The feast that followed Elswyth's arrival was a spectacle of excess. Long tables overflowed with venison, roasted fowl, and spiced wine. Minstrels played, jesters capered, and torches bathed the hall in golden light. Yet beneath the merriment, tension coiled like a serpent.
Athelric seated himself beside Elswyth, speaking to her boldly, as though she were already promised to him. He spoke of hunts, battles, and victories, each tale more embellished than the last. Elswyth smiled politely, but her laughter seemed forced.
Caedmon, sitting across from them, noticed. His heart burned each time Athelric's hand brushed against hers, but he said nothing. Instead, he raised his cup when their eyes met briefly across the table. For a heartbeat, the hall faded, and only the two of them existed in that silent exchange.
Later, when the feast had thinned and wine dulled the senses of many, Caedmon approached the balcony for air. To his surprise, Elswyth was already there, her gown glimmering in the moonlight.
"Do you find the hall stifling, my lady?" Caedmon asked softly.
"I find it filled with too many eyes," she replied. Their gazes lingered, the silence charged.
It was the beginning of a dangerous path neither fully understood, but both were powerless to resist.
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