Heaven.
My father sat across from me, folding his hands, posture straight but eyes still sharp.
"Soon," I added casually, as if I were commenting on the weather, "travel to the capital will only take two seconds."
Silence. Not the polite kind. Not the stunned gasp kind. The absolute kind. The kind that falls so hard it presses against your ears until you can hear your own heartbeat. A maid froze mid-step. Another stared at the juice pitcher like it had personally betrayed her. A guard blinked once. Slowly.
My father froze. The servants froze. Somewhere outside, Henry and Joff—mid-bite, bread in one hand, roasted corn in the other, wine cups clutched like sacred relics—froze.
Wine stopped halfway to mouths. Coffi and Latte—still hugging their aunt and cousin in the garden visible through the open windows—froze mid-embrace like a badly timed painting.
A single leaf drifted past the window.
