Chapter 67: Dinner Under Stone

The corridor sighed to a close and the gallery stairs returned Arthur to the heart of the square.

Between the third and fourth doors he had drifted off course, following what he thought was the way down and finding instead a high ledge that overlooked the entry below. He had stood there for a moment, recalibrated, and descended the left staircase the way the maid had brought them up.

The square was noticeably more subdued. The chandelier’s iron crescents continued to cast a warm, even illumination, yet the servants had dispersed and their orderly tasks were being performed elsewhere. At the center, the statue seemed to savor the hush as if it were a private delight.

Arthur crossed toward the left ground corridor and stopped.

By the corridor’s mouth a man stood, half-turned, the thin leather memorandum in his hand like a small, private map he was tracing to its last word. His tunic was charcoal dusk. Unadorned, and cut to a line that spoke of restraint as much as skill. No badges gleamed; a lone dark belt and a slate vest drank the lamplight. His boots, clean and mountain-made, seemed meant for rock and chill rather than the polished court floors.

His hair was brown, neither long nor short, and was drawn back from his brow with casual ease. At the sound of Arthur’s approach he turned, and the lamplight revealed eyes of clear blue, unnervingly composed; neither cold nor animated, but as motionless as the surface of still water.

He observed Arthur briefly with a measured attention that revealed itself only by its absence of display.

Arthur had learned to read the subtle line between appraisal and verdict. He recognized the difference between a man who assessed you and a man who was already done. The man in front of him was the latter.

“You came down on your own,” he said, voice steady and unhurried, a faint warmth folding the words into a welcome. “That’s either the grace of a good memory or the quiet cunning of instinct.”

“The staircase is symmetrical,” Arthur said. “Once you know which side you came up, the descent is straightforward.”

Something in his face shifted, the faint twitch of muscle that promised a smile without delivering it. He shut the thin memorandum and let it vanish into the slate of his vest.

“Aldric Lunalar,” he said, extending his hand.

*My assumption was correct then.*

Arthur offered a firm, brief handshake in response.

“Arthur Ashborn.”

“I know,” Aldric said, “Your mother came in with the look of someone who had kept a breath for two months, while on the other hand, you came in like someone already counting the widths of corridors.” He nodded toward the passage. “I was going to the table. Walk with me.”

He turned and set off down the corridor, his pace easy, unhurried, the walk of someone who believed company would arrive without doubt. Arthur fell into rhythm at his side.

A few strides in, he recalled the folded note in his inner pocket which he had nearly overlooked amid the unfamiliar surroundings, so he stuck his hand in his coat and pulled it out..

“My father asked me to give you this,” he said, offering it.

Aldric accepted the note without breaking stride. He didn’t open it immediately, only glanced once at the seal before slipping it into his vest.

“I’ll read it when we sit,” he said.

The left ground corridor spread wider than the upper gallery, wide enough for four to walk side by side, dressed stone walls echoing the square yet warmed by lamp glow in iron brackets, light steady as a held breath, oil and trimming precise. Arthur noted each small sign as clue about who kept the place.

“How was the road?” Aldric asked.

“Well maintained,” Arthur said. “The grading is consistent all the way through the upper stretch. Whoever planned it understood runoff.”

Aldric glanced at him sideways. “My wife’s grandfather. He had strong opinions about infrastructure and very little patience for men who considered it beneath them.”

Arthur nodded. “It shows.”

“The northern roads are his,” Aldric continued. “The estate is mostly hers.”

“And the rest?” Arthur asked.

Aldric smiled then, properly this time. “Ask me again after dinner.”

They walked a little further and the corridor opened like a curtain parting, revealing something else entirely.

On the right there were two heavy wooden doors set into the wall, their surface carved carved with mountain laurel. The iron handles were simple arcs, polished to a quiet gleam, and from the narrow gap between the doors came warmth and a faint layered scent of cold earth and resin, dry and clean.

Aldric placed his palm on the right door and it opened as if answering to his touch, perfectly balanced on its hinges. The space beyond waited in stillness and its vastness reached him a heartbeat after his eyes.

The room extended across the mountain’s interior with a vaulted stone ceiling echoing the entry square on a far larger scale, doors set at measured intervals in carved frames of identical dark wood and simple silver handles, and iron lamp brackets lit between them. At the center, a rectangular table extended lengthwise, its dark wood surface covered in linen the color of undyed wool, high-backed chairs upholstered in a muted deep blue that complemented the setting. Candlesticks stood at intervals, stemware was already set, and the arrangement favored restraint.

This book’s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Beyond the table, the mountain opened.

Tall windows cut through the northern rock face, opening onto a sky deepening in layered blue-grey above the tree line, the last light of evening fading in a pale gradient, the glass reflecting the fire in a stone hearth to the left, its warmth spreading through the seating arranged before the view.

Arthur stopped two steps inside.

“The windows face north?” he asked.

“They do.”

“You don’t mind losing the afternoon sun?”

“You gain the morning longer,” Aldric said. “And in winter the light stays softer. It’s easier to live with.”

He pulled out a chair two down from the head on the left and gestured toward the opposite seat, a choice that carried a quiet meaning beneath.

“Sit. They won’t be long.”

Arthur sat in response, his thoughts drawing him deeper inside.

*I assumed they anchored the foundation to the cliff. It seems that I was wrong about it, It looks like it goes straight through the bedrock. I really wonder how they pulled off something like this…*

After a moment, Aldric reached into his vest and unfolded the note, his eyes moving once across the page before pausing briefly. He refolded it with deliberate care, tucked it away, and a trace of suppressed amusement touched his expression, subtle yet clear.