The Prelude to a Fancy Dinner

"Imagine that Lorian is a book," Sanni said, waving her hand as though conjuring the idea in the air. "Each layer is a chapter in that book. They build upon one another, weaving together until the entire story of Lorian unfolds. One layer cannot stand without the others."

"And where would we be in this book?" Mirak asked, tilting his head, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Sanni's sharp gaze flicked to him, her tone patient but edged with authority. "Listen carefully. I am nearly finished explaining."

"Yes, my Lady," Mirak murmured, lowering his head slightly in a half-mocking display of obedience, though he kept his smirk hidden.

Satisfied, Sanni continued, "The layers, much like the essences, mirror our reality. When you act in Lorian, the layers above and below vibrate and shift, adapting to reflect the changes. They are interconnected, influencing one another with every decision, every event."

Her voice softened as her thoughts seemed to drift to something distant, something greater. "If only I could see all the layers together. Imagine it—an endless tapestry of truths, of mysteries unraveling in their totality. What impossibilities could we accomplish if we understood them fully?"

Mirak considered her words, his brow furrowed. "But… has anyone ever traveled into another layer? Surely someone must have."

Sanni's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "The book I caught you reading in the library would agree that they have."

"You called the author a lunatic," Mirak pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, but not for his claims," Sanni replied smoothly. "In times long past, they spoke of ships capable of slipping between the layers. Their crews were called Waywalkers." She leaned back in her chair, her fingers lightly tapping the armrest. "The layers may be ancient, but the Waywalkers are older still. Yet we know so little. They are either exalted as saints or cursed as demons shaped in the image of deities—or worse, the Chained Gods." She sighed, her elegant shoulders sinking slightly. "It is like trying to assemble a puzzle that shifts and shatters as you place each piece."

"But you asked about essences," she said, snapping her focus back to Mirak, "and I would not be a Lady if I did not honor my word."

"A Fell following honor?" Mirak said with a sly grin. "Rumor has it that a noble in Koona would trade their soul for a handful of resin. Surely their word is far cheaper than a soul."

"Do I look like someone who would trade her soul?" she asked, her lips curling into a sharp, teasing smile.

"Yes," Mirak replied without hesitation.

Sanni laughed softly, hiding her face behind the delicate sleeve of her dress. "We are getting distracted," she said, her voice lilting. "Let us focus on the most fundamental essence of Koona."

Mirak leaned back slightly, tapping his chin as his shackles rattled faintly. "It's what causes the Saki to fly, isn't it?"

"It is also why House Omen remains a Great Noble House," Sanni replied, her voice dropping slightly, as if inviting him into a secret. Her piercing gaze settled on him, studying him as though testing his reactions. Mirak shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, unsure why her stare unnerved him so much.

Sanni continued, "It is called Anntom. An essence that runs parallel to the veins in our bodies. But surely, you already know that."

"I know it affects the body," Mirak acknowledged, though his tone betrayed his curiosity.

Sanni clicked her tongue, a soft sound of amusement. "You must have paid quite a price to meet a Facechanger."

"I have no resin to spend on their services," Mirak said blandly, brushing off her implication.

Before he could turn away, Sanni reached out and cupped his chin with surprising gentleness. Her fingers were cool against his skin as she tilted his head, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her silver eyes examined his face closely, tracing the lines of his features. "That's how you acquired these new eyes, isn't it?" she said, her voice soft but unwavering. "A Facechanger carved them into you. Their craft is unmistakable."

"And if I did?" Mirak asked cautiously.

"I wouldn't care how my servants spend their coin," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. Her tone was light, but her grip on his chin remained firm. "What I care about is hiring skilled individuals, and you are no exception. Anntom, you see, grants the ability to alter the body instantaneously."

"There's a price, though," Mirak said, his voice quiet as his thoughts drifted to Damion, the memory of his friend's grotesque transformation into a monstrous mass of hardened veins and bone seared into his mind.

"Yes," Sanni agreed, releasing his chin and leaning back with the elegance of someone born into power. "It's a gamble. Those who use Anntom risk both reward and ruin. Facechangers rarely warn their clients, and even if they do, the allure of transformation blinds most to the risks. When Anntom is spent, the results are irreversible."

Mirak touched the side of his face unconsciously, his fingers brushing against the smooth skin. "So… this could've gone wrong?"

"You could've grown horns," Sanni said matter-of-factly. "Or your skin could've become so fragile a single touch would draw blood. But whoever worked on you was clearly skilled. They concentrated the Anntom on your facial features alone, ensuring precision. I'd like to know their name."

Mirak's jaw tightened. "He didn't give one," he lied smoothly.

"As expected of a Facechanger," Sanni replied, though her silver gaze lingered on him a moment longer, as if peeling back layers he didn't know he had.

"You know a great deal about them," Mirak said cautiously, his tone probing.

"I am no Facechanger, but House Fell has long mastered the use of Anntom," Sanni said with a faint smile. "All of Koona has. Do you think we were born as exotic beauties? No, we crafted ourselves to reflect our power."

She stood gracefully, brushing off imaginary dust from her silken gown. "That is enough for the day. One of the eight essences explained. The others are far harder to grasp. We'll speak of them when time allows."

Mirak leaned forward slightly, intrigued despite himself. This was what he had been seeking—the truth behind Lorian and its mysteries. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Sanni's sharp glance stopped him cold. She smirked, knowing she had him hooked, dangling the truth like a carrot on a string.

"I'll be in my quarters until dinner," Sanni said, her tone returning to the clipped authority of a noblewoman. "Fetch books on past Ages and bring them to me. After the meal, you are free to do as you please. I'll be in my study for hours after."

Her words weren't just commands; they were a reminder. Mirak was a servant, bound to her will. The gulf between them was insurmountable. Only wealth—an impossible treasure of resin—could free him from this reality. It was a truth that settled uneasily in his chest.

Without waiting for a response, Sanni rose and left the library, her silks trailing behind her like whispers of moonlight.