Part Twelve – The Last Night Together
Jonathan's steps slowed as he crossed the gallery toward the library, and memory crept in unbidden. It had been only days ago—though the silence of the house made it feel like years—that the Hanns family gathered for what would be their last meal together.
The ruling families had filled the long table: Madeiyas, Elton, Doherty, McCain, Morokai, Lulough. Faces lit by chandeliers, voices rising in debate and laughter, wine poured freely. To outsiders it might have seemed a celebration, another night of power and privilege where Ironclover's fate was negotiated between morsels of roasted lamb and crystal glasses. But Jonathan, seated between his mother Eleanor and his younger brother Michael, had felt the tension behind the mirth.
Eleanor had tried, as she always did, to keep the air warm. Her grace was effortless—quiet smiles, small talk, a hand on Jonathan's shoulder when he grew withdrawn. Michael, excitable and restless, had chattered about his studies, eager to impress uncles and family allies alike. Yet all through it, Raymond Hann sat apart though seated at the head, his food untouched, his gaze distant.
Jonathan remembered watching him. His father had always commanded the room with his presence, a man impossible to ignore. But that night, he seemed elsewhere—buried in thought, jaw clenched, eyes glazed with shadows no candlelight could pierce. When laughter erupted at a toast, Raymond barely stirred. When Michael asked him a question, he responded with a distracted nod. It was as though the great man had already left the table, spirit torn from the feast by whatever weighed on him.
And then, the fog.
It descended on their carriage ride home, thick and unnatural, curling across the cobblestones like something alive.
The air was heavy, damp with a metallic tang that clung to his tongue. Eleanor had pressed closer to Raymond, who gave her hand a brief squeeze but said nothing.
The carriage jolted suddenly—a tire striking something unseen in the whiteness. Raymond had raised a hand.
he stepped out into the fog. Jonathan remembered leaning forward, peering through the mist, but could barely make out his father's form. Just a shadow swallowed by deeper shadows.
It had been the last time Jonathan saw him whole.