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One Thousand Club
The estate dining hall flickered in candlelight, the long wooden table set with careful precision—elegant but lived-in, sharp but softened by familiarity. It was neither a war council nor a gathering of strangers. It was something more dangerous.
It was family.
And family had expectations.
Ephraim sat at the head, Mordecai just beside her. Their children were next to them—Rhea, practically bouncing in her chair with barely restrained energy, and Castara, composed, watching everything like a quiet tactician. Across from them sat Callabassas—awkward, uncertain, but keenly aware of his placement at the table.
Further down, Riversong sat with Jasper beside her—the two a picture of effortless grace and detached wisdom, though Jasper’s eyes held their usual knowing glint, already watching the evening unfold like a story he’d read before.
Then—the other side.
Alra, Tiz, and Ulysses, the latter perched comfortably with his boyfriend Janus at his side. The conversation at their end of the table was already stirring—light, polite, but laced with the unspoken tensions that always came when their families gathered.
Mordecai and Ephraim unfortunately hadn’t gotten their drink yet.
It had been one thing after another—the children needing something, a last-minute conversation about seating, ensuring Callabassas felt like more than an outsider. By the time they had finally sat down, the first round of wine had already been poured for the others—but not them.
A mild inconvenience, at first.
But now—as Tiz cleared his throat, already looking like he had something to say— Ephraim felt the migraine return.
“So,” Tiz began, voice thick with its usual weight of unwanted authority, “I think we should all acknowledge what happened today.”
A pause.
A too-long pause.
Then—he looked directly at Mordecai.
“Many kin saw what you did.”
Tiz continued, gesturing with a hand. “Dunemire? Done. And while I’m not saying it wasn’t warranted, there are consequences to—”
Ulysses coughed loudly, cutting him off before he could get momentum.
“Maybe,” Ulysses said with a pointed look, “we don’t start dinner with a lecture?”
Janus, beside him, bit back a grin, nudging Ulysses under the table.
Tiz huffed but didn’t immediately push back.
For now.
Alra, seated beside him, had barely touched her food, her fingers fidgeting lightly against the table’s edge. Her eyes were sharp, but there was something jittery beneath them—subtle, almost unnoticeable, but not to Ephraim.
She knew that look.
The tension in her mother’s fingers, the way her shoulders held themselves just slightly too tight.
She wasn’t sure if anyone else noticed. Tiz certainly hadn’t.
Ephraim’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t address it. Not now. Not in front of the children.
Instead, she glanced toward the waiting barrels near the far end of the room—the ones from Orlin Redtail’s vineyards, waiting to be served properly.
She would need that drink.
For many reasons.
For now, the dinner continued.
It was family.
And family had expectations.
Ephraim sat at the head, Mordecai just beside her. Their children were next to them—Rhea, practically bouncing in her chair with barely restrained energy, and Castara, composed, watching everything like a quiet tactician. Across from them sat Callabassas—awkward, uncertain, but keenly aware of his placement at the table.
Further down, Riversong sat with Jasper beside her—the two a picture of effortless grace and detached wisdom, though Jasper’s eyes held their usual knowing glint, already watching the evening unfold like a story he’d read before.
Then—the other side.
Alra, Tiz, and Ulysses, the latter perched comfortably with his boyfriend Janus at his side. The conversation at their end of the table was already stirring—light, polite, but laced with the unspoken tensions that always came when their families gathered.
Mordecai and Ephraim unfortunately hadn’t gotten their drink yet.
It had been one thing after another—the children needing something, a last-minute conversation about seating, ensuring Callabassas felt like more than an outsider. By the time they had finally sat down, the first round of wine had already been poured for the others—but not them.
A mild inconvenience, at first.
But now—as Tiz cleared his throat, already looking like he had something to say— Ephraim felt the migraine return.
“So,” Tiz began, voice thick with its usual weight of unwanted authority, “I think we should all acknowledge what happened today.”
A pause.
A too-long pause.
Then—he looked directly at Mordecai.
“Many kin saw what you did.”
Tiz continued, gesturing with a hand. “Dunemire? Done. And while I’m not saying it wasn’t warranted, there are consequences to—”
Ulysses coughed loudly, cutting him off before he could get momentum.
“Maybe,” Ulysses said with a pointed look, “we don’t start dinner with a lecture?”
Janus, beside him, bit back a grin, nudging Ulysses under the table.
Tiz huffed but didn’t immediately push back.
For now.
Alra, seated beside him, had barely touched her food, her fingers fidgeting lightly against the table’s edge. Her eyes were sharp, but there was something jittery beneath them—subtle, almost unnoticeable, but not to Ephraim.
She knew that look.
The tension in her mother’s fingers, the way her shoulders held themselves just slightly too tight.
She wasn’t sure if anyone else noticed. Tiz certainly hadn’t.
Ephraim’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t address it. Not now. Not in front of the children.
Instead, she glanced toward the waiting barrels near the far end of the room—the ones from Orlin Redtail’s vineyards, waiting to be served properly.
She would need that drink.
For many reasons.
For now, the dinner continued.