"Don't hold your breath, you old miser!" Hoof thundered cheerfully, but he immediately winced, his massive palm pressing briefly against his temple. "Though my head has been splitting lately... feels like a red-hot nail being driven into my skull. It’s always like this in the autumn, damn it all. The blood feels like it’s thickening in my veins."
Dmitry noted the gesture. The guy was a walking stroke risk. High blood pressure, textbook symptoms: sensitive to the weather, constant headaches, and that unnervingly purple face. In Dmitry's world, a patient like this would be told to lie down and take some pills, but here, Hoof was clearly "treating" himself with nothing but heavy meals and, likely, strong wine.
"Look who I’ve brought you," Bruno said, turning to his companions and gesturing toward Cohen and Dmitry. "You know Cohen Prast, of course. And this is his guest and ally—Master Dmitry. A traveler from very distant lands. An extremely interesting and... useful young man."
Hearing such words from Bruno was unexpected. Dmitry couldn't stand flattery, but a note of genuine respect had slipped into the moneylender’s dry voice, sparking a strange, almost forgotten sense of satisfaction in his soul. Hoof, however, practically ignored the guest, immediately shifting his attention to the Baron.
"I am glad to meet you in person, Cohen!" Hoof grinned, baring teeth that seemed too white against his crimson face. "Last time I saw you, you were about this high..." He lowered his palm to waist level—exactly mimicking Bruno’s gesture from their first meeting. It seemed to be a bad habit among the local elders: emphasizing their significance by pointing out how small everyone else used to be.
"Good morning," Cohen responded lifelessly. His voice was dry, and his shoulders tensed under the new, expensive cloth of his doublet.
He's clamming up, Dmitry thought ruefully. Back into ‘aggrieved heir’ mode.
"Well, why stand here soaking in the rain? Come inside! Breakfast is about to be served! Hey, you!" Hoof's voice suddenly shifted into the roar of an artillery battery. "Set the table, now! I have guests! And call Amalia to the small dining room!"
He marched deep into the house, barking orders left and right. The servants, in identical yellow-and-red liveries, moved like shadows—noiseless, heads bowed, avoiding their master's gaze. There was no loyalty in their movements, only an automated discipline fueled by a paralyzing fear of making a mistake.
The interior didn't impress Dmitry. To a man from Earth, everything looked "expensive-gaudy" in the worst sense of the word. While the ruin of Cohen's castle bore the mark of noble antiquity, here reigned the screaming tastelessness of a nouveau riche. Heavy velvet curtains clashed with bright rugs; silver candelabras were so densely carved that the objects themselves lost their form. It was expensive, ornate, and piercingly uncomfortable.
They moved through a labyrinth of corridors to a small dining room. A fireplace roared so hot the air felt dry and prickly. In the center stood a massive table for twelve. The chair at the head resembled a throne: high back, gold embroidery, and a soft velvet cushion. Hoof hoisted his heavy frame into it.
Bruno took his usual seat to the host's left, and Dmitry sat next to him. Cohen tried to sit a bit further away, behind Dmitry, but Hoof slammed a massive palm onto the tabletop.
"Oh, no you don't! Sit here, lad! Right here," he pointed to the chair at his right hand. "We have much to discuss, and I don’t want to put it off!"
Meanwhile, the servants were quickly bringing in dishes. Dmitry looked at the mountain of food and involuntarily started calculating the calories. Massive hams, roasted game, piles of bread, and bowls of various sauces... It was way too much for four people. Even for ten, it would have been overkill. But Hoof, apparently, measured hospitality in kilograms of meat. Both the host and Bruno acted as if this excess was perfectly normal, so Dmitry forced himself to keep a straight face, hiding his bewilderment.
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Cohen, meanwhile, walked around the table. He tried to move with the dignity befitting his new doublet, but his inner tension made his gait awkward and hurried. As he reached for a heavy chair, a terrified servant darted forward to help, but Hoof’s eyes flashed dangerously. The poor man turned pale, freezing mid-step. The host tolerated no unscripted initiative, especially when it came to "the educational process."
When Cohen finally sat, Hoof leaned in close. He whispered—or what passed for a whisper to him, which was actually a muffled growl.
"Have you thought about my offer, boy?"
Cohen looked sick. Enveloped in Hoof’s aura of expensive tobacco and stale sweat, the Baron seemed to shrink. He swallowed hard, his voice rasping and pathetic when he finally spoke. "I... ahem... I would like to hear your proposal once more. In person."
He cast a short, almost pleading glance at Dmitry.
The gesture did not escape Hoof. His bloodshot gaze snapped to the "stranger" with a mix of malice and suspicion, as if trying to burn a hole through him. Dmitry didn't flinch. He continued studying his plate with total indifference. Years of driving the Ark across dangerous routes had perfected his peripheral vision; without moving his head, he saw Hoof's purple face, Cohen's trembling fingers, and the servants frozen in the corners, afraid to even breathe.
"In person, then?" Hoof straightened up, his chair creaking. "A commendable wish. A man should hear the terms of a deal from the source, not from some pathetic notes. My offer is simple," Hoof enunciated every word, his voice unnaturally loud in the silence of the room. "You marry my only daughter, Amalia, and confirm her right to the name Prast. Along with all the rights for your future children. I, in turn, ensure the full restoration and prosperity of your barony."
Cohen swallowed again. His pale face looked grey in the firelight, as if dusted with ash. He looked like a corpse someone had forgotten to bury. Desperate for a foothold, he glanced at Dmitry again.
That was the final straw.
"Don't look at him!" Hoof bellowed, the silver on the table rattling. "Who is he to you?! An advisor? A Master of Whispers? He's a common vagabond who filled your head with nonsense and now dreams of profiting from your ruins!"
Hoof leaned forward, his face turning from crimson to a bruised violet.
"Is he going to protect you from your neighbors? Do you have any idea how much gold I’ve had to pay those vultures just to keep them from slitting your throat the night your father’s body went cold?! You’re alive only because my purse hasn't closed for a single minute!"
He snapped his head toward Dmitry, his eyes full of raw hatred. "Hey, you! 'Traveler'! Who the hell are you? What did you tell the kid? I’ve spent forty years building this game, and I won't let some drifter in a strange jacket ruin my plans!"
The air tasted like a storm. The threat was real and physical. Dmitry felt the tension flooding the room, and noticed the servants slowly backing toward the doors, sensing a bloodbath.
Dmitry didn't answer. He remained outwardly calm, but his mind was calculating. He didn't look Hoof in the eye; he watched his neck, the pulsing carotid artery, and noted the position of his pack. The Benelli was less than half a meter away, leaning against the next chair. One lunge, safety off, chamber a shell...
Having taken first aid courses, Dmitry knew Hoof was on the verge of a massive stroke. Any sudden move and the vessels in his head might just snap. But relying on the enemy having a brain hemorrhage was stupid. Dmitry was already gauging how to grab the shotgun if this fat boar decided to call the guards.
Suddenly, the fire in the hearth died—it collapsed, as if the space inside the fireplace had been vacuumed of oxygen. A second ago, it was a roaring furnace; now, it was a black maw without a single glowing ember. A dry snap followed as the wall lamps and the heavy chandelier went dark.
The dining room plunged into a thick, viscous gloom.
The only source of light was a tiny, perfectly even petal of flame dancing on Bruno’s palm. The old man sat motionless, but that little spark carried such a density of primal power that the air around it began to vibrate.
The silence became absolute.
Dmitry felt his pulse thudding in his throat. His fingers gripped the Benelli’s forend, but he didn't raise the barrel. In a world where an old man could suck the heat out of a room with a twitch of an eyebrow, the shotgun felt like a useless piece of iron. In the dark, Hoof was silent, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. The man who had been screaming moments ago was now clearly fighting the urge to crawl under the table.
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