It was lunchtime, and the restaurant was nearly full.

  Grem pushed the door open and stepped inside at an unhurried pace, leaving the murmur of the street behind him. The air inside was warmer, thick with the smell of roasted meat, spices, and freshly heated bread. The tables were arranged in neat rows beneath a ceiling of dark wooden beams, about thirty seats in total. Almost all of them occupied.

  Merchants in heavy jackets spoke quietly over steaming plates. Two Protectorate officials were arguing with the sort of expression that suggested they both considered themselves permanently right. A little farther away, a couple ate in silence, absorbed more in their thoughts than in the food.

  The overall noise was the kind typical of places that function well: cutlery touching plates, chairs sliding on the floor, muted conversations. No chaos.

  Grem crossed the room without drawing much attention. A few people recognized him anyway and gave brief nods. He returned them in the same way, without stopping.

  He chose a table for two near the wall and sat down.

  He rested his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers in front of him, and let his gaze drift around the room while he waited.

  It didn’t take long for a waitress to arrive. She looked to be in her twenties, hair tied behind her head, moving with the quick efficiency of someone used to the rhythm of the place.

  She stopped beside the table.

  “Would you like the usual, Governor?”

  Grem looked up at her and gave a polite smile.

  “Yes.”

  The girl nodded and walked away without adding anything else.

  Grem remained seated, absentmindedly observing the room as his thoughts drifted back to where they had been for most of the morning.

  Kahuyla.

  She was pregnant.

  I’m going to be a father.

  The thought filled him with a deep, almost physical joy. A simple, solid feeling that warmed his chest every time it returned to his mind.

  At the same time, though, that thought carried something heavier with it.

  His free time would inevitably shrink.

  And it wasn’t only a matter of time.

  A line by Heydrich Kaltenbrunner came back to him: a professional libertine is rarely a compassionate man. He had always found the line amusing. Cynical, but not entirely wrong.

  Now, however, it seemed incomplete.

  Because once you start a family, once you have a child — or children — it becomes natural, almost necessary, to devote far more time and attention to them.

  His family future looked more demanding than he had ever imagined.

  And that worried him.

  Will I be up to it?

  He rarely doubted himself. In general he considered such doubts unnecessary, almost decorative.

  But this time they were well justified.

  He had never really dealt with children. Except when he had been one himself, of course.

  And he had never paid attention to the things one should pay attention to during pregnancy.

  What needs to be done.

  What must be avoided.

  What can go wrong.

  The thought made his interlaced fingers tighten slightly on the table.

  I don’t want to disappoint Kahuyla.

  Then the dish arrived.

  The waitress set the plate in front of him with the easy precision of someone who had already repeated that gesture dozens of times that morning.

  At the center lay a thick cut of roasted meat. Its surface was browned and slightly crisp, and here and there the melted fat formed small glossy veins that caught the light of the room. From one side a thin thread of steam was still rising.

  Next to the meat was a portion of roasted roots, roughly cut: some golden at the edges, others nearly darkened by the heat, with that soft texture that yields easily under a fork. A dark, dense sauce, poured into a small clay bowl, completed the dish.

  On the side, on a wooden board, there was a small rustic loaf with a thick, cracked crust.

  Grem thanked her with a distracted nod and began to eat.

  His thoughts dissolved.

  The integrated sensorimotor loop, that continuous interpenetration between sensory receptivity and sensory input, that almost indissoluble partnership between the universe and the conscious creature that inhabits it, turned into a quiet union between the heterogeneous murmur filling the room and Grem’s relaxed senses.

  The sound of conversations, the faint scrape of cutlery against plates, the warmth of the food, the smell of spices and bread: everything spontaneously arranged itself into a simple, stable pattern.

  For him it was so easy to dissolve his ego into the environment.

  But it didn’t last long.

  “No touch, sir.”

  The voice cut through the restaurant’s murmur with unexpected clarity.

  The words alarmed Grem.

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  The voice wasn’t new to him, even if he had learned it only recently. A pleasant voice. Clear, with a natural softness that made each word sound more polite than the situation deserved.

  His head snapped toward the source of the alarm.

  It was Antea.

  She stood beside one of the tables, leaning slightly backward in an attempt to pull away from the man gripping her arm.

  Grem recognized her immediately.

  Even in that situation, her presence pulled the eye almost violently.

  Her body had proportions that seemed designed to be noticed: a narrow waist, full hips, generous breasts stretching the fabric of her clothes, long legs that moved with a natural elasticity. It wasn’t the kind of beauty that goes unnoticed in a crowded room.

  Grem watched her for a moment too long.

  Not with the vulgar desire visible in the eyes of the man holding her.

  More the way one looks at a painting capable of producing a faint aesthetic vertigo. Not a true Stendhal syndrome, but something resembling it: a small crack in perception, a quiet moment of wonder in front of a composition that works too well.

  Then the scene returned to what it actually was.

  A man gripping her arm.

  “Come on, just a little squeeze. What’s the big deal?”

  The guy looked like some kind of official. Decent clothes, the posture of a bureaucrat who believed himself more important than he really was. But Grem had never seen him before.

  The man was trying to grab her ass. She had pulled back, but he had caught her by the arm and was now dragging her toward him.

  No one was doing anything.

  Routine business in that world.

  Even in the Protectorate.

  Grem knew it well.

  A disgusting reality.

  Unless you were well known, or your name could be linked to someone truly important, there was always the risk that someone would decide to take advantage of you.

  And that girl had been there for just over two weeks.

  She had started working only a week ago.

  Grem didn’t like playing the hero.

  But for the few things about which he had perfectly clear ideas of right and wrong, he tended to intervene in a very heroic way.

  No thoughts crossed his mind.

  Just one sentence.

  “Hey. Take those filthy hands off her, you piece of shit.”

  He stood up.

  And with an almost unnatural burst of speed he reached the table where the official was sitting, together with the colleague beside him, who looked visibly uncomfortable, like someone who had realized too late that he was on the wrong side of the situation.

  Grem didn’t say anything at first.

  He simply reached out and grabbed the man’s wrist.

  The grip was immediate.

  For Grem it was nothing, a trivial gesture. For the official it was like being caught in an iron vise. The fingers clamped around his wrist with a pressure that felt dangerously close to breaking it.

  Antea was free.

  Grem looked at her.

  “Are you alright?”

  She didn’t look him in the eyes.

  Her gaze was lowered, evasive. Her lips trembled slightly. Grem immediately realized she was about to start crying.

  A moment later she pulled away and ran off, crossing the room quickly until she disappeared behind the kitchen door.

  Poor thing, Grem thought.

  Then he turned back to the man.

  His expression hardened.

  “Governor… I… I…”

  “Shut up!”

  His grip tightened. The official flinched.

  “I should break your arm. Maybe then you’d learn to keep your hands away from pretty girls.”

  “I didn’t think she was under your protection… if I had known—”

  Grem did not release him.

  The man’s face was now twisted with pain.

  “Idiot!” Grem snapped. “Whether she’s under my protection or not doesn’t matter at all!”

  Now he was speaking fast.

  Very fast.

  “I don’t understand how the hell it’s possible that for so many people it’s so hard to put themselves in someone else’s shoes. For fuck’s sake, it’s the easiest thing in the world!”

  His tone shifted slightly, becoming almost theatrical in the middle of his outburst.

  “What would I feel if I were a girl and someone did something like that to me?”

  A brief pause.

  “Oh. Obviously I wouldn’t like it.”

  His eyes flashed with irritation.

  “But what do you care? You’ve never seen her around before. She works as a waitress. She doesn’t even speak the language. So who exactly do you think is going to make you pay the consequences for an action that, in any other context, you yourself would consider disgraceful… or at least know perfectly well would be judged that way?”

  He leaned slightly closer to him.

  “No one. That’s the answer you’d give yourself.”

  The official was almost in tears.

  His arm had turned red.

  “I’m sorry! I won’t do it again, I swear! Please, let me go—”

  Grem looked at him for a moment.

  Then he spoke calmly.

  “You’re apologizing… but you still haven’t understood the mistake.”

  And he released him.

  The official jerked back instantly, rubbing his wrist as if he had just been freed from a trap.

  Grem made a vague gesture toward the exit.

  “Get out of my sight before I start kicking this filthy animal.”

  The two officials didn’t need to be told twice.

  They stood up and hurried out of the restaurant.

  For a moment the room was filled only with the restrained murmur of the people who had witnessed the scene.

  Then an applause started.

  A sincere, spontaneous applause.

  Grem turned toward the room with a grim expression.

  That look was enough.

  The applause died almost immediately.

  Without saying a word, he turned and headed toward the kitchen.

  That was where Antea had run.

  He entered the kitchen without knocking.

  The heat hit him at once.

  It wasn’t uniform, but layered: different waves rising from separate hearths, from iron braziers blackened by years of use, from large pots boiling over heavy grates. Smoke drifted slowly upward, gathering beneath the dark ceiling beams before slipping out through high openings cut into the wall.

  The smell was thick: animal fat, reduced broth, hand-ground spices, burning wood.

  The noise was constant but orderly. Knives striking thick wooden blocks. Water being poured from buckets into large stone basins. Metal pots knocking against hard surfaces.

  He found Nahely and three other workers.

  Nahely stood near a massive wooden counter, drying dishes with a coarse cloth. She lifted her eyes toward him without speaking. They were alert, but not frightened.

  The other three wore simple clothes, heavy aprons stained with sauce and flour. Their hands were reddened from hot water and constant contact with heated tools. One was scraping the inside of a large soot-darkened cauldron with force; another was washing plates in a stone basin, water spilling onto the sloped floor and flowing toward a drainage channel; the third was chopping roots with a short, sturdy knife, movements quick and mechanical.

  People accustomed to physical labor. Invisible—until something goes wrong.

  Antea wasn’t there.

  Grem scanned the room briefly, then headed toward the owner.

  Gruorpkh stood before a hearth as wide as a doorway.

  Short and stocky, with powerful shoulders and a thick neck that seemed fused to his torso. The skin of his face was flushed from constant heat, his forehead shining with sweat. His arms, bare to the elbows, were compact and marked by small scars and old burns. His enormous hands held a ladle as long as a weapon.

  He did not stop stirring the dark sauce bubbling in the cauldron when Grem approached.

  “Gruorpkh, what the fuck were you thinking?” Grem snapped without preamble. “Sending a girl who doesn’t know the language to serve tables—does that sound like a brilliant idea to you?”

  He gestured sharply toward the dining room.

  “Just because she’s pretty and it keeps more customers around, right? Your restaurant is already doing well. You don’t need to turn the place into bait for horny idiots.”

  Gruorpkh lifted his gaze slowly.

  His eyes were small, dark, steady.

  “Grem, who the fuck told you you could walk into my kitchen, you arrogant loudmouth?”

  He set the ladle down on the iron rim but did not step back.

  “Get out.”

  Grem took a step forward.

  “I’ll never understand where you get this courage from, you delusional bastard.”

  He leaned in slightly, bringing his face within inches of the owner’s, the heat of the hearth licking at his side.

  Gruorpkh did not break eye contact.

  Not for a single instant.

  “Where is she?” he asked grimly, without taking his face away from Gruorpkh’s.

  The owner jerked his chin toward the back of the kitchen.

  “Your tender-hearted little princess is down in the storage.”

  He pointed with the ladle toward a low door set into a thickened section of wall. A reinforced wooden hatch with heavy hinges and a worn iron handle. Beside it, a narrow staircase descended into the dimness, lit only by an oil lamp hanging from a hook.

  “Tender-hearted…” Grem repeated, calmer now. “You’re the one who’s gone soft in the head spending all your time in here.”

  Gruorpkh snorted.

  “Don’t play the good man with me. The only things you know how to do are talk shit about things you don’t understand and beat people up. I won’t be judged by braggarts like you.”

  “Fuck off,” Grem replied.

  And he headed for the storage.

  The wooden steps creaked under his weight as he went down. The air changed immediately. Cooler. Drier. It smelled of grain, stored roots, aging wine. The light was dim: two oil lamps hung from central pillars, throwing long shadows across the rough stone walls.

  The storage room was wide but low-ceilinged, thick beams supporting the floor above. Sacks of flour and grain were stacked along one wall. Barrels lined up with care. Baskets of roots and tubers. A few wheels of cheese wrapped in cloth hung from iron hooks.

  There was also a simple wooden bench against the wall, solid and heavy, likely used by whoever came down to check inventory or rest for a moment.

  Antea was sitting there.

  She wasn’t sniffling.

  She looked thoughtful.

  But from her face—especially her slightly reddened eyes—it was clear she had shed a few tears.

  Grem stopped a few steps away.

  “I thought I’d find you in tears, and instead you’ve got quite the pout.”

  He offered a half-smile.

  “I bet you’d like to punch that idiot who put his hands on you. If you want, I can bring him down here so you can rough him up a bit. He ran, but I can find him whenever I want.”

  His tone was playful, but gentle.

  Antea looked at him for a moment, then looked away, fixing her eyes on a random spot on the floor.

  “Right, you still don’t speak our language well. You’ve only been here a short time. I know it’s hard.”

  He stepped closer. He wanted to touch her, to stroke her shoulder, but remembering how distant she had been—especially with him—since staying at the manor, he decided it would be in poor taste.

  “I speak your language. Not good… but I understand good. I know many words. More words, less grammar,” Antea said.

  Grem smiled, almost relieved.

  “Oh, but you speak very, very well. It’s a surprise. It hasn’t been long. You’re strong.”

  “I don’t want you treat me like child.”

  “I wasn’t doing that. Can I sit?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Come on,” Grem said, sitting down anyway.

  Antea shifted slightly away, increasing the distance between them.

  “Talking to someone who isn’t an idiot like many people you’ve met could do you good.”

  “You always not biggest idiot.”

  Grem chuckled.

  “Yeah. I’m a big idiot too, actually.”

  An awkward silence followed.

  Grem didn’t know what to say.

  Then he had an idea.

  “You know what? We should go for a walk. You spend all your time working and studying. I want to show you my Protectorate. I swear, it’s beautiful.”

  “I can’t. I work.”

  “That’s not a problem. I can do whatever I want. And if I want, you can do whatever you want.”

  She pointed upward, toward the kitchen.

  “Not looked like that.”

  Grem huffed.

  “That? We argue all the time. Truth is, that old man and I care a lot about each other.”

  “I don’t want come. Not with you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  Grem tilted his head.

  “That’s something we should fix. The speed of your learning is incredible. You’re a smart girl. Here, people barely know how to read and write. It’s hard to find someone who knows how to think properly. When you find one, you grab the opportunity.”

  His tone had turned almost theatrical.

  Antea looked at him sideways.

  “Then… you find one. For me. Please.”

  Grem laughed.

  “You’re a bitch.”

  “I don’t know that word.”

  “Yeah, books don’t teach swear words. I know.”

  He stood and offered her his hand.

  Antea stood up without taking it.

  Then she headed toward the stairs.

  “So you don’t want to?” Grem asked, following her.

  “I need change clothes” Antea said as she climbed.

  You could’ve told me before walking out, though, little brat, Grem thought, smiling.