A Quiet Moment

The light from wall sconces casts long shadows across the stone chamber. The music from the main hall is muffled by distance, replaced here by the quiet murmur of wine, steel, and thought. A low table is ringed by friends — a knight, a priest, a noblewoman, and a spy — all relaxed but watchful.
Sir Beringer leans back in his chair, the gleam of his armor dulled by the hour and a few empty cups. Lyosha, calm and composed, rests his hands atop his knees, his golden holy symbol glinting softly in the candlelight. Dame Venom lounges beside him with feline grace, sharp eyes scanning the room even as her fingers toy with a goblet.
Lady Sophia Amadis sits upright but easy, composed as always. Her words, though spoken lightly, slice with the clarity of a whetted blade.
Sophia says, "It’s all quite predictable, really. House Meroven benefits while Vallent thinks they’re in control, and Durathen—well, they’re dancing in circles, too proud to realize someone else is calling the tune."
She lifts her cup, eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. "Of course, that sort of reasoning might escape either of my brothers. One charges at problems until they fall down, the other broods until they forget what the problem was."
She casts a playful glance at Beringer, clearly including him in the jest.
Dame Venom smirks over the rim of her cup. Lyosha chuckles softly. “And yet,” he says, “sometimes it’s the blunt instruments that hold the wall when everything else is falling apart.”
Before Beringer can fire back, the measured step of boots echoes softly against the stone floor. Count Alistair Amadis strides in, late to the gathering but entirely unhurried. He doesn’t announce himself — he doesn’t have to.
He comes to stand at the edge of the gathering, surveying the company with a faint tilt of his head before speaking.
"Did I miss the part where my daughter outwitted half the court again?"
Sophia doesn't look up from her wine. "No, Father. Just the part where I observed it plainly."
The Count’s lips quirk in a dry smile. “Ah. So it’s the observing now, not the maneuvering.”
Sophia gives him a sweet, razor-thin smile. “Observing, maneuvering, politely dismantling — call it what you like.”
Alistair eases into a seat, still watching her. “You’ve grown sharper. That’s good. But don’t forget: old age and treachery still see farther than youthful brilliance."
Sophia arches a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now — treachery? I thought it was just seasoning.”
“Seasoning cuts deeper than wit when things turn ugly,” Alistair mutters. “And I’ve seen enough knives behind smiles to know the difference.”
Before the moment can harden further, Dame Venom speaks up, voice soft and slippery as velvet with a sting underneath.
“Oh, come now, Count. You speak as if you were born wise.” She leans forward, a wicked grin tugging at her lips. “But I remember a younger man — overconfident, half-drunk, trying to leap a river on horseback to impress a minor countess. Broke two ribs and his pride. If memory serves, it was a very sharp branch and a long swim that tempered your brilliance.”
She gives Beringer a sidelong glance — sharp, teasing, affectionate. “Some of us learn the hard way. Others,” she adds with a flick of her eyes back to the Count, “only just manage to keep from drowning.”
Beringer chuckles low and leans toward her with mock offense. “I’ll have you know, I’ve only fallen off a horse once. That anyone saw.”
Lyosha, ever the voice of calm, adds, “And some learn faster when the light shines through the cracks. It’s not a bad thing to fall… so long as you get up holding something wiser.”
Alistair grunts, shaking his head. “You lot and your metaphors. Fine. Be clever. But just remember: it’s easy to spot the knife when it’s drawn. The ones you miss are the ones offered with a toast and a smile.”
He raises his glass just slightly. “To sharp minds, blunt friends, and learning fast before the cut comes.”
Sophia clinks her goblet against his, gently. “To old fools and young ones alike.”
The group shares a quiet moment — wry smiles, raised cups, and the sense that the game of court never truly stops… even in the quiet corners.