In the ancient, imposing fireplace of dark stone, the fire crackled and hissed with lively vigor, casting its orange glow and pleasant warmth toward the armchairs and sofa arranged before it. These, crafted from fine walnut carved with floral motifs and generously padded in ruby-red velvet, boasted high, elaborate backrests and armrests shaped in soft, sinuous lines. Resting upon a vast and precious carpet adorned with strange geometric patterns in blue, yellow, and purple, they encircled a low tea stand, their backs turned to the great banquet board where the meal had only just concluded.

As Philipo diligently cleared the dining table behind them, the guests had gathered in that corner of the hall, sipping exquisite wine from their goblets and chatting idly about this and that. All except Lord Lucas.

Seated slightly apart in one of the armchairs, Goldrick had noticed that the guest of honor had withdrawn some minutes earlier, making his way out onto the broad terrace that opened just beyond the hall. From where he sat, a vast glass window occupying almost the entire adjacent wall allowed Goldrick to observe the strange behavior of the future groom. Lucas stood near the balustrade, in the dim half-light, a now-empty goblet in hand, staring toward the northern horizon—nothing but dense darkness, made all the more impenetrable by a thick, clinging fog. Motionless in his solitude, the Ravast heir seemed lost in thought.

For all its peculiarity, the middle-aged man did not find the sight overly strange. Lucas already bore many responsibilities as lord of the village, and within hours another would be added. It was only natural that he should begin to feel their weight, even if this was precisely what the evening had been meant to forestall. For Lucas Ravast, childhood had ended a few hours too soon.

Convinced that it was none of his concern, Goldrick averted his gaze and returned his attention to the guests nearby. Simon, Andrel, Lucien, and Gwen dominated the conversation with their easy manners and lively speech, while the others—aside from the usual silent Karak—listened with interest to their relaxed discussion about the village’s customs, which differed considerably from those of the rest of the Valley.

Trying in turn to immerse himself in the topic, the middle-aged man lent his ears to their voices. As he did so, he took another sip of the delicious red wine, savoring its sweet, fruity aroma with a faint hint of cinnamon. Yet just as he was lingering over its flavor, something else caught his attention—something that drew his focus away from the voices gathered before the fire.

Clelia, who had stepped away from the group moments earlier to exchange a few words with Philipo, was now making her way toward Lord Lucas, leaving the hall to join him on the terrace.

Curiosity overcoming his earlier resolve, Goldrick could not help but watch the scene. He shifted slightly in the velvet of his comfortable chair so as to appear engaged in the guests’ conversation while still able to observe, from the corner of his eye, what transpired near the balustrade. He had no wish to miss what was unfolding outside, yet he was equally unwilling to be caught openly spying on another’s conversation.

Continuing to sip from his goblet, the man did not for a moment cease to watch the private exchange between Lord Ravast and the timid Clelia. Through the glittering reflections of the hall’s lit candelabra mirrored upon the glass, he could make out, albeit with some difficulty, the heir listening in silence to what the young woman had to say. Unable to hear the discussion or to read their lips, Goldrick studied the scene with growing curiosity.

“It must be something difficult to say…and deeply felt,” he thought to himself, noticing that the girl, absorbed in a lengthy monologue, had pressed one hand to her chest with genuine emotion.

Shortly afterward, however, when Clelia finished speaking, Lord Ravast replied in a firm and rather brief manner. A curt response—one that seemed to strike the girl like a blow. After a moment’s hesitation and a few backward steps taken in silence, she turned abruptly and fled. Her footsteps echoed frantically through the hall as she hurried across it without sparing anyone a glance, hurrying toward the exit of the residence.

The incident did not go unnoticed by the other guests, who could not help but interrupt their conversation to watch what was happening. Amid the general surprise and uncertainty, Andrel was the first to grasp what had occurred. He sprang to his feet and rushed after his friend.

As Goldrick followed the girl with his gaze, he noticed one last detail. Despite attempting to hide it by covering her face with a hand, she was clearly weeping as she ran.

“Clelia! Clelia!” Andrel shouted, chasing after her before disappearing beyond the entrance together with the fading echo of his unanswered call.

Instinctively, the middle-aged man cast another glance toward Lord Lucas and found his expression darkened.

“I regret to end the evening in this manner,” the Lord of Ravast announced as he reentered the hall, drawing all eyes toward him, “but it has grown late, and I am rather tired. I would like to retire and rest. My apologies once again. Good night.”

Few, decisive words, spoken with the sole intent of cutting the evening short, bringing the Children’s Feast to an end, and escaping a place that had suddenly become stifling and oppressive. It was a manner at odds with the affable figure they had known until that moment.

While Goldrick mulled over what had happened, watching Lord Lucas leave the hall and ascend the staircase at a brisk pace, Simon preempted any possible reaction by stepping forward to speak.

“I apologize on behalf of my brother and my family,” he said, wheeling himself to the center of the hall with his usual relaxed, courteous smile. “We would have liked to continue the evening and enjoy ourselves a while longer, but as you have seen, the groom is tired and tense. I cannot blame him. Tomorrow is a very important day, and its approach would trouble even the best among us. I hope you understand. I trust you have enjoyed yourselves, and of course we shall see one another again tomorrow morning at the ceremony. Good night. Philipo will see you to the door.”

It was a timely and elegant attempt to mend the sudden, disconcerting—and likely poorly understood—decision of his elder brother to end the Children’s Feast. And it achieved the desired effect. Without pressing further questions, the guests took their leave of the younger Ravast and rose to make for the entrance. Philipo, ever diligent, led them through an atmosphere that had grown suddenly awkward and subdued, watched from a distance by Simon’s ever-present smile.

The only one who appeared at ease, in Goldrick’s astonished eyes, was Simon himself. Lucien and Tiresio, by contrast, seemed more intrigued, while Karak—for the first time that evening—appeared almost pleasantly engaged.

Stepping out beneath the portico and bidding farewell to the butler, as well as to Petr and Beniamin, Goldrick found himself unable to dismiss what had occurred as trivial. Perhaps the others, at least outwardly, had done so. He could not. Something deep within him told him the incident, though not spectacular, was far from insignificant. He had always trusted his intuitions—and they had never failed him.

Lost in thought, as his companions exchanged impressions of what had just happened, he found himself staring up at the black sky above them. The night had reached its darkest hour, and the few lanterns lit along the street they now followed back toward the inn barely pierced the gloom, offering them a path that was little more than a suggestion. The thick fog that had descended upon the village made matters worse, wrapping everything in a veil that blurred shapes and muffled sound. At least the storm that had raged over the village for hours had paused long enough to allow them to reach their destination dry.

From the corner of his eye, Goldrick realized that Gwen and Lucien had likely noticed his brooding, though they did not address him. Perhaps, he thought, speaking with them might help him understand why the episode had struck him so deeply—why it had stirred his curiosity over something he would ordinarily have politely ignored. Perhaps Lord Lucas and Clelia—

Suddenly, the sight of something ahead in the fog drew him from his thoughts.

Two figures stood in the middle of the road, close to one another. One taller and broader than the other. At first motionless, then gesturing animatedly. Dimly illuminated by a nearby lantern swaying from the cracked wall of an old house.

Instinctively, Goldrick and the others halted some twenty paces away, remaining silent.

Peering more closely, the middle-aged man realized they were Andrel and Clelia, locked in a heated argument whose words he could not make out. Their gestures, however, were unmistakable. The young man, speaking to his friend, reached to seize her arm—but she brusquely shook him off, striking his hand away without hesitation. The sharp sound of that unfriendly contact echoed briefly along the deserted street before fading among the dark, silent houses—just as the girl herself did, bursting into more open sobs as she ran eastward and vanished into the fog and night.

Left alone in the street, Andrel lowered his gaze and let his arms fall limp at his sides, standing motionless for several long moments after losing sight of her. Helpless. Defeated. Then, rousing himself, he became aware that someone was watching him—them. Realizing who it was, he did not even offer a greeting. Turning abruptly, he strode away in the opposite direction, disappearing behind the corner of a house, visibly shaken and furious.

Goldrick was still staring at the spot where Andrel had vanished when a faint sound of footsteps behind them suddenly captured his attention. He turned quickly and instinctively—just as Karak, Tiresio, and Liris did beside him. Yet in the darkness that enveloped them, he saw nothing. Perhaps only a shadow, blacker than the night itself, slipping into a narrow alley beside the street. He could not be certain. But he distinctly heard light, rapid footsteps retreating northward until they were swallowed by distance among the village houses.

Clenching his jaw, he reached one firm conclusion. What had happened on the margins of the Children’s Feast between Lord Lucas and Clelia, as he had sensed, was definitely not trivial—and it was already bearing consequences. Yet even as he felt a certain grim satisfaction at the knowledge that his intuitions had once again proved true, one question remained.

Would those consequences end there?