Michael ignored the pangs of hunger gnawing at his stomach and turned to address the Lord. According to noble etiquette, it was considered improper to eat before the host—which made it all the more surprising that the young miss had so brazenly begun eating without hesitation.
"My Lord…" he began, releasing a small sigh. "My village was destroyed by beasts. If it weren't for my mother sacrificing herself, I wouldn't have escaped."
He had crafted the story carefully, blending truth with lies. He didn't know Lord Winterborne's exact strength, but with status often came power. It was likely the man was formidable.
And being caught lying to someone who had shown him such hospitality would be… problematic.
The Lady of the house gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth in alarm. Lord Winterborne, too, seemed affected—his youthful face drawing into a somber frown.
"I'm sorry to hear that, young Michael. These past few days must have been difficult for you," he said gently.
Michael gave a small nod, not denying the Lord's words. His eyes flicked toward the food, still steaming on the table. His stomach twisted painfully at the scent.
"It must have been terrible in your village," the Lady added, her voice touched with genuine concern. "You're skin and bones. Even if you haven't eaten recently, no child should be that thin."
"Yes, she's right," the Lord agreed. "Why haven't you begun eating? You must be starving after surviving alone in the wild."
Michael cast the two a pained look. "It's rude… to eat before the Lord," he managed, clutching his growling stomach.
"Eh?"
Both the Lord and his wife blinked in surprise, exchanging glances. Their gazes drifted to the young miss, who was already working through her second plate—completely indifferent to their guest's presence.
Lord Winterborne stared for a moment, then burst into booming laughter that echoed through the dining hall. Even his daughter paused mid-bite, looking up in astonishment.
"How wonderful…" the Lord beamed. "You truly understand respect and propriety—unlike my daughter here."
His grin lit up his face, highlighting his already handsome and refined features. Yet behind those smiling eyes, Michael glimpsed something else—an emotion he couldn't quite identify. It wasn't hostility, but it left him wary all the same.
He should have been on guard.
And yet, for some reason, Michael didn't feel threatened.
Without another word, Lord Winterborne reached for his fork and stabbed it into the leg of a roasted pheasant, placing it neatly on his plate. He sliced off a small piece and brought it to his mouth, chewing with deliberate care. Then, dabbing his lips with a napkin, he looked at Michael—a silent invitation to begin eating.
Michael didn't need to be told twice.
He reached for the serving dishes, selecting modest portions. He prioritized the soup and bread over the meats, knowing his stomach likely couldn't handle anything too heavy just yet.
After nearly a week without food, Michael's teeth had started to feel loose, and he knew that indulging too quickly in the spread before him would be dangerous. The risk of overeating was real.
He took his time, breaking off a piece of bread and dipping it into the steaming soup. He brought the soaked morsel to his lips and chewed slowly. The rich, aromatic flavor enveloped his senses—herbs, stock, and warmth melting across his tongue. It was overwhelming in the best way.
He closed his eyes, letting the taste settle into him.
I'll never let myself get to this point again, he vowed.
A prickling sensation crept up his spine. He opened his eyes to find several sets of eyes fixed on him. A jolt of unease passed through him. The young miss, seated just a few chairs away, was glaring at him—her eyes sharp with disdain, as though he'd personally insulted her.
Did I do something wrong? he wondered, glancing toward the Lord and Lady.
But both wore gentle smiles, watching him with warmth and kindness. The tension in his chest eased.
He ignored the girl's gaze and returned to his bowl, finishing his soup and bread slowly and deliberately.
When he was done, he picked up a napkin, dabbed at his mouth, and then looked toward his hosts.
"Thank you for your hospitality," he said sincerely.
"Michael, dear, are you sure you've eaten enough?" the Lady asked, genuine concern in her voice.
"There's still plenty. Please, don't hold back on our account."
"Thank you, my Lady, but I'm full. If I eat any more, I'm afraid I might get sick."
"Stop showing off," came a sharp voice beside him. It was dripping with venom.
Michael turned, blinking in disbelief.
The young miss glared at him, her lips curled in irritation. "You can't possibly be full after eating so little."
He didn't know what had prompted the outburst, but he understood it wasn't the time or place to argue—especially not in front of her parents.
"I'm sorry, young miss," he replied calmly. "My stomach has shrunk a lot after spending two weeks in the wilderness. If I eat too much now, I don't think I'd be able to keep it down."
"Two weeks!?" Lady Winterborne gasped, eyes wide in horror. "You survived alone in the western woods for two weeks?"
Even the Lord leaned forward, his expression sharpening as he reevaluated the boy before him.
"So what?" the girl scoffed, her voice like nails on stone. "Isn't it normal for a wild dog to survive in the forest?"
The room fell silent.
Maids and butlers froze mid-step. Lady Winterborne's lips parted in shock. But it was the Lord's expression that silenced the room completely—his features hardened, his eyes cold.
"Melody," he said quietly, though the steel in his voice made her flinch. "The one you just called a wild dog has shown more poise and manners during this one dinner than you have in years."
The tension became suffocating. Michael sat frozen, unsure whether to speak. Part of him wanted to de-escalate the moment. But another part—deep down—felt a quiet satisfaction watching the pompous girl finally be chastised.