Part Twenty One – Arrival at the Mansion
The carriage hummed softly as its electric motor carried Jonathan and Heller up the winding road.
Fog clung to the trees, parting only as the lanterns of the Lulough estate rose into view — a palace of light, towering above IronClover like a jewel in the night.
Inside the carriage, silence pressed heavy. Jonathan's hand rested on his knee, trembling ever so slightly. His thoughts were far from the celebration: the cellar, his mother's whispers, his brother's hunger. He almost forgot where he was until Heller's steady voice cut through.
"You don't have to do this, you know," Heller said, eyes fixed on the road. "But if you do… then hold your head high, lad. They'll smell weakness like wolves."
Jonathan gave no answer at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and strained, until at last he whispered:
"It's alright Heller, I will be fine. I have to do this - For her."
The carriage rolled to a stop. Before them stretched a staircase of marble and flame, every step lined with lanterns. Music floated faintly from within, strings and flutes painting the night in notes of celebration. Servants stood at attention, their uniforms immaculate, faces unreadable.
Jonathan exhaled, long and heavy, before stepping out. His boots struck the stone with deliberate force. Every breath felt weighted as he ascended the stairs, each step echoing his father's lessons about composure, about what it meant to be a Hanns.
The doors opened.
The brilliance of the grand hall struck him like a blow: chandeliers dripping with crystal, tapestries of gold and deep burgundy, and the finest nobles of IronClover gathered in splendor. Laughter and music wove through the air—until Jonathan entered.
Silence fell.
A hundred eyes turned, the air thick with whispers unsaid yet deafening in their weight. The Hanns heir, survivor of the massacre, the heir who survived.
A ripple of hushed voices stirred: curiosity, suspicion, pity, envy. Fans fluttered, hands covered mouths, gazes sharpened.
Jonathan's chest tightened, but he did not falter. He forced himself forward, every step across the polished floor deliberate, steady, his father's ghost whispering: a gentleman is judged not by fortune, but by bearing.
The silence broke at last as the orchestra resumed, music swelling to cover the murmurs. The nobles returned to their dances and games, though eyes still lingered upon him.
Jonathan felt each stare like a blade. He was in the lion's den, and every smile concealed teeth.