Birds chirp in a frantic, rising chorus within the branches of the ancient willows, their small wings fluttering against the humid morning air. Below them, long lines of black ants busy themselves along the cracks of the stone masonry, carrying microscopic burdens in perfect, silent order. The sun rises high, its bright, unchecked golden rays burning away the last remnants of the night's heavy mist, casting a harsh, revealing light over the cobblestones of Thromium. Along the distant muddy riverbanks, heavy mottled cows graze peacefully, their jaws moving in a slow, rhythmic grind as they ignore the mounting noise of the lower town.
Suddenly, a sharp squeal punctures the morning calm. Pigs—dozens of them, thick-backed and caked in dried mire—run wildly through the narrow streets. They butt violently against the shins of unsuspecting linen-weavers, knock over stacked wooden crates of cabbages, and trample each other in a chaotic, squealing mass of pink and brown flesh, all because some exhausted fool of a stable hand had let them loose from the lower pens at dawn.
July 9th, 1300, begins to bustle with an immediate, overwhelming activity. It is a chaotic and joyful day for those who have the privilege to enjoy it.
A heavy trumpet blast sounds from the main avenue. The sprawling retinue of visiting nobles advances like a glittering, slow-moving wave of silk and velvet, their voices rising in sharp, imperial commands as they shout at the common people. Armored guards push the local bricklayers and washerwomen aside, their iron-shod boots stomping into the dirt without a care for who or what stands beneath them.
Duke Ferris walks at the very absolute front of the procession. He moves with a leisurely, magnificent stride, his handsome face perfectly composed as he waves a long, smooth hand to the crowd of townspeople lined up against the timber facades. His rosy lips carry a small, practiced smile that never quite touches his cold blue eyes. Behind him, the great herd of aristocrats follows in a dense pack, their chins tilted upward, completely disregarding the commoners whom they consider fundamentally inferior and dirty. Wealthy merchants, eager to catch the crumbs of ducal favor, join in at the flanks, their heavy gold chains jingling against their fat chests as they mimic the haughty posture of the barons.
Further back, yet still significantly ahead of the common retinue, Onaga and Hano walk alongside the lower rim of the noble pack. They move with the fluid, effortless agility of youth, their bodies entirely free of the clumsy stiffness that plagues the older merchants. Hano's face is a canvas of hyperactive movement; his sharp, energetic eyes dart continuously from the rooflines to the gutters, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wants to leap over the nearest cart just to see what is on the other side.
Onaga walks half a head shorter beside him, his small, compact frame shifting gracefully through the crowd. His appearance is remarkably delicate, drawing quick, curious glances from some of the younger noblewomen who mistake him for an exotic page. Yet, beneath the youthful lines of their features, the jagged, faintly pulsing lines of their magically binding PCA slave marks remain visible on their collars—a stark, branding reminder of their true status within the vanguard.
They look at the city around them. It is a place of brutal contrasts. The main thoroughfare is well-maintained, its stone slabs scrubbed clean by the night shift, but the overall layout is very chaotic. Branching off from the grand avenue are hundreds of narrow alleys, dark and smelling of sour cabbage, where dilapidated timber houses lean so heavily against each other that they blot out the sun. Right next to these rotten dwellings stand the beautiful, white-stone estates of the ducal administration, their pristine balconies decorated with blooming red geraniums. At the mouth of an alley, three skeletal beggars sit in the dirt, their hollow eyes staring blankly at the passing silks.
Onaga and Hano turn their heads to look ahead as the crowd surges forward.
Not far from them, moving through the thick of the mid-tier crowd, Isabetta walks with a slow, deliberate stride, her sharp gaze tracking the movements of the Duke's personal guard. Among the dense crowd, she is also intrigued by the frantic gossip rippling through the servants—whispers of strange silver coins and a missing kitchen maid from the night before.
Look at them, Isabetta thinks, her eyes narrowing to thin slits as she watches a fat baron stumble over his own embroidered hem. Amassing their mountains of riches without a single day of real effort, while the rest of us parse the dirt for crumbs. They are nothing but parasites.
Yet, as she looks at the unblemished skin of the noblewomen and the way the townspeople bow in terror, her jaw tightens with a conflicting, hidden hunger. She despises them, yes, but she admits to herself in the quiet corners of her mind that she also wishes to be a patrician—a kind of aristocrat who can walk through the rain without getting her boots ruined, someone who holds the power to make others look down at the cobblestones.
The procession quickly arrives at the grand city square, a vast open space paved in smooth white marble that reflects the noon sun with a blinding intensity.
Duke Ferris stops at the center of the square, ascending a short flight of stone steps beside a covered dais. He turns back to face the gathered crowd, his tall, commanding build throwing a long shadow across the marble. He spreads his arms wide, his voice booming across the plaza with an easy, terrifying confidence as he points toward the wide expanse of the newly paved square.
"Look upon this space, my friends!" Ferris boasts, his handsome face turning toward the western counts. "Only three moons ago, this very ground was choked by a miserable blight—hundreds of wretched, crumbling hovels and several unsightly, foul-smelling local markets that offended the very eyes of the heavens. I ordered them completely demolished, razed to the very bedrock, so that we might construct a more beautiful, pure place for the glory of Thromium!"
The aristocrats immediately burst into a synchronized wave of polite applause, their high-pitched laughter and soft hands clapping in unison.
"It is beautiful, Your Grace!" a young countess cries out, her fan fluttering against her cheek. "So bold! Truly, the transformation is completely overwhelming!"
They praise the design with loud, theatrical gasps, completely unaware—or perhaps fundamentally uncaring—that among the dense crowd of commoners standing behind the iron barriers, some are seething with a silent, burning anger. A middle-aged carpenter stands near the rear, his knuckles white as he grips his apron, his teeth grinding together so hard a trickle of dark blood starts at his gum line. His home, built by his grandfather, had been pulled down by the Duke's sappers in a single afternoon, without a single copper coin of compensation.
Hano glances away from the Duke's performance, his sharp eyes catching the weathered wooden sign of an Adventurer Guild hanging in a dark corner of the square, just past the boundary of the new marble. A small pout forms on his rosy lips. He reaches out with a quick, jerky motion, tugging hard at Onaga's fine sleeve.
"Hey," Hano whispers fiercely, his voice dropping into an energetic, frustrated hiss. "Look over there, Onaga. That's the real deal. When we got pulled to this federation, I thought we'd get to join a proper guild, hunt griffins, and collect iron badges. Instead, I'm stuck as an elite slave soldier and a backup mascot for these fat nobles' stupid gala. This spawn point is an absolute waste of my build."
Onaga doesn't look at the guild sign. He keeps his face perfectly neutral, his delicate features remaining still as he pulls his sleeve out of Hano's grip with a short, soft sigh.
"Shh," Onaga murmurs, his tone low and cautionary. "Keep your stance steady. The guards are tracking our line."
At the absolute center of the grand square, a massive stone fountain rises in three tiers, its basin carved with intricate reliefs of river serpents and leaping trout. But Ferris has spent a truly staggering amount of money here; one only has to look closely to see the absolute madness of his wealth. The fountain does not spray common river water. Instead, it sprays streams of fine, deep red wine into the warm air. The entire mechanism is powered by hidden, pulsing chunks of raw manatite embedded in the stone base, the magical energy forcing the liquid to shoot upward in complex, artistic jets that weave together like a crimson cage before cascading back into the marble bowl. The sweet, heavy scent of fermented grapes fills the entire square, thick enough to make the birds overhead fly in erratic loops.
Ferris steps closer to the stone basin. He reaches out, taking a gleaming glass from a velvet-lined silver tray held by a kneeling page. The glass is a marvel of human craft—so clear, thin, and smooth that it seems almost invisible in the sunlight, completely unlike the thick, dirty forest glasses and rough pewter mugs the commoners use in the taverns.
With a smooth, unhurried tilt of his wrist, Ferris fills the glass, scooping up some of the splashing wine from the top tier. He sets the filled glass aside onto a marble pedestal with a precise, ringing clink.
Then, his handsome face twisting into a smirk of pure vanity, he extends his right hand directly over the basin. A faint, blue magical aura flickers across his knuckles. Using a sharp burst of localized manipulation magic, he draws a ribbon of the crimson stream directly from the air, freezing the liquid into the perfect, crystalline shape of a delicate glass. The vessel instantly captures a portion of the fountain's flow within its translucent, red-tinted walls. It is a useless, incredibly expensive display of magical luxury.
Ferris offers the liquid-molded cup to the nearest visiting baron, who takes a small, hesitant sip before his eyes widen in theatrical delight.
"Superb!" the baron cries, bowing low. "The vintage is exceptional, Your Grace! Truly a drink fit for the gods!"
The servants move quickly through the ranks, and soon, Onaga and Hano are also offered small silver goblets filled from the fountain. Hano snatches his cup with a quick, curious tilt of his head, taking a deep draught before his eyes lose some of their tension. The wine is remarkably low in alcohol content, very delicious, tasting more like a rich, sweet fruit juice infused with mountain berries than a heavy liquor. Onaga sips his portion with a delicate, slow movement of his throat, his skin remaining cool despite the heat of the midday sun.
Next, Ferris raises his long, ringed hand high into the air, the silver embroidery on his tunic catching the light as he signals to the long line of hidden kitchen doors behind the dais.
"Let the feast begin!" Ferris announces, his baritone voice cutting through the chatter. "The appetizers have arrived!"
The heavy wooden doors burst open, and a small army of servants emerges in perfect, single-file lines. They carry massive silver platters toward the tables that have been arranged along the eastern side of the square. These are large, beautiful round tables made entirely of precious heartwood imported from the deep valleys, their polished surfaces emitting a rich, fragrant woody aroma that mixes with the scent of the wine fountain.
The diners—specifically the entire gathered nobility and their high-tier entourage—rush toward the seating arrangements, their silk skirts rustling like dry leaves. The servants begin lowering the initial dishes to the wood, items that Ferris refers to with a grand wave of his hand as the "Delicacies of the Deep."
The air is instantly filled with the heavy, cloying steam of high-end culinary craft. The nobility praises the display profusely, their voices rising in a shrill, overlapping chorus of admiration. Onaga and Hano find themselves seated at a secondary table near the inner perimeter, and as the platters are uncovered, both boys are completely stunned by the sheer, unadulterated lavishness of the meal. Neither of them has seen this volume of food since their arrival on this continent.
Everyone begins to eat with a sudden, polite ferocity.
First comes the Velvet Crawfish Bisque: a rich, deep saffron-laced broth that glows with a brilliant orange hue under the sun, thickened to a smooth consistency with finely toasted almond meal and finished with a thick, velvety swirl of heavy local cream. Floating at the center of each white porcelain bowl are three plump, sweet tail-meat pieces of noble crawfish, caught from the private deepwater preserves of the Duke.
Beside it sits the platter of Marinated Noble Roe & Blinis: small, circular buckwheat blinis, cooked until golden brown, topped with pearl-like, lightly salted sturgeon eggs and aristocratic river trout caviar that pop with a sharp, briny clarity against the teeth. Each piece is accompanied by a dollop of cultured, herb-infused clotted cream that smells of wild chives.
Next are the Stuffed River Prawns with Foraged Herbs: large, highly prized river prawns, split delicately down the center of their shells and stuffed to the brim with a fragrant, steaming blend of finely chopped watercress, wild garlic, and toasted sourdough breadcrumbs. They have been baked in stone ovens until the shells are crisp and dripping with a rich, yellow garlic butter that sizzles against the ceramic plates.
Then come the Pan-Seared Silver Eel Medallions: fresh, thick cuts of silver eel, gently poached first in a dry white wine to soften the flesh, then seared on hot iron grates and glazed with a thick, sweet spiced honey reduction that reflects the sunlight like dark varnish. They are served over a bed of crisp, bitter micro-greens that cut through the fat of the fish.
Finally, the servants lay down the Terrine of Smoked Trout & Leeks: a layered, perfectly square, elegant terrine that showcases cold-smoked river trout meat, a velvety, pale green leek mousse, and a touch of fresh dill, all set within a golden, savory gelatin that trembles slightly whenever a heavy wagon passes the edge of the square.
Hano works his silver fork with a rapid, erratic rhythm, shoving a medallion of eel into his mouth while his sharp eyes continue to track the guards at the gate. Onaga eats with a quiet, small-breathed precision, his fingers never touching the grease as he samples the roe.
Suddenly, Duke Ferris stands up at the high table, clapping his hands together twice with a loud crack.
"Clear the boards!" Ferris calls out, a look of immense, self-satisfied amusement on his handsome face. "The appetizer course is moving on to the next item!"
Hano's jaw freezes mid-chew, his sharp eyes widening to twice their normal size as he almost chokes on a piece of prawn shell in absolute surprise.
Two separate appetizer courses? Hano thinks, his knuckles turning white around the handle of his fork as his stomach lets out a quiet, bewildered rumble. Are you kidding me? These people eat enough to fund a three-week infantry campaign before they even touch the main meat. This world is completely broken.