Chapter Fifty Six: Preparations for the Feast
Chapter Fifty Six: Preparations for the Feast
Kehan moved with measured urgency through the marble corridors of his estate, the shimmering golden accents of his robe trailing behind him as his voice echoed in crisp command.
“Rima,” he called, just before stepping into the main service wing, “ensure everything is in place for tonight’s banquet. I want the lighting on the upper terrace softened. Candles—those scented ones from the northern isle—and fresh arrangements on all tables. And please, no fermented skaal this time. The Zytherions seem more… grounded.”
Rima, always attentive, nodded sharply. “Of course, Master Kehan. I’ve also assigned the harpists and activated the floating mist globes for ambiance.”
Kehan gave a quick nod of approval, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.
He turned down a quieter hallway, the polished floors reflecting his solemn expression. He paused outside a thick set of reinforced doors—the chamber where Vorkesh had been recovering.
Kehan entered without knocking.
Inside, Vorkesh sat upright in bed, the bruises along his collarbone and jaw fading but still visible. He looked stronger than when they first found him, but no less… secretive.
“You’re looking much better,” Kehan said with a slight smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Vorkesh gave a noncommittal grunt. “Your healers are competent.”
Kehan leaned against a sleek console near the wall, arms crossed. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe you’d want to inform Prince Axirlon of your presence here. His party will be leaving tomorrow morning. Wouldn’t it be wise to… clear the air, as they say?”
Vorkesh’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace. “No. Let them continue their diplomatic dance. I’m in no shape for politics or reunions.”
“Is that all it is? Fatigue?” Kehan asked, the tilt of his head sharp. “Not fear? Or guilt?”
“I don’t want to ruin Zytherion’s official visit,” Vorkesh said vaguely. “Let them leave with their technology and shiny trade agreements.”
Kehan didn’t push further. But the moment he stepped outside the chamber, his steps were brisk. He turned to the two guards stationed just beyond the corridor.
“No one enters unless it’s General Rhorvak or myself,” he ordered quietly. “No exceptions. If he attempts to leave, you stop him. And Rima will bring his meals—no other staff.”
“Yes, sir,” the guards responded, straightening at once.
Kehan strode away, his thoughts churning.
He reached his own quarters and walked through the main lounge into a smaller, sealed chamber behind a sliding panel—his private office. With a wave of his hand, the whisperlink activated, connecting him to Rhorvak’s secure channel.
The general’s face appeared almost immediately, his sharp eyes focused.
“We may have a problem,” Kehan began, not wasting time.
Rhorvak arched a brow. “Vorkesh?”
“He’s hiding something. He won’t meet with Axir, claims it’s to avoid disrupting the trade visit—but he’s lying.”
“You’re certain?” Rhorvak asked, though his tone already carried suspicion.
Kehan nodded. “He’s waiting for someone. Or something. I can feel it. He’s too composed.”
A silence stretched between them before Rhorvak finally replied, “Then we present him to Axir ourselves before they leave. If Vorkesh truly has nothing to hide, he’ll cooperate.”
“Agreed,” Kehan said. “Let’s not make a scene tonight. We wait until after the feast.”
Rhorvak gave a curt nod, and the transmission ended.
Kehan stood by the tall window of his office for a moment, staring out at the quiet landscape beyond. The Zytherion ship rested sleek and dark just beyond the western ridge, the twin moons of Nimoa casting a silver glow over its hull. Something about it kept tugging at him—a strange weight in his chest, like a memory he couldn’t reach.
He shook it off.
Tomorrow, the Zytherions would be gone, and things would return to normal.
Inside the chamber Vorkesh had claimed as his own, the silence was shattered as soon as Kehan left.
Vorkesh reached under his bed, retrieving a sleek metallic square that glowed faintly in the dark. It was his whisperlink—a custom model, shielded from Nimoan trace signals. He tapped it three times.
“Where are we with the core?” he demanded, voice low and sharp.
A pause. Then a woman’s voice crackled on the other end. Smooth, calm, but cold. “It has not been easy. Kehan has tightened the vault protocols. Your friend’s little infiltration stirred something.”
Vorkesh’s jaw tensed. “You told me you could secure it.”
“And I will,” the woman replied. “Tonight. During the send-off dinner, security will be lax. There will be noise, music, distractions.”
Vorkesh ran a hand over his face. “It has to be tonight. This is our last window.”
The voice softened just slightly. “I know. Your ship is ready. Coordinates are locked. The moment I retrieve the core, we leave.”
He paused, considering. “And what of the human?”
A silence.
“I sensed something when I passed her chamber,” the woman said finally. “She’s… observant.”
“Then make sure she stays out of our way,” Vorkesh growled.
“I’ll handle it.”
With that, the line cut.
Vorkesh dropped the whisperlink back under the bed and lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling. The bruises on his body ached, but his mind felt sharp—dangerously focused.
Tonight would change everything.
Meanwhile, Kehan stood on his terrace once more. From this vantage point, he could see the glow of the estate’s preparations for the night: soft lighting, tables set under the stars, floating fire-lights being summoned by the service drones. Musicians were already tuning their instruments by the upper steps.
It would be a beautiful night.
And yet, he could not shake the feeling that someone—something—was missing.
A presence aboard the Zytherion ship… unknown, but not unnoticed. A gentle pull in his chest, as if destiny itself was nudging him toward a truth hidden behind the walls of politics and old allegiances.
“I need to know what they’re hiding,” he whispered to himself.
He didn’t know why. He only knew he had to.