The upper hall filled slowly, though never loudly.
A few council members had taken their seats at measured intervals along the long table. Their robes mirrored the new palette of the palace — pale, desaturated, almost luminous in the lanternlight.
Sir Wilkinson and Roald were seated midway down the length of the table.
Wilkinson's mechanical arm rested upon the marble surface without ceremony.
The pale stone rendered the darkened steel almost black by contrast. The articulated knuckles were finely engineered — plates layered with subtle precision, joints narrow and deliberate. When he shifted even slightly, the faintest internal whisper of movement could be heard beneath the hall's quiet.
It was not loud.
But it was never silent.
The marble plate before Roald gleamed faintly.
It felt colder than metal.
Courses arrived without announcement.
First: thick barley pottage, strained to unusual smoothness, scented with leek and parsley, finished with a touch of cream. Steam rose cleanly, almost without scent.
Then trenchers of fine white bread — softer crumb than tradition required.
Then slices of roast boar glazed in honey and dark ale, the skin crisped to glass-like crackle, accompanied by stewed apples, mustard seed, and braised cabbage with caraway.
Small dishes followed: fresh curds drizzled with herb oil, pickled onions, and sugared almonds.
The marchpane fruits were placed with deliberate symmetry at each setting — sugared pears and plums so finely shaped they appeared almost natural.
Roald stared.
He had never seen food arranged like this.
He had certainly never been served first.
Nux stood at the head of the table, hands lightly clasped.
He did not sit.
He observed.
Then, as if recalling a minor courtesy, he began walking down the length of the table.
Unhurried.
Measured.
He stopped beside Wilkinson first.
"Dillaclor has missed your hand," Nux said lightly.
His gaze lowered — briefly — to the mechanical arm resting against the marble.
The faintest tilt of consideration.
Wilkinson did not follow his eyes.
"I was unaware it faltered without it."
"It does not falter," Nux replied smoothly. "It adapts."
His fingers brushed the back of Wilkinson's chair as he leaned slightly nearer. His attention lingered not on Wilkinson's face this time — but on the construction of the arm.
"Still responsive?" he asked.
The question carried a curious softness.
Wilkinson flexed the metal fingers once.
The joints aligned with precise, fluid obedience. A muted click — nearly imperceptible — marked the extension.
"They respond."
Nux watched the movement with careful interest.
"I imagine the sensation must be… instructive."
"It is efficient."
"Mm."
Nux's fingertip hovered — not touching — just above the metal forearm. Close enough that the coolness of it seemed to rise between them.
He did not make contact.
But the pause extended.
"I trust it has required no recalibration since your departure?"
"It requires none."
"How fortunate."
His tone held neither admiration nor disbelief.
Just notation.
Wilkinson shifted slightly in his chair — not retreating, not yielding. The mechanical fingers settled against the marble with deliberate weight.
"And Sir Mallious?" Wilkinson asked.
The question entered the space evenly.
Unornamented.
Nux's expression did not alter.
"Sir Mallious serves where he is most useful."
A beat.
"Which is?"
"In proximity to the ruler."
Wilkinson's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"He does not dine?"
"Not tonight."
The faintest smile touched Nux's mouth.
"He expressed confidence that his presence would not be required."
The implication rested gently between them.
Nux straightened.
"And the forest?" he asked.
"Still standing."
"How disappointing."
The words were delivered with a soft exhale that might almost have been mistaken for humor.
Roald glanced between them, uncertain whether he had misheard.
Nux turned his attention to him.
The shift was immediate.
Controlled.
"And you," Nux said. "How do you find Dillaclor?"
Roald hesitated only a second.
"It's… larger than I imagined."
"Larger things often are."
Roald nodded awkwardly.
Nux stepped closer — not intrusively this time. Simply present.
"And the journey? You endured it well?"
"Yes, sir."
"No injury? No fear?"
Roald glanced at Wilkinson before answering.
"No."
Nux's gaze flicked again to the mechanical arm.
Brief.
Assessing.
"As long as guidance remains steady," he said softly.
Roald wasn't sure whether the remark was meant for him.
Nux reached for the marble flagon near Roald's setting — the pale one.
Wilkinson's mechanical fingers shifted a fraction of an inch.
The sound was almost nothing.
Almost.
Nux poured carefully into Roald's cup.
The wine flowed dark against the white stone.
A deliberate contrast.
"You must eat," Nux said gently. "Growth requires nourishment."
Roald flushed faintly at the attention.
"I will."
Nux tilted his head.
"You are quiet."
Roald straightened instinctively.
"I'm listening."
"Yes," Nux murmured. "That is wise."
He turned back toward Wilkinson.
"You train him to observe before speaking?"
"I train him to survive."
Nux's eyes traced once more the line where sleeve met metal.
"How practical."
He stepped between their chairs — close enough that his sleeve brushed both of them lightly as he passed. Fabric whispered against steel with a faint, dry friction.
"I find it admirable," he continued, conversationally, "how devoted you remain to craft, Sir Wilkinson. To improvement. To… refinement."
Wilkinson's posture did not alter.
"It is what I was taught."
"By whom?"
A small pause.
"By those who valued durability."
Nux inclined his head.
"As do we."
He moved away at last, returning toward the head of the table.
For a moment, nothing in the hall felt strained.
Council members murmured lightly among themselves. Marble against marble made a muted, hollow sound.
Roald tasted the pottage.
It was excellent.
Wilkinson had not touched his wine.
His mechanical hand rested beside it.
Still.
Nux paused at the head of the table and looked down its length.
Satisfied.
"This evening," he said lightly, not raising his voice yet somehow commanding the room, "is not a summons."
A faint ripple of attention moved outward.
"It is a welcome."
His eyes flicked once more toward Wilkinson.
Then toward Roald.
"I will call for the ruler shortly."
He smiled — warm in shape, empty in substance.
"Please. Continue."
He folded his hands before him.
And waited.