The servant’s boots made no sound on the manor’s polished stone flooring as he led Jack down a long corridor. The walls were hung with tapestries of forest hunts and noble victories. Oil paintings portrayed heroes with square jaws and bloodied swords, their deeds captured in fine brushstrokes. Mounted stags’ heads leered from the walls, their glass eyes all wrong in the flicker of aether-light.

  Jack didn’t spare them a glance. His mind was in turmoil, with the same question repeated in his mind. Why has Greaves summoned me? Should I run? He followed the servant, keeping his steps steady while his heart raced. His thoughts were torn between tangled dread and calculation. Somewhere above, a chandelier clicked in the draft, mimicking the sound of bones settling into place.

  His stomach coiled tighter with every step. He doubted the invite was to offer kind words and a handshake before he went home. I’ll be alone with Greaves. Surrounded by killers, in a house I can’t escape. Fuck!

  As they reached the private chambers, Jack couldn’t shake the sense that every step forward felt like a mistake that couldn’t be undone.

  The servant stopped at a tall oak door, knocked, and pushed it open. Warm light spilled out.

  Jack stepped inside… and froze. Shit! They’re all here. But no guards. He breathed a sigh of relief. If the nobles planned to kill him, there’d be guards. They didn’t see him as a threat.

  The six nobles were already assembled, their hunting clothes replaced by high-quality evening attire. Monsters dressed in aether-charged silk and smiling masks of civility.

  Baron Argil stood near the hearth, a glass of brandy in one hand; he wore a silver-threaded suit, crisp and conservative. Baroness Idrisa sat upright on a velvet chair, her dress deep navy, her gloved fingers folded over her lap like a clasped book. Baron Trefin leaned near the decanter stand, his wine-red waistcoat stretched over his belly. Baroness Quill perched like a crow in a high-backed chair, her spectacles were perched low as she read a book. Vampese sprawled on a sofa with feline grace, her wine glass twirling in elegant loops, her lips curled in amusement.

  And Greaves. At the centre of the room, still and straight in his black suit and top hat, his cane resting by his side like a sceptre. His gaze met Jack’s… and didn’t move. The Baron’s eyes watched on like a man inspecting livestock before slaughter.

  The last time he looked at me like that, I died. Jack bowed, the motion stiff. “My lords. My ladies.”

  “Ah, Jack,” Greaves said. “Good timing. We were just discussing dinner.”

  Dinner… not death? Tension tightened around Jack’s ribs. “I thought I was to return home, my lord?” His voice was even, but only through sheer force of will.

  “You’re eating with us,” Quill murmured, not looking up.

  “You helped bring the stag down,” Idrisa added. “Custom demands you eat what you kill.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  No, custom demands silence and obedience… and blood.

  “The meal is… rare,” Vampese said. “We don’t waste noble flesh on the common table.”

  Jack forced himself to nod. “Of course. I’m honoured, my lady.” His voice sounded distant, like it came from someone else. His body felt three degrees too warm, and his hands were already sweating. He kept them at his sides.

  “But you’ll need a change of attire,” Argil grunted. “You look like something we dragged from the thickets.”

  Trefin cackled. “Or something the thickets spat out.”

  Vampese gave him a slow once-over. “You look like a scarecrow someone forgot to burn.”

  Idrisa chuckled. “Or one, someone tried to burn… and failed.”

  The nobles offered polite laughs at the jest aimed at his attire.

  Jack forced a tight smile in response, but his heart raced as his mind was jolted back to the fire that had killed his family and burned his future to ashes. The room blurred, replaced by the crackle of flames and the smell of acrid smoke. Instead of the opulent room, he saw the orange glow behind the door as he smashed his shoulder against it to save his mom, sister, and younger brother from the flames. He felt the agonising heat on one side of his face where his skin had been melted. No! Not again… It’s not real. I’m alright. It’s not real.

  Greaves’ voice cut through the memory. “Viscount Tides employs a tailor,” he said. “Go. Get dressed, my boy. We don’t allow blood mages to dine like beggars.”

  Jack’s hand touched his face where it used to be scarred. He coughed into his fist to disguise his discomfort as he turned to listen to the Baron. He took a deep breath to cage the panic, then bowed. “A-as you command, my lord.”

  As he turned to follow the waiting servant, cold sweat trailed down the back of his neck. His hands itched for the blade at his side. I’m going to kill all of you one day.

  The tailor was a stooped man with ghost-pale hands and a spine shaped like a question mark. He didn’t ask questions about Jack’s preferences. He measured in silence, pinning the jacket with mechanical efficiency.

  “Breathe in. Don’t move. Lift out your arms,” the tailor ordered.

  A needle jabbed his ribs. Jack didn’t flinch.

  “Arms up… up, up, up. Inhale. Don’t move. Breathe. Now don’t. Hmm… good.” The tailor’s fingers flitting over Jack’s limbs like a spider checking web tension. It was nothing like his visits to Thorn and Tallow, where the tailors had made polite conversation.

  Jack noted a lack of advanced measuring devices and other technology. A traditionalist, he thought as he watched the tailor work. There were those who believed technology shouldn’t be used to replace a class skill.

  Neither luxurious nor servile, the suit was dark grey wool and not his preferred cut. Jack stood before a tall mirror, strapping on his dagger and tucking the five spell scrolls into his breast pocket. Smoke bombs went into the right jacket pocket, blinding powder into the left. And, of course, his scribe supplies were tucked in the inside pocket.

  He took a deep breath and looked at himself in the mirror. Bowler hat in place. Crisp shirt. Jacket snug. Black polished shoes. He looked… forgettable.

  Jack hated it. Even the shoes felt wrong; the soles felt too thin. He wanted to claw out of the suit to run naked and barefoot into the woods. Instead, he adjusted his cuffs and whispered, “I’ll be home soon. Damn… Mom’s going to worry when I don’t return home before dark.”

  He exited the changing room, carrying his hunting gear, bow, and quiver. I knew I should’ve brought my pack.

  The tailor nodded. “You’ll pass.” He handed Jack a deep green bag monogrammed with Viscount Tides’ coat of arms. A silver embroidered griffon with a knight on its back.

  “Thank you,” Jack said as he stored his hunting gear in the bag. He turned to leave and the collar itched; the fabric clung to his skin like burial cloth.

  The same young servant led him to the dining hall. Before they entered, the servant coughed. “We can store your belongings until after the meal.”

  Jack nodded and passed over the bag, bow, and quiver. “Thanks.”