The morning sun hit the arched windows like an unwanted guest, stretching distorted shadows across the oak table. This wasn't breakfast; it was a standoff. The air was heavy, tasting of iron. Every time a silver spoon clattered against porcelain, the sound echoed like a hammer striking a coffin nail.
Matthias sat rigid, his jaw locked. Opposite him, Leon and Isabella were motionless, staring at their plates as if looking into an open grave. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot up Matthias's leg. Olivia's heel dug into his shin with cold precision.
"What?" Matthias hissed, his voice barely a rasp.
Olivia didn't blink. She was tearing into a loaf of bread, her knife moving with the practiced rhythm of a butcher. She leaned in, her scent—lilies and something metallic—hitting him before she spoke.
"The hounds have finally turned on each other," she whispered. Her voice was thin and freezing. "They've had a falling out."
