The dining hall was a cavern of silent decor. None of the opulence weighed in gold and sapphire stones arched the ceilings or the walls.
Instead, polished grey stone with rectangular crevices for portraits of previous Mo Clan Patriarchs ran throughout. The warm glow of orange-flamed torches, accompanied by luminescent stones, ignited the visible tension at the dinner table.
Mo Lin sat at an individual table a few spaces left of his father's. The chair's rigid spine supported his frame and cradled his rising chest. His mother sat to the right of his father, her table nearly touching his.
Tension settled comfortably in the hall. Everyone stared at their food underneath the dancing flames, waiting for the Patriarch to break bread and begin the feast.
Today, he took longer than usual. Mo Lin felt a phantom stare brush against his neck, raising the thin hairs there.
Did he find out?
The light crack of yeastless bread breaking loosened the thick, ominous veil that clouded him.
"We thank the Heavens, the Gods, and the Path for a fruitful day," the thick, velvet texture of his father's voice swam through the room.
Uncle Feng, seated at a table below Mo Lin's mother, elegantly grabbed the stem of a wine cup and raised it toward the Patriarch. His silky black hair, streaked with silver, flowed with every subtle gesture.
The man's eyes held a fierceness that always cowed Mo Lin's impulsive thoughts with a single glance. He'd killed thousands. Whether truth or fiction, under that chilling gaze, the possibility remained certain.
The spacious cavern always felt claustrophobic in his presence.
"And to our ancestors, whose strength and blood remain certain and profound," Uncle Feng said in a voice that didn't match his air.
His voice soothed the ears with an unsung melody that stretched hearts and bones alike. Women flocked to him, and his enemies underestimated him. Mo Lin had heard the legends and stories of Feng's time in the military.
With that said, it was everyone's cue to lift their cups and toast. Mo Lin grabbed his cup too.
In a practiced, albeit clumsy motion, he raised it into the air clockwise. A toast to the Heavens. With a flick of his wrist, the cup tilted left. The Gods received their toast.
Finally, with a gentle downward spiral and a tilt toward the right, he toasted his father and the ancestors. Everyone followed in unison and took a quick drink before clinking their cups onto the simple plates.
"Iron-Root Village may have stumbled upon something too large for their fangs," Uncle Yan said while straightening his pristine white robes, an unpopular choice of color among the Mo.
Calmness spread through Mo Lin; the thundering in his ribs stilled as he listened. Maybe he didn't notice the blood. Uncle Yan opened the discussion on family business as usual, a duty held by the youngest since ancient times.
"My sources haven't pinpointed what it might be, but rumors suggest a spirit stone vein in the deep mountains south of their territory," Uncle Yan said.
He reached over with chopsticks and snatched the largest chunk of flame-gale lizard meat, sneaking it onto his plate while ignoring the odd stares from everyone else.
The man lived in his own little fantasy. Before tossing it into his mouth, he looked up with an innocent smile and ate it anyway.
Meanwhile, Mo Lin found it hard to snap his sticks onto anything on his plate. No one noticed the slight trembling in his hands.
The puffy-eyed fish drenched in tomato soup morphed into Shen's bloodied face. Red eyes drove guilt into his soul. Tossing the fish differently did little to unmask the image.
"You haven't touched your food. Does our uninvited guest clinging to your clothes disturb you?"
The Patriarch's voice quelled Uncle Yan's endless speech, turning everyone's attention onto Mo Lin.
Mo Lin snapped his gaze to the Patriarch. They locked eyes, and he shuddered. Chopsticks slipped out of his hands and sent a light thud into the plate.
He knew.
Words hitched in his throat. Pink flushed his cheeks. Hesitantly, he picked up the chopsticks, but the weakness threading through his veins made it impossible. The sticks fell once more.
"Pick up your chopsticks, boy," the Patriarch said. "Look at me and explain the foul stench you carried to dinner."
Mo Lin finally pinned the chopsticks between his index finger and thumb. Straining his neck to the right, he caught sight of the Patriarch, the man he called father, and the sight sank his heart.
A deep scar ran vertically from his father's temple, through the brow, and tapered at the chin. Another crossed his forehead from ear to ear. Gray hairs spread in patches in his fuzzy, waist-length hair.
Calloused fingers held the set of chopsticks like a dagger.
What truly had Mo Lin on edge was the indifferent gaze pinning him in place. Most Mo had true black eyes—Stygian levels of darkness that rooted out souls.
His father's went deeper. Emotion often glinted in the depths of others, but his father's were a dull black that had no capacity for compassion. He looked at Mo Lin no differently than he looked at the uncles, his wife, or the grass.
Simple objects.
The black silk robes he wore did little to soften the image, and the orange warmth of the flames struggled to add a comforting layer.
"Shen. I killed him. He is a curse to the village. Li'er died because of him," Mo Lin rushed to explain himself, stumbling over his words as his heartbeat pounded in his chest.
"With your fists?" The light voice of his mother cut through to him with the precision of an obsidian blade. "You let a nameless commoner's blood soak you?"
"It was a moment of anger. And Li'er... if she wasn't hanging around him she'd be alive. She wouldn't have contracted the illness," Mo Lin said, hoping to gather sympathy.
He received none.
Instead, his father placed his chopsticks on the plate. Not a single clink erupted from the action.
"Look, Lin is still a boy. Which of us didn't kill in a moment of passion?" Uncle Yan said.
"We were not fools either," Uncle Feng gave his opinion and returned to simple observation.
Mo Lin turned to his younger cousins, hoping to receive some sort of aid. But the two boys behaved as if they heard nothing, calmly clawing rice and meat, savoring the spicy meal with total oblivion.
"Your methods were messy. Everyone in the village knows what you've done, and it is the blood clinging to you that alerted them," the Patriarch said.
"What a disgrace. Four lashings for your stupidity. Eight for your lack of control. Ten for a flawed reason based on goading and not evidence. And twenty for leaving witnesses."
Mo Lin wanted to protest and explain himself more, but such hopes turned to vapor the moment his father picked up the chopsticks and began eating, putting an end to the conversation.
"Li'er was weak. A disgrace to the Mo bloodline. Remove her from your memory," his mother's light voice rocked his innards.
Li'er was your daughter.
Those words remained in the back of his throat. His knuckles whitened while holding the chopsticks. Without much thought, he pushed his seat outward and stood.
It was an action destined for failure.
Thick, hot pressure slammed him back into his seat. Joints and tendons froze, locking him in place. Even though he wanted to move, his body had forsaken him.
He felt boiling hot fear crust over his insides. His stomach shivered and everything else moved at a glacial pace.
"If you cannot control and overcome your tendencies, you'll forfeit your name, boy. Sit and listen to your uncles' analysis," the Patriarch spoke one last time.
Uncle Yan, not one to pass up an opportunity to speak, took the space graciously.
"I'm assuming the other villages have heard too. That means there is some credibility to this rumor. If we want to gain anything, we'll need to act fast," Uncle Yan said.
"The main problem will be the Governor. Any new spirit vein discovered never escapes him. Any negotiations must be completed before then. Otherwise, we lose out on so much wealth," Uncle Feng said.
"We cannot afford a wait-and-see maneuver. We should send the shadows to have a look immediately."
His mother smiled gently. It wasn't aimed at him, he knew that much. Its existence only meant one thing.
Placing meat in his mouth, the spicy flavor exploded, sinking him back into the moment and abating his rising emotions.
"What if it's a trap? Currently, our network is stretched thin. We've covered over ten thousand kilometers. To investigate this properly, we'd either need to shrink our coverage or send in the shadows in reserve, which isn't wise," Mo Huangling, his mother, stated.
"The old freaks of Iron-Root Village have been eyeing the forbidden zone for a while now."
"Those old coffers are brewing a war."