Chương 81: Chapter 051 Summoned By The Monster In Silk

A trio of liveried servants appeared. Each bore a tray with glasses and a bottle of fine wine chilled in enchanted flasks.

"Refreshment, my lords and ladies," said the lead servant, bowing low.

"Just in time," Quill muttered, accepting a glass.

"We need something to rinse away that disgraceful performance." Greaves passed Jack a glass of wine.

"You've earned this, my boy." He didn't offer his nephew a glass. [Assassin's Intuition] triggered again.

"Thank you, my lord." His memory flashed to some of the times he'd drunk himself into a stupor in his past life. Damn it. I was trying to avoid this. He couldn't refuse. Just one glass won't do any harm… he hoped. The wine was cool and rich, but he was more used to cheap ale than fine wine. Greaves raised his glass.

"To missed opportunities." The older nobles laughed again. The younger ones looked embarrassed. Jack raised his glass and drank. It's only one glass. I'll be fine. From the direction of the young nobles, [Assassin's Intuition] flared again. What is their problem? I don't even want to be here. The sun filtered through the canopy, gilding the world in soft gold. Birds sang overhead, unbothered by the human drama playing out below. The hunt moved on, horses stepping through leaves and loam.

Jack rode in silence, listening to the forest and the nobles sharing their secrets with whom they believed was now one of their own. A few more hours of uneventful hunt passed before the trail led towards Viscount Tides' manor house. Through the trees, the first signs of the estate emerged. Thin copper lines coiled around the trunks, pulsing blue beneath bark where aether conduits had been disguised as natural growth. Birds gave the wires a wide berth, instincts protesting at the unnatural thrum.

The manor itself sat on a low rise, surrounded by trimmed hedges and trees carved into precise shapes. Ivy crept along stonework in choreographed patterns, looping around decorative sigils embedded in the façade. Aether-lanterns hung from wrought-iron stands along the path, their light crystals sleeping in the daylight but primed to awaken at the first shadow. The manor's windows bore etched brass frames, with gears set into each corner.

Decorative yet functional, they could seal with a hiss and clamp down in moments. Above, a modest rooftop observatory rotated in increments to track the sun. Jack noted it had a tower fitted with a small cannon similar in design to those protecting the capital. They dismounted in a gravel courtyard. Valves hissed as one of the aether-saddles depressurised. A stable boy detached the brass regulator from beneath a mare's belly, slotting it into a charging stand built beside the traditional stable block.

The nobles ascended marble steps without pause. The automatic door regulator, a copper panel set with blinking rune-glyphs, clicked as it registered each noble's sigil pin. The main doors parted with mechanical grace, folding inward with the faint hum of hidden gears. Inside, the reception hall exuded opulence. Polished dark wood floors inlaid with fine brass filigree reflected the light of overhead aether-chandeliers.

Glass globes filled with swirling, pale-blue mist, each tethered by rune-etched copper stems to the ceiling's intricate rail system. The lights adjusted automatically, growing brighter as the sun dipped towards the horizon. Servants moved through side passages, some human, others automata; one shaped like a jointed, wheeled valet bearing a tray of warm linen towels. A servant in livery bowed low to the nobles.

"Gentlemen and ladies, refreshments await," the servant intoned. His voice had a modulated undertone, either a class skill or enhanced by a hidden vocal amplifier. Greaves wiped his hands and face with a warm, damp cloth, then beckoned a servant closer.

"Where are the others?" he asked, tossing the cloth at the man. The servant caught it and bowed low.

"My lord, Viscount Tides' party arrived a few minutes ago. They've retired to their rooms to await dinner. It will be served in an hour, my lord." Greaves gave a brief nod, and he and the other nobles, along with a handful of older commoners, headed upstairs. Meanwhile, Jack was ushered into a side parlour with roughly thirty other commoners from the hunt. Most were young, though a few older faces remained, like Simon the old huntsman he'd met on the journey from the city.

A long table was laid out, laden with cold pastries, pickled meats, and spiced root tea. The tea was held in steaming glass carafes, each fitted with a tiny brass timer. At every place was a rune-enchanted napkin designed to collect crumbs and stains. Jack's father had explained how it would work. The nobles and senior commoners would change out of their hunting gear and return within the hour for a formal dinner. The younger commoners, like Jack, would have a quick meal now before being taken home by wagon.

Less than an hour and I can go home, Jack thought as he sat alone at one of the tables, counting the minutes until freedom. What the hell am I going to do about being a blood mage? As he sat worrying about his future while nibbling a walnut tartlet, a young servant approached. A subtle whirr accompanied each swing of his left arm. Jack looked down and noted the servant's prosthetic arm, brass and leather, with a small gear behind the elbow.

"Master Jack?" the servant asked, his voice calm and unaccented. Jack nodded.

"Yes?"

"Your presence has been requested by Baron Greaves," the servant explained.

"Please follow me." This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Greaves summoned me. Why? Jack rose from his chair and left his plate on a tray. The automaton beside the buffet clicked in mild protest as it rebalanced the serving tray. He followed the servant from the chamber, past walls adorned with oil paintings and trophy heads lit by recessed sconces glowing with soft, aether-fed light.

The hallway's ventilation hissed, perfumed air wafting out from brass valves carved to resemble lion maws. In the distance, a grandfather clock whirred, its pendulum swung in almost hypnotic rhythm. Jack resisted the pull of [Shadow Veil] as he passed shadowy recesses. What the hell does he want me for? Panic was setting in. Does he know something? 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 Baron's 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. [Assassin's Intuition] wasn't triggering; 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 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… n ot 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." No, custom demands silence a nd obedience… a nd blood. Jack took a deep breath to control his rising panic.

"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. I'll clean this city of blood mages. He shook the intrusive thought away. 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. He placed [Assassin's Mark] on the man. Healthy, annoyed, no protections.

"Arms up… up, up, up. Inhale. Don't move. Breathe. Now don't. Hmm… good." The tailor's fingers flitted 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. He's annoyed at me. This is your job. Jack noted a lack of advanced measuring devices and other technology. A traditionalist, he thought as he watched the tailor work. Some believed technology shouldn't be used to replace a class skill.

I could kill you in seconds. He shook his head at the errant thought as he imagined the blade slicing across the tailor's throat.

"Keep still," the annoyed tailor ordered as he continued to work. 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 six 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 as 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."