Mytchel’s offer got several replies from almost every occupant of the table. It looked like this would be the lot of them, then. Twelve people who’d also witnessed the Sounding. The very thought sent a sliver of dread like a spike through his gut, though he kept himself outwardly calm, topping off goblets left and right without spilling a drop. 

Still, the notion nagged him. He should have told someone, said [i]something[/i] about the terror that had thrown him from his fit of sleep, the roar that rang in his ears even now, but he couldn’t bring himself to utter a word. He’d even tried his best to avoid the court mage, though he got the feeling that the old man saw straight through him. It probably wasn’t far from the truth. It was the stuff of black magic, that, strange visions of what may very well be the future, hearing things no one else seemed to. It was evil, all of it, and the very presence of those others whom it touched sent a shiver up his spine.

In any case, Mytchel busied himself with filling goblets. Under normal circumstances he’d never reach across the table, but the table itself was long and rounding it for so few people would take longer than it was worth. One woman at the table requested a harder drink, to which Mytchel, grateful for the distraction, simply nodded and bowed, turning around and whistling sharply to a serving girl nearby. 
[i]“Burada ağır bir şey,”[/i](something heavy over here) he murmured when she approached. He almost sent her away, but quickly called her back when ale was requested. [i]"Və bəzi pivə, ki, bir."[/i] (And some ale for that one) he finished, pointing out the woman who asked. 

Otherwise, he simply went about his business, nodding a bow to Elden. He knew the man, had served him several times. He served in the king’s royal guard, and seemed to be a good man. Mytchel could respect him. 
All went well until one guest, an eccentric white-haired man, gave Mytchel an invasive up-and-down look. It wasn’t so out of the ordinary, as visiting nobility liked to compare servants in their host’s household to their own, but then the man started yammering. 

[i]“So even the King’s got one, eh? You, the gatekeeper...damn, but I wish I were still at Highmont University. The magical to mundane ratio in this city is simply-” [/i]

Black spots swam before Mitchell’s eyes, and for a second, he was unsteady. At first, he wasn’t sure what the man meant; did he mean Easterners? People of all types worked in the palace, Mytchel wouldn’t know why it was so astounding to see an Easterner here. Then he continued on, mentioning something about magic. Half of it Mytchel didn’t understand in his increasingly shocked state, his command of the Southern language slipping in dread. How… How could he know? How could he know about the evil harboured inside him, the evils he’d worked so hard to hide? 

Horrified, Mytchel’s face drained considerably of colour. His hands trembled, though he wasn’t sure if it was visible or just a feeling. He found it hard to shift his gaze, wide eyes fixed on those of the white-haired stranger, and for a second, he was still. His heart pounded in his ears, and the room became very warm and cold at the same time. 

A drawn-out second later, Mytchel got ahold of himself. While dread still fluttered in his stomach, he controlled himself long enough to clear his throat, shake his head, and utter, “Oh, I’m sorry, I believe you are mistaken…” in a shaky accent before he opted himself out. By then, the serving girl he’d sent away had returned with pitchers of the other drinks in one hand. Mytchel could have kissed the girl, but instead simply bowed to the guests and retreated as quickly as he could manage, without running, to the kitchens.