Act 1. Masks

Majordomo Elric Dannemar said nothing for a long moment. He studied Lunareth’s hands like a jeweler might inspect a gemstone—looking for cracks, flaws, inconsistencies. Without a word, just a subtle smile, he turned and motioned curtly for Luna to follow.

He led them through a short hall and into the adjoining kitchen—a large, immaculately organized space abuzz with restrained activity. Copper pans gleamed from overhead hooks, and a couple of cooks moved with deliberate, efficient purpose. The scent of fresh herbs and rising bread permeated the air.

"Here," Elric finally spoke, stopping at a long, waist-high counter near a wide cooling rack. Upon it sat a tray laden with a set of porcelain cups, each resting in a thin silver saucer. They rattled softly as the tray shifted slightly from heat or movement in the room.

"You will take this," he said, stepping aside. "Walk once around the kitchen. Do not spill. Do not lose composure." His tone was flat, impassive. The tray was subtly off-balance, and the cups not fixed in place. The floor held the usual kitchen hazards—damp spots, scattered crumbs, a cat underfoot—and the presence of bustling staff meant unpredictable motion.

It was a test not of strength, but of grace. Elric crossed his arms behind his back and watched.

Elric Dannemar's expression barely flickered as Luna completed the circuit, though the faintest glint of approval flashed in his sharp eyes. The majordomo observed every step, every subtle shift of weight, every slight correction, all cataloged with military precision.

When Luna addressed him, Elric responded with his usual clipped efficiency, voice smooth but as unyielding as polished steel.

"Set it down here," he instructed, tapping the counter. Once Luna complied, Elric took a small step closer, his hands folding neatly behind his back.

"You handled that adequately. Now, theory." His gaze pinned Lunareth like a hawk regarding a field mouse.

"Three scenarios." His tone remained utterly neutral. "First: A guest is visibly intoxicated but demands more wine. Second: Two guests engage in an argument escalating toward violence. Third: You overhear mention of a forbidden or dangerous topic—necromancy, assassination, sedition. Quick answers. What do you do?"

Other servants cast sidelong glances, though they pretended not to eavesdrop. It was clear Elric was not only testing Luna's etiquette—but his discretion, intellect, and instincts. He waited, the image of cold patience.

"Your first two answers are serviceable," Elric began, hands still neatly clasped behind his back.

"Insubstantial, but serviceable. You understand the principle: delay, de-escalate, defer. Acceptable for basic waitstaff."

His eyes locked onto Luna's.

"But your answer is also incomplete." He tilted his head, a test lurking behind his precise words. "What if you are the head waiter? What if there is no one else to defer to? No superior to fetch? What do you do when you are the chain of command? When the responsibility—discretion, containment, consequence—rests with you?"

Briar
Branric appeared from the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a stained apron, his brow furrowing as he took in Briar’s stiff posture and the carefully hidden but unmistakable signs of recent injury—the tight grip on the bar, the subtle wince when he shifted.

"Briar?" he said softly, stepping closer with a quiet concern that didn’t quite mask his surprise. "You don’t look like you’ve had a good morning… or afternoon, for that matter. What’s the story?"