The dining hall of Wyfkeep was built to awe—and to intimidate. Golden chandeliers dripped light from high, arched ceilings, and the walls were lined with portraits of ancestors whose painted eyes seemed to judge every guest in silence.
At the center stretched a long obsidian table, polished so fine it caught every flicker of the candles and every ripple of dark wine in goblets. The air was rich with roasted meat, sugared fruits, and spiced sauces—yet beneath the indulgence clung a quiet unease, sharp as smoke.
Salviana smoothed her hands across her lap, the silk of her gown whispering as she shifted beside Alaric. He seemed wholly disinterested in pomp and politics, his hand brushing hers beneath the table, thumb tracing lazy circles into her skin as though he needed her nearness to stay tethered.
A voice broke the uneasy lull.
"The king doesn't intend to join us, I suppose."
