Vanella entered the chamber, tray balanced carefully in her hands. The King's dinner was simple but meticulous—sliced fish, steamed vegetables, freshly baked bread, a small carafe of wine. Every piece arranged with exacting precision.
Raven sat in his usual place, hands folded on the table. His eyes, dark and sharp, did not lift to the meal immediately. They rested on her.
"Sit," he said, voice calm but commanding.
Vanella froze. She knew the rules. Kneeling before him was customary. To take a seat—unheard of. Yet the command was clear.
She dropped to her knees immediately. "I would not dare, Your Majesty," she said softly, bowing her head.
Raven's eyes did not flinch. Not for a second.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Something in the way he looked at her—the intensity, the patience, the quiet expectation—shifted the space between them.
Tentatively, she straightened and moved to a chair opposite him. The moment she seated herself, the tension twisted tighter. Her pulse quickened.
Raven tilted his head slightly, watching her every move.
She placed the tray before him, arranging his food as she had been taught. Then, almost without thinking, she served herself the same.
The clink of her plate against the tray sounded louder than it should have.
Raven's eyes never left her. Not even as he lifted the fork. Not even when he touched the wine.
"Tell me," he said at last, voice casual, but the weight in it cut sharper than a blade. "Before Ross… before all of it… what was your life like?"
Vanella stiffened. Her blood boiled.
"I…" she began, then swallowed hard. She could not speak freely—not with him, not here. Not while he was the reason her family and people were slaughtered.
She pressed her lips together, nodding slightly. "I—had a simple life, Your Majesty."
"Simple?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "A life of privilege? Or one of learning? Of power?"
Vanella's hands clenched on her lap. Her mind screamed. This man killed my parents, destroyed my home, and yet… I cannot hate the sight of him enough because he is so… impossibly—
Ridiculously handsome.
She shut her eyes briefly to gather herself.
"Yes," she said finally, voice measured, calm. "Learning. Hard lessons. Hard work. Nothing more."
Raven studied her, tilting his head, as if assessing every word for truth, weighing it against the tension in her spine, the flush in her cheeks, the controlled pull behind her eyes.
The silence stretched again.
She set down her fork deliberately, keeping her gaze lowered. His gaze, however, did not falter.
He reached for a piece of bread but did not break eye contact.
"Did you have friends?" he asked quietly.
"No," she replied, voice steady despite the rage simmering beneath. "Not many."
He hummed softly, almost to himself, and finally took a bite. The act seemed deliberate—a small test, a delay.
Vanella ate slowly, careful to match his rhythm. She could feel it—the weight of his eyes, the unspoken questions, the deliberate patience. Each glance made her stomach twist. Each pause made her grip the edges of the tray tighter.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he set down his fork.
"You are careful," he observed. "Not because you are afraid of me, I think. But because you are strong. I wonder… how much of that strength lies hidden?"
Vanella's pulse spiked again. She did not answer. She could not. The tension, the proximity, the constant, impossibly calm scrutiny—it all made her chest ache.
Raven leaned back slightly, finally breaking eye contact, but the air between them still burned.
The meal ended quietly. Vanella cleared the tray with hands steady, head lowered, heart pounding.
Raven did not speak again, but she could feel him watching until she had left the chamber.
And when the door closed behind her, she leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly.
Control your blood, control your thoughts, she reminded herself. He is my enemy.
And yet, every time she saw him, every time he watched her, the memory of that impossible face—strong, arrogant, handsome—made her hands tremble just slightly.