Torghan's room was as spectacular as all the things that he had seen. The walls were smooth stone, painted in deep red, and the ceiling arched above him with intricate carvings that he could not begin to decipher. A large brazier in the corner cast a warm glow across the chamber, its flas dancing behind an ornate tal grate.
Of course, he had been given the finest accommodations—he was the one they had to impress, after all. The others had been given their own rooms, but none as grand as this.
The bed alone was a marvel. It was not a simple pile of furs as he was accustod to, nor the hard wooden slabs travelers sotis used. No, this was a great, cushioned thing, covered in thick blankets embroidered with swirling patterns in gold and silver thread. The mattress, impossibly soft, swallowed him whole when he lay upon it, a cloud beneath his weary body.
His hands traced over the clothes they had given him. The fabric was strange, smoother than anything he had ever worn, lighter than leather yet warr than wool. It clung comfortably to his form without being tight, the tunic a rich shade of blue, the embroidery at the collar and cuffs glinting in the light. Even the trousers were different, made of sothing softer than hide yet just as durable.
He had expected discomfort in wearing the garnts of outsiders, but instead, he found himself marveling at their quality. These people did not only drape themselves in finery for the sake of appearances—they had perfected the art of comfort itself.
Lying back against the pillows, Torghan let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling. Everything about this place, from the walls to the bed to the clothes on his back, whispered of power. Not just the power of war, but the power of wealth, of skill, of control over their world in a way his people had never imagined.
And that thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
A sudden knock at the door pulled Torghan from his thoughts. The room had no gaps in the walls like his ho, but there was a window, and through it, he could see that the sky had darkened into deep shades of blue and purple. The fires of the city flickered in the distance, small golden lights dancing against the night.
Perhaps it is ti for supper…
Pushing himself off the impossibly soft bed, he crossed the room, his bare feet sinking into the thick woven carpet beneath him. The sensation was strange—luxurious, even—but he forced himself to ignore it as he reached for the door. He pulled it open to find Aron standing there, his usual composed expression in place. Beside him, the translator gave a respectful nod.
"The prince has invited for us to dine,"the translator said, his tone even but firm. "The royal family will be present, as well as many important ministers."
Torghan blinked, his mind briefly stalling
He swallowed, nodding as he squared his shoulders. "Then let us not keep them waiting."
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The grand dining hall was alight with the soft glow of candle chandeliers, the long oak table set with silver goblets, fine plates, and steaming dishes waiting to be touched. Seated at the head was Alpheo, his fingers idly tapping against the wood, his eyes flicking toward the doors every so often. Jasmine sat beside him, cradling little Basil in her arms , the infant wrapped in delicate silk, his tiny face resting against his mother's chest.
Across from them sat Jarza, Egil, Asag, and Shahab, each in their own state of anticipation, though none as outwardly composed as Jasmine. The wait had stretched long enough that the princess, ever one for maintaining proper decorum, decided to break the silence with conversation.
"Egil," she began, her voice carrying a practiced politeness, "how is your wife?"
Egil, leaning back in his chair, barely seed to register the question at first. Then, with the sa nonchalance that made Jasmine's patience thin, he shrugged. "Pregnant."
Jasmine blinked, sitting straighter. "Oh? How long?"
Egil frowned as if the question had been an unnecessary complication. "I don't know. I was told so months ago , as for the night of conception I was too drunk to rember."
A sharp snort ca from Asag, followed by a suppressed chuckle from Jarza, both of them exchanging looks as they barely restrained their amusent.
Jasmine, on the other hand, was far from entertained. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her grip on Basil adjusting as if to ground herself. "You do realize that as a husband, it's your responsibility to—"
Egil gave a slow, exaggerated nod before she could finish. "Mhm, yeah I already heard that ."
Jasmine inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing, but it was clear that Egil's mind had already drifted elsewhere. Asag and Jarza, struggling to maintain composure, exchanged another look before focusing intently on their goblets, pretending to sip as if it would hide their grins.
Alpheo rely smirked.
Jasmine sighed as she turned a pointed gaze toward Egil. "You do realize that you are a lord now, don't you?" she said, her tone sharp yet controlled. "You should behave appropriately."
Egil, who had already leaned back in his chair with all the grace of a man who had never cared for courtly manners, offered no indication that he had even heard her. His fingers drumd idly against his goblet, his eyes drifting toward the flickering candlelight as if the conversation was of no concern to him.
Jasmine's patience thinned. Her gaze flicked to Alpheo. "Surely you agree with ," she pressed. "He is a noble now. He should act as one."
Alpheo, who had been quietly enjoying the mont, picked up his cup, drained the last of his water, and placed it back onto the table with a deliberate motion. Then, in his usual calm and careless manner, he said, "As long as he's good at killing those I point at, he can behave however he wants.I an you would not expect a pig to bark"
At that, Egil grinned, raising his goblet high before downing its contents in one swift motion. Slamming it down onto the table, he let out a satisfied sigh. "Wiser words have never been uttered," he declared, his voice filled with drunken amusent.
Jasmine exhaled slowly, clearly unimpressed.
Before she could form up a reply the great doors to the dining hall finally opened, and the guests finally stepped inside. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the polished wooden floor as the tribesn entered, their movents hesitant yet purposeful. Their simple leather garnts had been exchanged for finer robes provided by the court, yet their unfamiliarity with such attire was evident in the way they adjusted their collars or tugged at their sleeves.
Shahab, leaning slightly toward Alpheo, murmured clearly surprised by the hue of thier skin "They're darker than I expected."
"They're neighbors of the Sultanate of Azania. That's their usual hue." Alpheo replied, his tone was casual, as if discussing the weather, .
Stepping forward, he gestured toward the table. "Co," he said, his voice carrying an air of authority yet welcoming. Aron quickly translated, his words rolling smoothly off his tongue, and the translator relayed the ssage to the Torghan. After a brief pause, the guests complied, moving toward the seats.
The main guest , however, hesitated. His eyes darted over the grand table, the unfamiliar sight of silverware, fine plates, and goblets making him shift awkwardly. It was clear he didn't know where he was expected to sit.
Alpheo noticed and, with an easy motion, pointed to the seat beside him.
He stiffened for a mont, his face unreadable, but then, with a nod of acknowledgnt, he moved .
Before taking his seat, Torghan first turned to Jasmine and gave a respectful bow, just as he had been taught. His movents were a bit stiff, unfamiliar with the customs, but the gesture was sincere. Then he turned to Alpheo and did the sa, bowing slightly lower as a sign of respect.
Alpheo watched with mild amusent but gave a small nod of acknowledgnt.
Once Torghan finally settled into his seat, Jasmine let out a small breath and smiled. "Now, we can finally dine," she said, her voice poised yet warm. With a graceful clap of her hands, the signal was given, and imdiately, the servants moved into action.
The private feast had begun.
The servants moved swiftly, balancing ornate trays as they placed dish after dish upon the long wooden table. The first wave brought in the traditional fare of the Yarzat court—spit-roasted lamb glistening with fat, seasoned with rosemary and garlic; thick stews of lentils and chickpeas, their rich aroma filling the air; freshly baked loaves of bread; platters of soft cheese drizzled with honey; and bowls of pogranates, their ruby-red flesh glistening in the candlelight.
Then ca the more recent additions to the nu, a clear mark of influence from a certain sobody that soon found its places in the hearts of courtiers and royals alike, the serving which the diners awaited more than anything.
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