**FAREWELL BANQUET**
Next day, by evening, the manor garden and knight practice area had been transformed. Long tables arranged in a large square, torches and magical lights illuminating the space, servants rushing back and forth with more food than most of these people had seen in their lives.
The children sat together at tables specifically built lower to accommodate their smaller size—Alfred had managed to find or construct child-sized furniture in less than a day, the man was a miracle worker. They chattered excitedly, eyes wide at the spectacle, with goblets of fruit juice instead of wine placed before them.
The four hundred new soldiers sat at their own sections, looking uncomfortable at being included in what felt like a noble's feast. Many kept glancing at me nervously, as if waiting for someone to tell them this was a mistake.
The ten dwarves sat together, their table laden with meat and ale. They looked suspicious at first—slaves didn't get invited to banquets—but as the food and drink kept coming, they began to relax, their deep voices rumbling with conversation and occasional laughter.
The seven alchemists occupied another table, already deep in technical discussion even as they ate. I caught fragments about sulfuric acid concentrations and mana stone catalysts. They seemed more interested in their work than the banquet, but they'd shown up, which was what mattered.
The five designers sat together, wearing samples of the new clothing they'd created. They looked proud and somewhat anxious, clearly hoping I'd approve of their presence at such an event.
And tucked away in a corner, deliberately separated from the main gathering, sat fifty workers I'd brought in from outside the territory. They were the secret mana cure production team—carefully vetted individuals from distant villages who'd been housed in a separate facility and kept completely isolated from the general population. No one in the territory knew they existed. No one knew where the mana cure was actually being produced. These fifty faces were strangers to everyone else at the banquet and that's exactly how it needed to stay.
Manor staff—servants, cooks, groundskeepers, everyone who kept the estate functioning—filled the remaining spaces. Many looked overwhelmed, unused to being treated as guests rather than invisible workers.
I stood at the head of the arrangement, surveying the organized chaos. This was my territory now, in miniature. Orphans and soldiers, craftsmen and scholars, the desperate and the ambitious, all gathered together.
Alfred stood beside me, looking simultaneously proud and exhausted. "My lord, the kitchens have prepared roasted boar, venison, fresh bread, vegetable stews, fruit pies, and enough ale and wine to—"
"To drown a small army?" I finished with a slight smile.
"Precisely, my lord. And fruit juices for the children, as you requested."
I raised my hand, and gradually, the noise subsided. Over five hundred pairs of eyes turned toward me.
"Thank you all for coming," I began, my voice carrying across the garden. "Tonight is both a farewell and a celebration. Tomorrow, the children will move to their new home—a proper orphanage with proper care. But tonight, we celebrate together, all of us who are building something new in this territory."
I gestured to the children's tables. "These children represent why we're doing this. They were abandoned, exploited, left to starve or steal or die. No more. In this barony, children will have homes, education, and futures."
Jonas and several other children beamed up at me, still not quite believing this was real.
"Our new soldiers—" I turned to their section "—you've proven yourselves worthy. You'll train hard, fight harder, and be rewarded fairly for your service. This territory will not send you to die for a lord who sees you as disposable. You matter."
The soldiers sat straighter, pride replacing their earlier nervousness.
"Our craftsmen—" I nodded to the dwarves "—you've been promised freedom after ten years of service. But more than that, you're helping create weapons and tools that will change how warfare is conducted. Your skills matter. Your knowledge matters."
The scarred elder dwarf raised his mug in acknowledgment, something like respect in his one good eye.
"Our alchemists—" I gestured to their table "—you're developing processes that will revolutionize manufacturing. You chose opportunity over pride, and you'll be rewarded for that choice."
Clara, the young alchemist with burn scars, smiled and nodded.
"Our designers—" I looked at their table "—you're creating clothing that will change how people dress across the baron. Your creativity and skill are building an industry from nothing."
The lead designer, the middle-aged woman with sharp eyes, looked genuinely moved by the acknowledgment.
"And our staff—" I looked at the manor servants "—you keep everything functioning. Without you, none of this works. You're not invisible, and you're not disposable."
Several servants looked shocked to be acknowledged publicly by their lord.
I deliberately didn't mention the fifty secret workers. Their presence was necessary—I wanted them to feel included, to understand they were valued—but drawing attention to them would defeat the purpose of keeping them hidden.
"Tomorrow, many things change. The children move to their new home. Our soldiers begin intensive training. Our craftsmen start major projects. Our alchemists scale up production. But tonight—" I raised my wine glass high "—tonight we're all just people, sharing a meal, celebrating the fact that we're alive and together and building something worth building."
I paused, scanning the faces before me—young and old, skilled and learning, free and enslaved, all gathered under the torchlight.
"I won't lie to you. Hard times are coming. War is coming. There will be danger, sacrifice, and loss. But we'll face it together, as a community that values every person, not just the powerful or privileged. So tonight, we celebrate what we're building. Tonight, we toast to our future!"
I raised my glass higher. "TO OUR FUTURE!"
"TO OUR FUTURE!" The response was thunderous.
Over five hundred voices shouted in unison. The soldiers raised their mugs of ale. The alchemists lifted their wine glasses. The dwarves hoisted their drinks with enthusiasm. The designers raised their cups with tears in their eyes. The secret workers in the corner, though quiet, raised their glasses as well. And the children, giggling with excitement, held up their goblets of fruit juice as high as their small arms could reach.
"TO THE BARON!" someone shouted—one of the soldiers, emboldened by the moment.
"TO OUR FUTURE!"
Then everyone was shouting, raising cups and mugs, the noise deafening and joyful. Wine and ale and fruit juice splashed as people clinked their vessels together, laughter mixing with cheers.
The feast began in earnest.
---
**THE CELEBRATION**
What followed wasn't just a dinner—it was an all-day celebration that stretched well into the night.
Soldiers who'd never eaten meat more than once a month devoured roasted boar with abandon. Children squealed with delight at fruit pies sweeter than anything they'd imagined, their faces smeared with berry juice and sticky fingers reaching for seconds and thirds. Dwarves competed to see who could drink the most ale while maintaining coherent conversation, their deep laughter rumbling across the garden.
Musicians appeared—local villagers Alfred had hired, playing fiddles and drums and flutes. Soon people were dancing between the tables, clumsy and enthusiastic. Soldiers pulled servants into impromptu dances, laughing when they stumbled over each other's feet. Some of the children formed circles, spinning until they collapsed dizzy and giggling.
I moved among the tables throughout the evening, stopping to speak with different groups.
At the children's tables, I found Jonas looking unusually somber despite the celebration around him.
"My lord?" he asked quietly. "Will we still see you sometimes?"
I knelt beside his smaller chair so we were at eye level. "Of course. I'll visit regularly. At least once a month, probably more. And if you need anything—anything at all—you can always come to the manor. My door is open to you."
"Really?" A boy named Thomas, maybe nine years old, looked up hopefully from his second slice of pie. "Even if it's not important?"
"Even if it's not important," I confirmed. "Though I suspect if you're coming to find me, it will be important to you, and that makes it important to me."
The little girl who'd cried in the prison—Lily—asked in a trembling voice: "Are you sure you're not getting rid of us because we're trouble?"
Several other children at nearby tables stopped eating, waiting anxiously for my answer. This fear ran deep—they'd been abandoned before, thrown away when they became inconvenient.
I looked around at all of them, these children who'd survived things no child should have to survive. "I'm not getting rid of you. I'm giving you a proper home with other children your age, with caretakers who'll teach you reading and arithmetic and useful skills. The manor is a place for running a barony—it's full of offices and meeting rooms and boring adult work. The orphanage will have playrooms and gardens and space for you to actually be children."
"But we liked staying in the manor," Jonas said softly, and several others nodded agreement.
Something in my chest tightened. These children had been so starved for safety and kindness that even spare rooms in a busy manor felt like paradise to them.
"I liked having you here too," I admitted. "The manor felt less empty with you running through the halls. But this is better for you, I promise. You'll have proper beds, proper teachers, friends your own age. And—" I smiled slightly "—you won't have to be quiet during the day because the boring baron is having boring meetings."
That got a few small laughs.
"Will the new place have good food?" asked Marcus, one of the older boys, eyeing his third helping of pie.
"Yes. Even better than this. The same cooks who've been feeding you here will prepare special meals for the orphanage every day."
"Will we have to steal again?" Lily whispered, so quietly I almost didn't hear her.
"Never," I said firmly, making sure all the children could hear. "You will never have to steal again. You'll have everything you need, and if you don't, you tell the caretakers or you come tell me, and we'll fix it."
"Promise?" Jonas asked.
"I promise."
---
I moved on to the soldiers' tables, where the celebration had grown rowdier. Commander Cecil was in the middle of demonstrating a sword technique using a turkey leg as a weapon, much to everyone's amusement.
"My lord!" Kara Stone called out, standing and saluting somewhat awkwardly with a mug in her hand. "Thank you for this. Most of us have never... this is..."
"More food than you've seen in a year?" I finished for her.
"More everything than we've seen in a year, my lord." She gestured at the feast. "This must have cost a fortune."
"It did. Money well spent." I looked at the gathered soldiers. "You're risking your lives for this territory. The least I can do is feed you properly and show you that your service matters."
An older recruit, the former caravan guard, spoke up: "My lord, we heard rumors that Baron Lupe is preparing to attack. Is it true?"
The nearby conversations quieted. Others were listening.
"Yes," I said simply. No point in lying. "Within a month, possibly sooner. He thinks we're weak, disorganized, easy prey."
"Are we?" someone asked nervously.
"We will be ready," I corrected. "You'll train every day. We're producing new weapons. We have resources Baron Lupe doesn't know about. And most importantly—" I looked around at all of them "—we have something worth fighting for. He's fighting for greed and territory. You're fighting for your homes, your families, your future. That makes you more dangerous than any army motivated by gold alone."
Cecil nodded approvingly. "The lord speaks truth. I've seen rich armies fall to poor defenders who had something to protect. We'll make you ready."
The soldiers seemed to take heart from that, their nervousness replaced by grim determination. The 200 slaves soldiers were still not getting adjusted for the party. I don't wanna disturb them, if I go near them they might feel overwhelmed.
"Now drink!" I commanded. "Tomorrow you train. Tonight you celebrate!"
A roar of approval followed, and the soldiers returned to their revelry with renewed enthusiasm.
---
At the dwarves' table, I found them in the middle of a heated debate about the gun designs I'd given them, even as they demolished platters of meat.
"The barrel will explode under that pressure!" one insisted, gesticulating with a half-eaten drumstick.
"Not if we use reinforced steel with mana-infusion!" another argued.
"Mana-infusion weakens structural integrity over time—"
"Only if done incorrectly, you stone-headed fool—"
"Gentlemen," I interrupted, and they fell silent. "Are you enjoying the feast?"
The scarred elder dwarf—I'd learned his name was Borin—raised his mug, ale sloshing over the sides. "Good ale, good meat, strange circumstances. We're slaves being treated like guests at a lord's banquet. Forgive us if we're still adjusting to the confusion."
"You're craftsmen being treated like craftsmen," I corrected. "Slavery is just your current legal status. That will change."
"In ten years," another dwarf said skeptically. "If you keep your word."
"I will." They exchanged glances.
Borin admitted grudgingly. "Still think you're mad for treating us this well, human lord."
"Then profit from my madness," I said with a slight smile. "Now, about the gun barrels—have you considered a composite design? Multiple layers with different properties?"
That sparked an entirely new debate, which I left them to enthusiastically argue about while continuing to devour food and drink.
---
At the designers' table, I found them examining each other's clothing with professional interest.
"My lord!" The lead designer stood quickly. "Thank you for inviting us. We weren't sure if we'd be welcome at such an event."
"You're building an industry," I said. "Of course you're welcome. How is production progressing?"
Her eyes lit up. "Wonderfully! We've hired fifteen workers already, and the workshop you provided is perfect. We've completed samples of all your designs, and we're ready to begin mass production for the military uniforms."
"Good. And you have to start producing clothes for all the soldiers fast."
"We will, my lord. You have our word."
I nodded and moved on, satisfied. The designers understood that their success was tied to mine—the best kind of business relationship.
---
At the alchemists' table, I found them barely touching their food, too engrossed in discussion.
"The sulfuric acid yield is lower than the lord's calculations predicted," Clara was saying, gesturing with a fork she'd apparently forgotten was in her hand. "We're losing efficiency somewhere in the heating process—"
"Because you're not accounting for mana degradation in the catalyst stones," old Marcus interrupted. "The fire-element stones lose potency over time when exposed to sulfur compounds—"
"Then we need a replacement schedule—"
"Or we need to shield the stones with—"
"Enjoying your work?" I asked, sitting down beside them.
They all looked up, slightly embarrassed at having ignored the feast in favor of chemistry.
"My lord, we've been making progress," Clara said quickly. "The sulfuric acid production is scaling up, we've solved the caustic soda crystallization problem, and the bleaching agent formula is nearly perfect—"
"I can see that from your reports," I interrupted gently. "Tonight isn't about work. Tonight is about celebrating what we're building together. The chemistry can wait until tomorrow."
"But my lord—" Marcus started.
"Tomorrow," I repeated firmly. "Eat, drink and talk about something other than acid concentrations. That's an order."
They exchanged glances, then reluctantly began actually eating their food and engaging in non-technical conversation. Within minutes, I heard them discussing favorite books and old teachers and the merits of different types of wine.
Good. Even obsessive scholars needed to rest sometimes.
---
I carefully avoided the table where the fifty secret workers sat. They were eating well, drinking moderately, and keeping to themselves—exactly as instructed. Alfred had briefed them thoroughly: enjoy the celebration, but don't draw attention, don't discuss your work, and don't socialize with the general population.
They understood the stakes. If anyone discovered where the mana cure was actually being produced, the formula could be stolen, the operation compromised. Their anonymity was their security—and mine.
I caught the eye of their supervisor, a stern middle-aged woman named Helena who I'd personally recruited. She gave me a subtle nod. Everything was under control.
---
As night deepened and the celebration continued, the atmosphere grew more festive. Someone had brought out more ale and wine. The musicians played faster songs. Soldiers danced with increasing abandon, their earlier nervousness forgotten in the joy of celebration.
I found myself pulled into an impromptu dance by Kara Stone and several other female recruits, who insisted their lord should participate in the festivities. I was a terrible dancer—assassination skills didn't translate to coordinated movement on a dance floor—but the laughter and energy were infectious.
The children watched wide-eyed as adults spun and stumbled and laughed. Some of the braver ones joined in, tiny hands grabbed by kind soldiers who lifted them into the air and spun them around until they shrieked with delight.
Even the dwarves eventually joined the dancing, their movements surprisingly graceful despite their stocky builds and considerable ale consumption.
The alchemists remained seated, but they were smiling and clapping along to the music, which was progress.
The designers danced with elegant grace, their movements showing the same attention to detail they brought to their craft.
And through it all, servants who'd spent their lives being invisible were laughing and celebrating alongside nobles and soldiers and craftsmen, the social barriers temporarily forgotten in the shared joy of the moment.
To be continued...