustling like dry autumn leaves. They gather in small, tight circles, their heads leaning close together as they discuss their own provincial affairs, their voices rising and falling in a low, continuous murmur that mimics the sound of a distant tide.
At the upper tables, the servants begin to lay out the first offerings of the evening feast. The nobles lean forward, their rings clicking against the silver utensils as they savor plates of Venison Frumenty with Spiced Honey. Duke Ferris moves among his high-tier guests, his posture relaxed, his dark eyes scanning the room with absolute confidence. He pauses near a group of eastern counts, gesturing toward the rich, golden-brown bowls.
"A simple preparation from the northern hunting grounds," Ferris explains, his baritone voice smooth and untroubled. "Slow-roasted noble deer served over cracked wheat berries that have been simmered for hours in sweet morning milk, enriched with our finest saffron and finished with a delicate drizzle of wild clover honey."
Further down the central table, away from the dense cluster of counts and duchesses, Aldo sits with a stillness that usually makes him blend into the shadows. Tonight, however, his posture is entirely different. In his rough hands, he holds a thick slice of the Noble Loaf of the Three Grains. His face, typically an expressionless mask of military discipline, beams with a sudden, uncharacteristic excitement. His eyes are wide, fixed entirely on the bread as he dips a torn piece into a small pot of clear honey.
Ferris notices the display from across the aisle. A look of deep satisfaction crosses the Duke's features as he walks toward the lower section of the table, where Aldo is joined by Officer Watkins and Comtois.
"Ah, you have found the foundation of our harvest," Ferris says, stopping beside them. "That is no ordinary bread, Captain. It is an artisanal sourdough woven entirely with cracked wheat, native spelt, and toasted multigrains, baked in our brick ovens until it achieves that deep, golden crust."
The three men continue to eat, each utilizing a completely different method to consume the heavy loaf. Aldo dips another large fragment directly into the honey, chewing with a rhythmic, intense focus that shows his total absorption in the flavor. Beside him, Comtois holds a thick chunk, his rough fingers tearing into the crumb before burying it into a bowl of rich, dark wine sauce, letting the bread soak until it is heavy and dripping. Officer Watkins maintains a strict, formal posture, using a silver fork and knife to slice his portion into precise squares. He carefully spreads a layer of churned butter over the surface, followed by a thick layer of mashed green peas—known within the territory as Ducal Beans.
Ferris folds his arms, his gaze drifting over the three distinct styles of consumption.
"Tell me," Ferris asks, his eyes lingering on Aldo's satisfied expression, "what do you think of the dish?"
Aldo swallows his bite, his face still holding that rare, bright light.
"It is delicious," Aldo says, his voice low but clear.
Comtois nods his head enthusiastically, his mouth still half-full as he reaches for another slice to drag through the wine sauce.
Watkins sets his knife down with a soft click against the porcelain plate. He wipes his mouth with a linen napkin, his sharp eyes looking up at the Duke.
"A fine start, Your Grace," Watkins notes, his tone polite but inquiring. "But tell me, is there any fish on the menu today, or has the river run dry for the evening?"
Ferris throws his head back, letting out a loud, booming laugh that draws the attention of several nearby tables. He raises a hand, snapping his fingers sharply toward the kitchen tents.
"Bring up the bounty hunter's dishes, servant!" Ferris shouts, his voice echoing off the stone facades.
Within moments, a line of servants emerges, carrying wide silver trays loaded with freshwater delicacies. The first platter holds Honey-Glazed River Salmon—thick, pink fillets brushed with a savory-sweet reduction of dark buckwheat honey and fresh rosemary, the skin charred to a perfect crisp. Beside it sits the Sweet-Cream & Herb Stuffed Trout, the river trout delicately stuffed with a rich, velvety filling of soft cheese, crushed mint, and toasted wheat crumbs, then gently roasted over an open wood fire until the flesh pulls away from the bone. The final offering is the Caviar atop Blinis Royale, featuring delicate, fluffy wheat and sour-cream blinis topped with a mountain of premium local sturgeon caviar and a thick dollop of cultured clotted cream.
Aldo immediately reaches for the salmon, his knife carving off a thick piece of the honey-glazed flesh. Watkins follows suit, lifting a full salmon fillet onto his plate with precise movements. Comtois, however, ignores the fish entirely. His eyes lock onto the silver platter of blinis, and he begins devouring the caviar by the spoonful, his face smudged with cream as he stuffs the small pancakes into his mouth with zero regard for etiquette.
In another corner of the plaza, beneath the shade of decorative orange trees that rustle in the cool night breeze, the higher nobility are eating dishes they consider far more worthy of their refined tongues. They sit upon velvet-cushioned chairs, their voices sharp and dismissive. They dine on Honey-Lavender Roasted Pheasant, the prime bird glazed with pure amber honey infused with wild lavender, served over a bed of toasted multi-grain pilaf that catches the blue light of the lamps. Next to them, a count carves into the Bounteous Boar in Milk & Grain Sauce, the slow-braised wild boar shoulder cooked down until tender in a rich, velvety sauce made from fresh cream, crushed wheat, and white wine.
Further down, a group of young barons shares plates of Herb-Crusted Spiced Quail, the petite birds marinated in spiced honey and fresh lemon, crusted with a mixture of ground wheat and toasted oats, then roasted until the skin turns deep brown under the azure lanterns. The true center of their attention, however, is the Venison Pithivier in Wheat Pastry. It is a masterpiece of the pastry kitchen—premium deer loin layered with spiced wild mushrooms and baked inside an intricate, domed puff pastry crafted from fine milled wheat, the surface scored with delicate geometric patterns that mimic the veins of a leaf.
A few tables away, Onaga and Hano sit in relative silence, their plates filled with two specific dishes they have selected from the massive spread. They enjoy the Crown Duck & Honey Pie, the rich, dark duck meat stewed with dried fruits, sweet milk, and honey, all sealed within an elaborate, towering wheat-crust pastry that resembles a king's crown. Beside it rests The Duchy's Crustade Lumbarde, a showstopping sweet meat pie made with tender veal, chopped dates, and raw honey, layered between sheets of fine ground wheat flour that shatter with every touch of the fork.
As Onaga lifts a piece of the crustade to his mouth, he feels a steady, unyielding weight upon his skin. He pauses, his gaze shifting away from the table. Standing just beyond the low iron railing that separates the banquet from the darker streets stands a poor, ragged little girl. Her clothes are torn and stained with river mud, her bare feet pressing against the cold cobblestones. She gazes intently at Onaga's plate, her large, sunken eyes tracking the movement of his fork with a desperate, silent hunger.
Onaga looks around the immediate area. The surrounding nobles are deeply involved in their own loud conversations, laughing over cups of wine. Onaga sets his fork down. He takes a thick, unbroken piece of the Crown Duck Pie from his plate, wraps it tightly in a clean linen cloth, and steps toward the edge of the railing. He extends his hand, offering the food to the child.
The little girl hesitates for a fraction of a second, her eyes darting to a nearby guard standing watch at the perimeter. The guard, a tall man in a steel breastplate, turns his head slowly. His eyes land on Onaga, tracing the pulse of the glowing PCA vanguard brand on the boy's neck, before dropping to the ragged girl. For a moment, his hand tightens on the shaft of his halberd. A look of weary, cynical exhaustion passes over the soldier's face; he clearly doesn't want the trouble or the paperwork of provoking a lethal frontline conscript over a piece of leftover pie. He deliberately turns his entire body away, staring intensely at a blank brick wall across the square, pretending not to notice the breach of protocol. The girl snatches the cloth packet from Onaga's hand, offering a quick, jerky nod before disappearing into the shadows of the alleyway. Onaga returns to his seat, his face returning to its calm, unreadable baseline.
In the absolute center of the plaza, a massive round table has been constructed to display the festive dairy production of the territory. Aldo, Comtois, and Onaga eventually move toward this station, where the air is thick with the scent of fresh cream and honey. The table is laden with The Duke's Blancmanger, a decadent, creamy specialty consisting of finely minced capon breast and blanched almonds, thickened with whole milk and lightly sweetened with honey until it resembles a smooth, pale custard. Next to it sits the Whipped Honey Goat Cheese & Grain Platter, featuring piles of locally sourced whipped goat cheese and cultured cream, topped with large chunks of artisanal honeycomb, toasted walnuts, and rustic flatbreads. The final dish on the line is the Barley & Honey Duckling, a hearty main course featuring tender duckling roasted with a sticky glaze of rich dark honey and red wine, served alongside a savory barley porridge.
The three men sit down at the central bench. Moving in unison, they fill their plates with the Blancmanger and the Whipped Goat Cheese platter, completely excluding the duckling from their selection, their appetites leaning toward the lighter, sweeter dairy elements after the heavy fish course.
Suddenly, a sharp trumpet blast cuts through the chatter of the plaza. Ferris stands at the head of the central dairy table, gesturing wildly toward a massive wooden cart being wheeled forward by four kitchen boys. Atop the cart sits a giant stone mortar and a portable charcoal brazier. The Duke's personal head chef steps forward, his white apron pristine despite the heat of the kitchens.
"A demonstration for our honored guests!" Ferris shouts, his hands clapping together as the crowd falls silent. "Witness the true wealth of our creameries!"
The chef begins his work with theatrical precision, demonstrating the creation of the Saffron & Honey Cheesecake, prepared in the traditional Shavuot Style. He dumps large blocks of fresh, smooth milk-curd into the mortar, pounding it with a heavy wooden pestle until it loses all graininess. He streams in thick, dark amber honey, followed by a handful of expensive saffron threads that immediately bleed a brilliant, golden-yellow hue through the white dairy. The mixture is poured into a wide, shallow clay pan lined with a honeyed multi-grain crust before being placed over the hot coals of the brazier. The sweet, aromatic scent of baking cheese, honey, and hot saffron wafts across the plaza, adding to the lively, intoxicated atmosphere of the gala as the nobles cheer the display.
The celebration is at its peak when a sudden shift occurs at the perimeter of the square.
A group of ducal guards, their leather armor creaking as they move into a sudden sprint, run toward the eastern side of the plaza. One of the guards, moving with reckless haste, cuts directly across Hano's path, his heavy iron boot clipping the edge of the boy's stool and nearly sending him tumbling into the dirt.
Hano's face instantly turns a deep, furious red. He jumps up from his seat, his fists clenching as he spins around to watch the guard disappear into the crowd.
"Hey! Watch where you're going, you idiot!" Hano snaps, his voice sharp with anger as he turns toward Aldo. "Captain, did you see that? That guy just ran right into me! He didn't even look back!"
Aldo doesn't lift his eyes from his plate of cheese. He swallows his food slowly, his voice flat and steady as he places a calm hand on Hano's shoulder.
"Ignore it," Aldo says quietly. "Keep your eyes on the table."
In the dim corner of the plaza, near the entrance to a narrow residential street, a low commotion draws a small crowd of whispering nobles. Five guards emerge from the shadows, carrying a high-ranking Baron and his Baroness. The Baron's formal silk robes are torn at the collar, and his hands are pressed firmly against the side of his head, where a deep, jagged laceration is pouring thick, dark blood across his face. The Baroness is weeping hysterically, her hands stained with red as the guards hurry them away toward the medical tents, trying to apply pressure to stop the bleeding.