Birds chirped softly, creating a symphony of grace and peace. A sliver of light peeked through velvet drapes, its glow falling on the unblemished face of Lord Cartlian. The rhythmic knock on his door was soft yet deliberate. Moments later, the door opened, revealing a servant, dressed head to toe in azure garments, polished shoes reflecting the grandeur of his station. Bowing deeply, the servant's voice barely rose above a whisper, announcing the beginning of the day's routine.
Cartlian stirred, one eyelid opening lazily, then the other, as though savoring every moment of his waking ritual. His limbs moved deliberately, each stretch practiced to perfection, before his legs swung down to meet the cold floor.
The servant waited in poised silence, offering suggestions for the morning's indulgences. Cartlian gave a slight nod, the selections pleasing enough, though he barely acknowledged the servant's words. Cartlian gestured for the servant to begin the preparations. With a polished bow, he retreated, leaving Cartlian to rise.
Cartlian stood bare and regal, crossing the room with deliberate grace. He approached the window, his steps soft on the marble floor, and drew back the velvet drapes. The morning light spilled into the room, illuminating the courtyard below. His subjects bustled about, heads bowed, their movements hurried and mechanical. He smirked, letting his hands rest on his hips as he surveyed them.
"Pathetic," he murmured, watching as one or two dared glance upward, only to avert their eyes just as quickly. After a moment, he turned away from the window and walked to his robes, draped meticulously over a carved wooden rack. The fabric hummed with quality, its weight and texture a testament to Marianna's artisans. Once dressed, he entered his bathing chamber, a haven of opulence
The chamber was shrouded in steam, the air thick with warmth. The centerpiece was a tub, carved from marble and gilded with gold, its surface adorned with intricate patterns of flowers and vines. Cartlian approached, dipping his hands into the perfectly tempered water. He splashed his face, holding the cool liquid against his skin for a moment. As it dripped away, he caught his reflection in the water—and for an instant, his face twisted with anger. He clenched his fists, his body trembling with a rage he could not name. Finally, he wiped his face clean with a towel, banishing the expression along with the water.
Feeling satisfied with his routine, Cartlian made his way to the dining hall, striding through corridors adorned with gold, porcelain, and velvet. He paid no mind to the grand paintings and sculptures lining his path, his focus fixed ahead. Arriving at the hall, he opened the doors to reveal a nonsensically large dining table. At its head, his seat of power awaited him.
Servants buzzed around the room, their movements precise and hurried. Each was dressed impeccably, their clothing spotless and their demeanor subdued. As Cartlian took his seat, they rushed to present his meal: bacon, toast, and a glass of wine. The dishes were arranged with meticulous care, and the aromas wafting up from the plates hinted at perfection.
Cartlian lifted a hand, and the servants dispersed immediately, leaving him to eat in peace. But today, one servant lingered. She stood just inside the doorway, her chin down, her eyes darting nervously. Her jacket was torn and frayed, her shoes caked with dirt and nearly falling apart.
Cartlian's gaze sharpened as the servant lingered in the doorway. He studied her—the torn jacket, the dirt-streaked shoes, the trembling hands clutching at her sides. She didn't dare meet his eyes, her chin dipping lower with each passing second. Cartlian's irritation simmered as he considered the breach in protocol: servants never stayed unbidden.
She began speaking, her voice low and hesitant, words spilling in uneven waves. Cartlian didn't look directly at her but listened, his face a mask of restrained irritation. Grain, beans, rebellion, a merchant who had arrived unannounced. Demands. Insolence! Each word sharpened his focus, each pause driving his anger higher. A merchant daring to question his dominion, his authority.
The servant's hurried explanation ended, her trembling more pronounced now. Cartlian's mind raced, piecing together the picture. A merchant—a nameless wanderer—had arrived with audacious demands and seditious whispers. The audacity of it all!
With a sharp motion, he waved her away. Her hasty exit only barely held together by the thread of propriety. The door clicked shut, leaving Cartlian alone.
Then his fury erupted. His fist slammed into the table, rattling his untouched plate and glass. Again and again, he pounded the wood, his rage unrelenting. Plates shattered; wine spilled in a crimson pool across the surface. His knuckles burned, but he didn't stop until the table bore the full weight of his anger.
Finally, he stilled, his breath ragged, his body trembling with exertion. His stomach growled, but he paid it no mind. Only one thought consumed him: Who sent this merchant?