Chapter 07 - The Long Hall

  Somanta

  The hallway stretched out before them, long and unyielding, its stone floor dappled with golden light from tall windows. The sun cast warm pools along the cold, unfeeling walls, but it did little to chase away the heaviness in the air.

  Footsteps echoed with disjointed rhythm—some quick with urgency, others slow and reluctant, as if each step carried a weight too great to bear.

  To Somanta, the air felt almost alive—thick and heavy, clinging to her skin like damp cloth. It reeked of crushed herbs, sweat, and something deeper, more primal—the unmistakable tang of fear, sharp and metallic at the back of the throat.

  Behind them, the chamber door remained closed. Within that room, a boy lay fevered, his body wracked by sickness, yet the memory of what had just transpired still crackled in the air, unseen but undeniable. Power had flared—brief, searing, impossible to ignore. She was now one of the few who were unable to reconcile the frailty of a sick child with the raw force that they had unintentionally caught a glimpse of.

  The young woman at the back of the group moved stiffly as though she were no longer sure of her own limbs. Her mind reeled, replaying the moment over and over, her eyes closed as she relived the memory. She touched the boy's hand, and unseen forces coiled around him like a storm. They broke into her mind with the melody. She had felt something then, something deep in her bones. It was not the boy who did this; it was something more significant, and she knew it reached for her.

  Her fate was no longer her own.

  She glanced sideways, eyes flitting from face to face, searching for answers in the silence that surrounded her.

  The boy’s mother walked with quiet calmness that did not suit what they had seen, each step measured, controlled. Her hands were clasped so tightly her knuckles jutted out like pale stone, trembling ever so slightly.

  Was it fear that kept her upright? Upbringing? Determination? Grief?

  Whatever it was, it braced her like steel. Her face revealed nothing—an impenetrable mask, smooth and still, concealing the storm of questions raging behind her eyes.

  Ahead, her master strode forward, his robes rustling against the stone with each step. He had spoken little since they left the boy’s bedside, his face unreadable beneath the heavy weight of knowledge. He knew more than he had said—he always did. She longed to ask, to demand what it meant, what she was meant to do. But the words would not come.

  The hallway felt longer than it should have. Time stretched thin, tangled in the weight of what had been witnessed and what it would soon mean. Behind them, the boy slept—if it could be called that. Restless. Fevered. Changing.

  The young woman swallowed hard, her throat dry. She had always known her path, her purpose. But now… she wasn’t sure if she had ever truly understood it at all.

  …

  Melhous walked down the dim hallway of the manor, already thinking ahead about how to handle anyone who might question why his master was still there. He didn’t fully understand what had happened, but he knew one thing for sure—his master needed more time in this place.

  The doctor, not the sharpest, but not completely clueless either, had started to grow suspicious. It wasn’t normal for a guest to stay this long, especially with the court always watching. Even a quiet moment could turn into gossip—and gossip always found someone willing to spread it.

  Not wanting things to get messy, Melhous acted quickly. He came up with a believable excuse—just enough of a cover to let his master stay longer without raising the kind of questions that could ruin everything.

  The opportunity presented itself, but he would pay the price for it. His eyes followed the woman as she fell behind the group as they reached the parlor entrance.

  Doctor Samole spoke, his expression carefully neutral, and inquired about their departure. “Surely, the Lord’s hospitality has been gracious enough. We should not impose further.”

  Melhous, feigning a thoughtful pause, glanced toward the youngest disciple. The young woman would demand a pound of flesh for what he was about to do. Her complexion was pale from the earlier event. It was all too easy.

  “My lord,” Melhous interjected, turning to their host, “I fear young Somanta has taken ill. She has struggled since last night, and it would be most unwise to set out while she remains unwell.” He then turned to the Doctor, “Her face is pale, and her steps are unsteady. I think she may also be suffering from a woman’s ailment.” With these words, Somanta’s eyes widened, and murder blazed in them; venomous words would follow as she drew a breath. But they were interrupted by the Master.

  “Doctor Samole, please examine my disciple! I fear my lack of attention may have caused her to feel unwell, which is why she had a dizzy spell in the child's room,” he said, concern and worry evident on his face as he looked at his disciple. He nearly stepped back as the full force of her fury turned on him. “Somanta, sit and let the doctor examine you,” his command served as a shield.

  Her anger shifted to confusion, and a dazed expression crossed her face. This confusion even hindered her ability to respond to the doctor’s questions and inquiries. “I believe young Melhous is correct. The young lady is exhibiting poor reactions and signs of anemia,” the doctor said. "Young lady, please tell me about your cycle..."

  “Doctor, this is not the place!” Lady Seraphine said in shock. Speaking as the lady of the house, she quickly ordered the young woman to sit and served tea and sweets, restoring decorum to the group.

  Master Havlo murmured, “You feel warm,” ensuring the woman would believe it herself. I should have tended to you sooner.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Somanta blinked in mild confusion, swallowed, and shifted uncomfortably. “I… I do feel a little strange,” she admitted, the power of suggestion already taking root.

  “There now, you see?” Melhous straightened, addressing the room. “It would be reckless to travel today. A fever, left unchecked, can turn grave.”

  Although primarily focused on his own matters, the manor lord nodded in understanding. “If that’s the case, you must certainly stay until she recovers. I will arrange for a chamber to be prepared.”

  The Doctor’s lips tightened as his keen mind assessed the likelihood of deception; however, Melhous had already positioned the next piece. Turning to Master Havlo, I will return to the inn and retrieve your and Somantas' belongings to limit the imposition on the Lord and Lady.

  The Lady nodded again, bringing closure to the conversation with a wave of her hand. “Then it is settled. You will remain.” She instructed her servant to prepare the rooms and prepare dinner.

  The Doctor had no choice but to acquiesce lest he appear callous. The matter was sealed, and Melhous allowed himself the barest hint of satisfaction.

  Later, as they stood alone by the carriage, his master regarded him with quiet amusement. “You have a good talent for these things.”

  “A necessary one, with my family,” Melhous replied with a slight bow. “Better this than unwanted scrutiny.”

  His master chuckled, looking back to the manor. “I just hope you will survive her recovery.”

  Melhous smiled. “Master, please help me with that,” he said with a shudder.”

  Thus, the ruse persisted, allowing the house to be their haven for a bit longer, free from suspicion and whispers—at least for the time being.

  …

  The carriage left, and the door to the parlor closed, leaving Lord Eldric, Lady Seraphine, Reiki Master Havlo, and Somanta alone.

  Master Havlo exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples as if bracing for an earthquake. Then, with the weight of a thousand tempests in his voice, he declared to loud, "My lord, the veils didn’t just decide to fuck you over—they wrote it into the stars, carved it into stone, and sent a choir of angels to sing about your misfortune. Around your house now sit four Beaconfires that the whole world would have to be blind, deaf, and dumb to miss!"

  Silence crashed over the room like a falling chandelier.

  The noble lord blinked, once, twice—his mouth opened, but no words emerged, only a strangled sound that suggested his soul had momentarily left his body. His usually commanding posture wilted, and for the first time in his life, he looked like a man who had just realized the universe was using him as a personal chew toy.

  His wife gasped so sharply it could have cut glass. One delicate hand clutched her pearls—pearls that, just moments ago, had been purely decorative but were now being strangled in a death grip. Her other hand fluttered toward her forehead, as if she might swoon, but she remained upright, perhaps out of sheer noble stubbornness.

  Meanwhile, Havlo's disciple stood frozen, eyes darting between his master and the stunned nobility like a woman who had just witnessed someone slap a dragon across the snout. Her face had gone a peculiar shade of green, as though she were contemplating whether it was socially acceptable to fake a seizure to escape the impending doom, but she was no coward; her blood told her what to do.

  Master Havlo, now realizing he had, in fact, just spoken out loud, coughed into his fist and shifted awkwardly.

  Somanta's chair scrapes violently against the stone floor as she jumped to her feet, her face flushed red with fury. Her fists clench, and she glares at her master, her voice rising in a torrent of Dwarvish curses that would make a seasoned sailor flinch.

  "By Moradin’s anvil, ye thick-skulled, slag-tongued khazborin! How dare ye speak like that? Like you're some gutter-rat unfit for a noble hall! Ye stone-brained, drakkfarn excuse of a mentor, ye wouldn’t know respect if it clonked ye upside yer thick, beardless skull!"**

  Her breath comes in sharp gasps as she jabs a finger at him, eyes burning.

  The last curse leaves her lips like a hammer striking an anvil, ringing through the chamber. Somanta stands there, chest heaving, fists clenched—until the stunned silence sinks in. The fire in her veins suddenly chills as realization crashes over her like a collapsed mineshaft.

  Her master hasn’t moved. He just watches her, arms crossed, one brow arched in that infuriating, knowing way.

  Her breath catches.

  Oh, stone and slag.

  She just did the very thing she was accusing him of. She, a noble-born disciple, had ranted and raved like a drunken tavern brawler, spitting out Dwarvish curses like an old sailor with an empty tankard. In front of him. In front of everyone.

  Heat floods her face all over again, but this time it isn’t just anger—it’s shame. Her hands loosen, shaking just a little. She swallows, looking anywhere but at his smug, unbothered face.

  "Ah... khalvar, I—" she starts, then clamps her mouth shut. There's no good way to back out of this one.

  For a second, she just sat back down, realizing the damage she had done from the look on the Lady's face.

  Her jaw tightens. Her face burns. Then, with all the dignity she can muster, she straightens her tunic, clears her throat, and mutters, "I’ll see myself out."

  And with that, she turns on her heel and stalks away—because if she stays one second longer, she just knows he’ll say something that’ll make her explode again.

  The heavy oak doors, barely a few strides away, a deep, rumbling laugh rolls through the chamber. It’s not mocking—not entirely—but it stops her dead in her tracks.

  "Oh, now this is a day for the records," Lord Eldric chuckles, stroking his thin beard as he leans back in his chair, amusement dancing in his sharp eyes. "I do believe my house has been well and truly impacted, as you say."

  She freezes, shoulders rigid, knowing full well that walking out now would only make things worse. Slowly, she turns, her face still flushed but her expression carefully neutral.

  Lord Eldric sighs, shaking his head with a wry smile. "I expect Master Havlo will be needing a quill and parchment to write this moment down for my descendants. It would be a shame if they were denied the wisdom of ‘stone-brained, ale-sodden, drakkfarn such as himself."

  A few chuckles ripple through the room. Somanta's jaw tightens, but she keeps her mouth shut. She's not walking into that trap again.

  Eldric waves a hand dismissively. "Come now, enough of this. Sit, all of you." His tone shifts, firm but not unkind. "Master Havlo, you clearly have strong opinions. Perhaps now, you could share them with a touch less... shall we say, colorful Dwarvish? Some of us may need a translator otherwise."

  The gathered people shift in their seats, the men still grinning, the women eager for the conversation to move forward. Somanta, still seething but now trapped in this mess of her master's making, clenches her fists once before sighing and sinking stiffly back into her chair.

  Havlo smirks before clearing his throat. "Aye, my Lord," he says, not even trying to hide the satisfaction in his voice. "I’ll do my best to keep the curses to a minimum. However, I must say that the young lady knows her way around a proper Dwarvish insult. Fine choice of words, really."

  Somanta glares daggers at him. Eldric just laughs again. "Then let's hear this wisdom of yours, Master Havlo. And no more outbursts—unless, of course, they're truly worth writing down."