Late February – Markov Estate
The Table of Silence
The dining hall was colder than usual that morning. Not in temperature, but in atmosphere. The stillness wasn't peaceful—it was sharpened. Like a knife laid out on white linen.
Jay arrived precisely on time. Not early. Not late. He'd learned that either extreme invited comment. Showing up exactly when expected left fewer openings. And fewer wounds.
His father was already seated, as always. A black folder lay open in front of him, its contents hidden behind a hand cupped over sharp angles and deliberate shadows. A steaming cup of black tea rested near his elbow, untouched.
Jay slid into his designated seat. Not across. Not adjacent. Down the length of the long table—ten chairs apart, a distance that always felt less like etiquette and more like exile.
He reached for the napkin, unfolded it with quiet precision, and waited for the first clink of silverware to signal permission to begin.
It never came.
Instead, his father's voice cut through the silence.
"Your posture has regressed."
Jay raised a brow but didn't shift. "Is that a health critique or a political one?"
His father didn't look up. "Both."
A servant glided forward to place the first course—poached eggs, folded greens, and a slice of salmon plated with terrifying elegance. Jay hadn't asked for it. Meals here weren't about preference. They were calculated down to the calorie.
He picked up his fork. He didn't eat.
"The southern council has agreed to forward their vote on the Arclight trade delegation," his father said, his voice steady, as if reciting weather patterns.
Jay blinked once. "So, we've won their favor?"
"No," came the response, as another page turned. "We've gained their suspicion. Which is a good start."
Jay's fork paused over the salmon. "Sounds like you enjoy being mistrusted."
"Trust implies vulnerability."
"And that's not allowed?"
His father finally looked at him. "Not if you want to win."
Jay smiled faintly. "Do you ever get tired of winning?"
"Do you ever get tired of pretending you're not one of us?"
Their eyes met for a moment longer than usual. No warmth. Just weight.
Spoons and Strategy
The exchange ended there. Not because they ran out of words, but because that was how Markovs argued. In statements. In sentences that cracked like whips and left no room for breath.
"They'll be sending a representative," his father continued. "From the Deneuve family."
Jay paused, then leaned back. "Clara will love that."
"Clara is not relevant here."
"She doesn't know that."
His father gave him a cold look. The kind that could frost glass.
"You are expected to represent the family in this matter. Alone."
Jay took a sip of tea. It was bitter. Of course it was.
"Am I being briefed, or warned?"
His father folded the folder shut. "Does it matter?"
Jay laughed once. A breath more than a sound. "Not really."
The tea cup hit the saucer with a soft clink.
"You spoke to your mother yesterday."
Jay stiffened. Only for a second. "We share a roof."
"Did she advise you on your next steps?"
"She reminded me I still have a choice."
His father's eyes narrowed. "That's her weakness."
Jay tilted his head. "Maybe. But she still smiles. That's something."
"Emotion has no place in legacy."
"And yet," Jay murmured, "it's the only reason anyone remembers it."
This time, his father said nothing.
III. The Question No One Asks
Jay set his fork down. He didn't leave. Not immediately. He looked up the length of the table—a chasm of space between them, filled with glass, shadows, and legacy.
"When you were my age," he said, voice soft but deliberate, "did you ever want to run?"
His father didn't blink. "I did."
Jay's brow rose. That, he hadn't expected.
His father added, "But I was smart enough not to."
Jay gave a small nod. "That's the difference, then."
He stood up slowly, neatly folding the napkin and placing it beside the plate.
He didn't wait to be dismissed.
He left the dining hall with steady steps, the echo of his footsteps trailing behind him like the memory of a conversation not yet finished.
Ghosts in the Marble
The hall outside was lined with portraits—ancestors with stiff collars, glassy eyes, and expressions that had forgotten how to frown. Jay walked past them without glancing up. He knew each face by heart. Had memorized each date, title, victory. His footsteps echoed beneath their stares.
He paused beneath the large window that overlooked the southern garden. The camellias were blooming again. His mother had mentioned they only bloomed under pressure.
He wondered if he was the same.
Theo spotted him as he rounded the second-floor landing. "You survived the beast?" he whispered like a spy.
Jay arched an eyebrow. "It was just breakfast."
"With Lord Reginald, that's a battlefield."
"Worse," Jay muttered. "It's polite."
Theo grinned. "Want me to sneak in a cinnamon roll to celebrate the fact that you weren't disowned?"
Jay gave him a half-smile. "Make it two. I might be disowned at lunch."
He kept walking.
And the silence that followed him wasn't quite so heavy.
The Beginning of Something
He returned to his room and opened the drawer.
The envelope was still there.
He didn't open it. But he held it longer this time.
He placed it on the table and stared at it for a long while.
A thought came to him—not loud, not urgent. Just steady:
If I'm going to earn my way back… it starts now.
Jay stood and crossed to the wardrobe.
He picked the black jacket—not the ceremonial one. The sharp one. The one that fit like Armor.
By the time he walked out the door, his expression had returned to stillness.
But this time, his steps didn't hesitate.
They pressed forward.