Sunlight slanted through the windows into the Lord's Manor's banquet hall, catching motes of dust in shafts of light that lent the room a peaceful stillness.
But the clamor of voices soon shattered it.
Traces of last night's extravagance still lingered here. In the corners, hardened wax dripped from silver candlesticks, and the faint smell of stale wine and perfume hung in the air.
But now, the long dining tables that had held exquisite pastries and roast suckling pigs had been cleared completely, replaced by rolls of parchment documents.
And on the main wall, where expensive oil paintings had once hung, an enormous military map of the Haiti Duchy now took their place.
It bristled with flags representing the various factions. Red stood for the Imperial Faction's forces, blue for the Prince's.
Half an hour earlier, at the Military Parade Ground outside the city, these nobles had been frightened into a huddle like quails.
A day earlier, they had still been haggling over quotas for a few barrels of sea-salt potatoes, with the arrogance of men dispensing charity.
Now they crowded around the long table, leaning forward with their elbows pressed into the tablecloth and their necks craned, terrified of missing a single word from Veylin's lips.
The look in their eyes had changed. They rubbed their hands eagerly, privately calculating how many sets of these "lifesaving miracles" their fortunes could buy. To these shrewd men, the young Count's elaborate display of force was simply an attempt to raise military funds under the guise of selling equipment-but if gold could guarantee their safety, they would gladly pay this expensive "sponsorship."
Veylin stood at the head of the long table, the enormous map behind him. A shaft of light slanted across his profile, obscuring his expression.
He picked up a pointer