The manor held a peculiar kind of silence.
Not the silence of emptiness — the kind that settles into old stone walls and high ceilings and simply stays. As if it belonged to the place.
Afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, drawing long golden lines across the dining hall floor. The table was set. White cloth, polished silverware, plates arranged with quiet precision. No excess. No noise.
At the head of the table — no one.
A few moments later, the merchant arrived.
His hair was still slightly damp. His clothes were plain — perhaps too plain for a man of his standing. But the way he walked, the way he settled into his seat, there was an ease about it that made even plain clothes carry weight.
He came without hurry. Sat without ceremony. Looked at the empty chairs around him, said nothing, and lifted a cup of tea.
The door opened.
Jorald walked in. He had been awake for hours — that much didn't need saying. It was visible in everything about him. The straight back. The unhurried step. That steadiness that doesn't come from rest, but from decades of discipline.
He took the chair across from the merchant without being asked.
The merchant glanced up. "Sit," he said — as if Jorald wasn't already sitting.
No expression crossed Jorald's face. But somewhere in his eyes, something quietly amused itself.
"Bring the food."
The servants came in immediately. Dishes arrived. Plates were filled. Steam drifted into the air.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The merchant took something from the nearest dish. Jorald did the same.
Then — "Hans still hasn't returned?"
Jorald lifted his cup. "No, My Lord."
"I see." A small nod. No concern — just acknowledgment.
A brief silence.
"Any news?"
"There is one piece of good news." Jorald paused as the servants moved again, refilling dishes, arranging the table. The room stirred with quiet activity. Neither of them stopped eating.
"Has Drake woken up?" the merchant asked without lifting his head.
"Young Master is awake, My Lord. Getting ready."
"Good." He looked up. "Now — what's the news?"
Jorald set his plate aside. "Our military unit has reached the top ten. We'll need to participate ourselves."
A quiet smile crossed the merchant's face. "That is good news."
"Yes."
---
"Good afternoon, Father."
Both of them looked up.
Drake stood at the threshold. Washed. Dressed properly. Hair neatly combed. But his eyes still held that heaviness — the kind sleep alone couldn't lift.
"Good afternoon, Uncle Jorald."
"Good afternoon, Drake."
"Good afternoon, my boy."
Drake came in and took his seat. He tied his napkin and began eating quietly. After a few bites, he looked up.
"Father."
"Yes."
"The servants were saying... you brought a child back with you."
The merchant looked at him with a quiet smile. "Yes. He's our new member. Will you look after him?"
Drake's eyes lit up. "Of course!" Then, after a pause — "But why didn't he come to eat?"
"He's not well."
The light dimmed slightly. "Then I'll go check on him—"
"Finish eating first." Calm, but it carried weight. "You have training after this. The awaken ceremony isn't far off."
"Yes, Father."
He went back to eating without argument. The merchant said nothing.
A short silence. Then Drake glanced around. "Where is Uncle Hans?"
"He took our unit to the tournament," Jorald said.
"Tournament? Which one?"
By this point, both the merchant and Jorald had finished. Jorald moved his plate aside.
"Do you know about the Mad King and the Rebellion War?" the merchant asked.
"Yes! And the Hero too!" Drake said it with food still in his mouth, a different kind of brightness coming into his eyes.
Jorald glanced at him. "Let him eat first, My Lord."
"Oh. Right. Eat first."
"Mm."
Drake quietly finished everything on his plate. He hadn't eaten since the night before — that much was clear to both of them. He asked for a second plate and finished that too. Neither of them commented.
He looked up, plate empty. "Now tell me, Father."
"Listen," the merchant said. "Before that war, whenever corrupted beasts or monsters attacked, the nobles sat back. Most of the fighting was done by commoners and mercenaries. The nobles contributed almost nothing — and yet the credit went to them. The losses were carried by ordinary people."
Drake listened quietly.
"After the war, everything changed. Now, whether you're a merchant, a mage, or a swordsman — if you hold a noble title, you send your unit. You participate. The one who fights gets the credit. The one who sits gets nothing."
"Ohhhh."
Jorald quietly swallowed a smile.
"Go and rest," the merchant said. "And start preparing. The awaken ceremony won't wait."
"Yes, Father." Drake bowed his head and walked slowly out.
---
Silence returned to the hall. Jorald watched him go.
"Drake's been lonely."
"Yes," the merchant said quietly. "There's no one his age here. And he rarely goes out to be with the children outside either."
A moment passed.
"Let's hope the child recovers," Jorald said. "Maybe Drake will finally have a brother."
"Yes."
Jorald paused. "My Lord."
"Mm?"
"Your aura is slipping. Get it under control."
A quiet smile. "Oh. I forgot."
"It's a good thing no one from the Capital was here."
"Indeed." A beat. "Leave that for now."
The room settled again. Jorald's eyes stayed on the table, but his mind was somewhere else.
"That child," he said quietly. "His hair."
The merchant looked up. "Mm? What about it?"
Jorald's eyes sharpened — just slightly.
"He doesn't look like a commoner."
The room stilled.
The merchant said nothing.
But in his eyes — a deep, familiar gleam.
---
**[Chapter 7 — End]**
*Something about the child doesn't add up. Add the story to your library — you won't want to miss what comes next. See you in Chapter 7.5.*
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