Lance was engulfed by a vivid dream, a surreal experience that felt alarmingly real. In this dream, he found himself atop a towering peak, looking down upon a vast sea of individuals who resembled ants from his elevated perspective. These countless figures scurried below, their voices merging into a cacophony, while cloaked wizards observed him with a detached, indifferent gaze.
In the dream, a sense of unparalleled power coursed through Lance. It was as if all the chips, all the potential within him, had been fully unlocked and activated, filling him with an intoxicating sense of control and might.
However, this omnipotence was short-lived. Abruptly, the heavens above cracked open, and a chilling voice pierced the tranquility: "I want to take back all your things…" What followed was a sensation of utter powerlessness as, one by one, the chips — the sources of his newfound abilities — were stripped away from him.
Desperate and horrified, Lance cried out, "No!" But the onlookers, the faceless masses and the stoic wizards, observed his plight with cold detachment, offering no sympathy or aid as he floundered in his sudden helplessness.
Despite the vivid terror and sense of loss in his dream, a part of Lance remained anchored in reality, understanding that the chaos unfolding was merely a figment of his subconscious. This bizarre duality, where the dream felt intensely real yet was recognized internally as an illusion, left him unsettled yet aware.
With a defiant curl of his lips, Lance inwardly rebelled against the helplessness imposed upon him in the dream, swearing, "Damn, no one can take what's mine." This act of defiance seemed to break the spell, pulling him back to the waking world.
As reality seeped back, his ears were met with urgent calls, "Brother Lance! Brother Lance!" Blinking his eyes open, Lance was greeted by Irene's anxious visage. The concern etched on her features did nothing to diminish her beauty, which was accentuated by the candlelight she held. The soft, flickering light cast her delicate features in a warm, ethereal glow, highlighting her natural beauty in the shadowed room.
Lance gave his head a brisk shake, trying to dispel the lingering pain that clouded his thoughts. Despite the discomfort, a sense of solace found its way through the fog—the Lesser Meditation Rune remained etched distinctly within his mind. This newly acquired knowledge was both strange and familiar; he could recall every line and curve of the rune with crystal clarity.
"Why did you fall asleep here? Father is furious!" Irene's words cut through the haze, her tone laced with urgency. "If you don't show up soon, I fear you might be thrown out of the castle tomorrow!"
The gravity in Irene's voice acted as a cold splash of reality, jolting Lance from his momentary stupor and grounding him back into the pressing concerns of the waking world.
Lance sprang to his feet, a sense of urgency propelling him as he glanced out the window, only to be met with the shroud of night. "Damn, why is it already dark!?" he exclaimed, the realization that time had slipped away adding to his growing panic.
In a quieter tone, Irene filled in the gaps, "Everyone has finished dinner and is waiting for you. Wizard Amman has arrived, along with others. Today, while in the garden, I overheard the lady Nancy saying that tonight father has an important meeting with the tax officials and the captain of the patrols in the territory. If you don't hurry, father might proceed with the meeting without waiting for you."
The weight of Irene's words settled heavily on Lance, underscoring the severity of his tardiness and the potential repercussions that awaited him.
Lance, feeling the chill of realization, wasted no time. After muttering a quick word of thanks to Irene for her timely intervention, he hastened with her to the ground-floor lobby. Despite the sprawling nature of the castle, the distance from Lance's quarters to the dining area was mercifully short. Upon his arrival, he found the remnants of the evening meal had already been cleared away.
Viscount Lane remained seated at the head of the table, his demeanor as stoic and impassive as ever. Beside him sat Wizard Amman, a testament to the gravity of the situation. Lance's gaze swept over the assembly; beyond his younger sisters and the Viscountess, he noted the presence of unfamiliar faces alongside the castle's patrol captain.
Lance's heart sank as he realized the truth in Irene's words. The impending meeting was not just rumor—it was reality. With a surge of desperation, he began, "My father, teacher, I..."
"Shut up!" The command from Viscount Lane cut through Lance's apologies like a sharp blade, his voice heavy with a mix of anger and exhaustion. Dismissing Lance's attempt at an explanation, he turned to Wizard Amman, signaling for the proceedings to begin.
The room tensed in anticipation, the collective memory of the prior night's events casting a long shadow over the gathering. It was clear that history was about to repeat itself, setting the stage for a confrontation laden with disappointment and consequence.
The Viscountess, maintaining her mocking smile, skillfully navigated the tense atmosphere. Though aware of the Viscount's affection for Lance, she wisely refrained from speaking against him directly, aiming to avoid provoking the Viscount's ire. Instead, she adopted a tone of feigned concern, "My dear, Lance has been through a lot today. Perhaps it would be best if we arrange for the kitchen to prepare something for him to replenish his strength?"
Her words, while outwardly compassionate, subtly underscored Lance's recent ordeal, reminding the Viscount of his son's uncharacteristic behavior and its deviation from the norm.
The Viscount's expression soured further at the suggestion, as it was a stark reminder of the day's disruptions and Lance's direct challenge to the usual order. Nancy's careful wording served its intended purpose, highlighting Lance's late arrival without her directly chastising him.
Lance, observing the strategic interplay, chose to remain silent, recognizing that this was neither the time nor the place for explanations or rebuttals.
The Viscount's patience had evidently reached its limit. Fixing his gaze sharply on Lance, he declared with palpable impatience, "I don't have the luxury to wait for him to have his meal and spend another hour on attempts that yield no results." His tone left no room for negotiation, "Amman, begin now. Lance, this is your final opportunity. You have exactly fifteen minutes."
He continued sternly, "After that, Amman will evaluate your work. Fail to inscribe the lesser rune within the allotted time, and I'll have you sent to the church. Prepare your belongings tonight if it comes to that."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed the Viscountess Nancy's face upon hearing this ultimatum. Despite her own son's commendable standing, Lance's favor or lack thereof in the Viscount's eyes affected the family's dynamics significantly. To her, Lance was an unwelcome anomaly that disrupted the status quo. His continuous underperformance brought a twisted sense of relief, yet she remained outwardly passive, constrained by the Viscount's authoritative presence and her need to maintain a facade of decorum.
The air was thick with anticipation and unspoken thoughts. Viscountess Nancy and Biqi exchanged glances, a silent communication of shared satisfaction passing between them. The notion that Lance would soon be dispatched to the church seemed to fill them with an almost gleeful expectancy. "My approach has been vindicated," Nancy thought with concealed triumph, "This child has proven to be nothing but a liability, destined for the church by tomorrow."
Around the hall, several unfamiliar faces stood in respectful silence, observing the unfolding drama with a mixture of interest and detachment. While the tale of the second young master was well-known throughout the Viscount's domain, these individuals, guests or perhaps officials, understood their role was not to engage in family disputes but to serve the Viscount's interests without question.
In the midst of the charged atmosphere, Wizard Amman aimed to inject a semblance of calm. "Okay, Lance, don't be nervous, proceed as you normally would," he encouraged as he presented a fresh piece of animal skin for the task – a courtesy extended by the Viscount's generosity.
With a nod, Lance accepted the gesture, his hands steady as he took the black swan quill, now laden with magical ink. Positioning himself before the parchment, he prepared to confront his fate, the eyes of the room upon him, weighing heavily with expectation and skepticism.
As Lance poised himself to write, the dining hall transformed into an arena of silent judgment. The array of gazes directed at him were a mosaic of emotions: scorn from some, envy from others, and disdain from a few, interspersed with threads of hopeful expectation.
Among the watchers, Irene was a portrait of sibling concern, her eyes locked on Lance with an intensity born of familial worry. The unspoken question, "What will happen if Brother Lance fails this time?" echoed through her thoughts, casting a shadow over her usually bright demeanor.
The room's focus was unyielding, all eyes magnetically drawn to Lance, who, despite the pressure, had yet to make a single stroke. The minutes stretched out, each one heavy with expectation and tension.
After five torturous minutes had elapsed, Biqi, unable to contain her impatience and perhaps feeling a twisted sense of superiority, whispered audibly, "What's the matter? If you can't write, just give up." Her voice, though low, cut through the tense silence, her words reflecting a sentiment that seemed to resonate with the prevailing mood.
The Viscount, for his part, remained silent, an observer in his own court. His face, however, spoke volumes; it was etched with resignation, a clear sign of his dwindling faith in Lance, whom he deemed disappointingly ineffectual. The lack of vocal support from him only intensified the heavy atmosphere, marking the moment with the palpable weight of familial and societal expectations.
Viscountess Nancy subtly clasped Biqi's hand under the table, signaling her to silence. In these delicate moments, overt criticism or smugness could only backfire, especially under the scrutinizing eyes of the Viscount. The Viscountess understood the intricate dance of courtly politics well; now was the time for strategic silence, not overt gloating or unnecessary commentary.
As the seconds ticked away, the mood surrounding Lance shifted perceptibly from scrutiny to something akin to pity. The notion that a scion of a noble line was on the brink of being dispatched to a monastic life of austerity painted a grim picture, evoking a mix of sympathy and morbid curiosity among the onlookers.
"Lance, you have three minutes left," the voice of Wizard Amman pierced the heavy silence, offering a sobering reminder of the dwindling time.
Jolted as if from a trance, Lance nodded in acknowledgment, a silent wave of resigned head-shakes passing through the assembly. However, Viscountess Nancy, maintaining her role, feigned a maternal concern, "Lance, are you alright? If you're unwell, perhaps we could delay this..." Her suggestion, while outwardly considerate, seemed almost out of place given the stakes at hand.
Lance, with a resigned smile, responded, "Thank you for your concern, Madam, I'm fine, just a momentary distraction." His attempt to downplay the gravity of the moment only added to the collective disbelief.
Distraction, at such a crucial juncture? The room was left speechless by Lance's apparent nonchalance. Even the Viscount, typically stoic and reserved, couldn't conceal his frustration, his snort echoing Lance's dwindling chances in this final test.
The castle's patrol captain harbored a deep sense of dread, his face a mask of discomfort. Having witnessed Lance's distressing attempt the previous night, he had no desire to see a repeat performance. His heart heavy, he averted his gaze, hoping to spare himself from witnessing another potential failure.
Unexpectedly, Lance, seemingly unfazed by the captain's low expectations, picked up the pen with a sudden determination. A hush fell over the hall, as all eyes turned to him, the silence profound, punctuated only by the sound of Lance's pen moving steadily across the hide.
The tense minutes crawled by until the designated time had elapsed, and Lance laid down his pen. The Viscountess, ever poised, barely hid her anticipatory smile as she turned to her husband, "My dear, it is understandable considering Lance's youth, perhaps tomorrow he could start anew at the ascetic monk camp. Mingde could accompany him, providing support on their journey."
Before the Viscount could respond or make his exit, an unexpected exclamation from Wizard Amman cut through the tension. Holding the completed skins, he voiced his astonishment, "Lance, did you actually manage this?!!!"
The room, momentarily frozen in shock, saw the Viscountess's confident demeanor crumble as realization dawned. Lance, with a nonchalant shrug, addressed his father, "I think I'm a bit hungry now."
In that moment, the dynamics shifted palpably, leaving the assembled family and guests to grapple with this unforeseen turn of events.