Jenkins could tell Hathaway was brimming with anticipation for the night's performance. She had studied music since childhood, and despite being quite accomplished, she had never had an opportunity to showcase her talent. This opera, a collaboration with Jenkins, was the first ti she would see her work brought to the stage.
This mont was profoundly significant for Hathaway. She had already decided that after the show, she would extend a special invitation to Jenkins to "celebrate" the success of their collaboration.
"ow~"
The cat sensed a dangerous idea brewing.
The opera began at nine o'clock sharp. At the sound of a prompter's whistle, the lights throughout the grand hall extinguished in unison. The once resplendent theater was plunged into darkness, and the murmur of the crowd died down, like a raging sea giving way to a tranquil calm, until only a profound silence remained.
A spotlight cut through the darkness, illuminating the stage. But instead of an opening set, a lone figure stood in the light: Mayor Saks Luto, dressed in a formal, wine-red suit.
Frankly, his portly figure was ill-suited to the wine-red ensemble. While the old-fashioned cut of the suit was much like sothing Jenkins himself would wear, he couldn't abide the color.
"Ladies and gentlen, good evening. I doubt there's anyone here who doesn't recognize . The esteed Silver Jasmine Opera Troupe is gracing us with a performance tonight, and the very cordial Mr. Nelly invited to say a few words before the curtain rises. I trust you won't begrudge a few monts of your ti."
A wave of good-natured laughter rippled through the audience, confirming that most of them had been expecting this interlude. Jenkins, seated among them, felt not an ounce of anticipation for the mayor's address.
As expected, his address had nothing to do with the opera. His opening words were stark: "My friends, we now face the prospect of war..." He then launched into a discussion of Friday's shocking poisoning incident and the city-wide unrest that followed.
Just as Papa Oliver had predicted, all bla was laid squarely at the feet of Duke Antak. After all, he had both motive and ans, and in truth, he did bear so responsibility. The details—the poisoning, the slaughter of citizens, the clash with Nolan's city guard—were all glossed over. The mayor focused instead on Nolan's grievous losses and the depravity of their enemies.
It was obvious the Church had sanctioned this narrative; the fra-up would never have gone so smoothly otherwise. What he couldn't be sure of was the Church's stance on a full-scale war. Jenkins suspected the Orthodox Churches would not endorse the kind of chaos that had erupted a century ago. More likely, they had detected rot among the royalty and nobility of the Cheslan Kingdom and were using this as a pretext to deliver a sharp warning.
The Fidektri Kingdom, however, likely had simpler, more rapacious ambitions. Given the chance, the kingdom wouldn't hesitate to devour a piece of its neighbor's territory. The ultimate scale of the coming war would depend on the stances and strategies of both the Church and the Crown. Still, Jenkins doubted it would escalate into an all-out war. The most likely outco, he mused, would be the Fidektri Kingdom annexing one of the neighboring counties.
The mayor's speech served a dual purpose: to declare the official position on the matter and to reassure the public. Most people were ignorant of the full truth, and they certainly had no idea of the catastrophic plague about to be unleashed. Before it all began, the Church and the Crown had to issue their gravest warning, hoping to mitigate the coming damage.
How many would heed that warning and prepare themselves, however, was anyone's guess.
For Jenkins, being in the audience was a novel experience. And by "audience," he didn't just an his physical seat, but his position as a spectator to the unfolding events.
Typically, any major event that transpired in Nolan seed to have an uncanny connection to him, inevitably dragging him into the fray. But this ti, the mayor's words felt distant. The aristocratic politics, the public consolation, the impending military conscription—none of it concerned him.
He was a noble, yet he existed outside the aristocracy's intricate web. He had weathered the recent disaster, but it had inflicted no losses upon him or his loved ones. And while the kingdom's conscription laws required all able-bodied n, even nobles, to be ready for the front lines... he knew all too well how many loopholes that system contained.
It was a fascinating thing, to observe from the periphery. He felt like a spectator at a chess match rather than a player on the board. Both see the sa ga, but their perspectives are worlds apart.
As he watched the rapt faces of the audience, all hanging on the mayor's every word, Jenkins was struck by a sudden, inexplicable loneliness. It was as if he were an outsider looking in, completely detached. He felt himself brushing against that sa ineffable sensation he'd experienced before.
"ow~"
The cat let out a soft cry, pulling Jenkins back from the edge of that strange feeling. This sensation of being a detached observer of all things was not new; it often surfaced when he felt most at odds with the world around him.
He suddenly understood. A new power was on the verge of awakening within him. He just hadn't taken the final step.
He reached out and stroked the cat's head, its soft fur a comforting presence. Jenkins knew he would never be truly alone, not as long as his cat was with him.
The mayor spoke for a full half-hour. Despite his eloquence, his speech was t not with applause, but with a low, cryptic murmur that spread through the hall.
For the mayor, it was the perfect venue for such a speech. It wasn't an official state function, so his words carried no official weight. Yet, it was a formal, public gathering attended by the city's most influential figures. Delivering the ssage here ensured everyone present understood its profound gravity.
For many in the audience, their primary reason for attending had now been fulfilled. But they were all respectable people, and no one was so discourteous as to leave before the opera began.
Everyone, including Mayor Saks Luto himself, sat in silent darkness, watching as the stage lights rose once more. On a set designed to look like a train car, actors dressed as travelers took their places one by one.
An eerie quiet settled over the hall, so profound that the actors' voices carried to every corner with perfect clarity. An audience is expected to be silent during a performance, of course, but this stillness felt different—unnatural.
It was an oppressive silence, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts—the heavy, peaceful calm that precedes a storm.
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