The conversation splintered then, shifting quickly—too quickly—to safer topics: embroidery, poetry, some trivial rumor about the royal falconer. But the atmosphere never quite recovered.
Eva sat back, smirking faintly, but even she didn't dare prod further.
Florence reached beneath the table and gently squeezed Salviana's hand, a silent gesture of comfort. Salviana returned it with a faint smile, grateful yet composed.
Jean stood a step behind her lady, gaze cold as marble. She'd known Salviana long enough to recognize when her poise was armor—when the stillness meant she was breaking inside.
The room was all chatter again, but Salviana heard none of it. Her thoughts drifted—to Alaric, to the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, to how hard he fought to protect her from this world that thrived on cruelty.
Yes, he was called a beast. A monster.
But if only they knew—he was the gentlest soul she'd ever known.
