Harriet’s face was deathly pale even as she heard words that didn’t allow her to continue eating. Her lips parted slightly, the food on her tongue suddenly tasteless, heavy, and unbearable. Her spoon hovered in midair, then slowly dropped back to the side of her plate with a small clink that only she seemed to hear. The sharp heat of humiliation rushed into her cheeks, turning them an unnatural red as she lowered her head down, not daring to raise it up.
Her fingers dug into the cloth on her lap beneath the table, trembling slightly from the rage she could not express. Every nerve in her body was stiff as stone. Her jaw clenched tight, eyes blazing with silent fury while hidden behind thick lashes. Her breathing was shallow but fast, nostrils flaring slightly as her chest rose and fell in quick successions.
Renewed determination to kill Aira—more than ever before—began to fester like boiling tar in her gut. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. She could already see the way Aira sat, calm and poised, eating her food slowly with that same blank, prideful look on her face that made Harriet’s blood boil. It was as if all other things were beneath her. As if she had won.
She was the one sitting on the King’s lap. The one being kissed in front of two royal courts. The one who was spared again and again. The one Harriet was expected to defeat. And now, she was the one who had become the only recognized pet.
Harriet’s hands remained clenched in her lap as her eyes, still lowered, burned with hatred. She hated how composed Aira looked. Hated the way Zyren had barely spared her a glance. Hated the way everyone else just accepted it.
King Jared barely spoke again after that. His earlier words had already thrown the room into a stillness that even he seemed satisfied with. He concentrated on his food now, calm and unfazed, a sly smile still playing faintly on his lips like he was enjoying every bit of tension his words had caused. His eyes were sharp, however, drifting lazily across the table from time to time, observing and taking note, even as his mouth moved slowly, chewing in quiet contemplation.
The air resolved into silence as neither king spoke to each other. It was an eerie silence, deep and heavy, as though even words had become dangerous. The only thing that could be heard was the sound of eating, done almost exclusively by the stronger ones who had the boldness to continue with their meal.
The ones that were weaker—especially among the nobles—didn’t dare to make too much sound as they ate. Their utensils moved slower, quieter, lips barely parting except when absolutely necessary. Tension gripped the hall like a noose. Every scrape of a fork against a plate was a whisper of nerves. Every muffled bite a silent plea to avoid attention.
Soon, breakfast was over.
Zyren was the first to get up. Not because he was done but because he had barely eaten a thing. His plate was nearly untouched, a goblet barely sipped. His body language was calm, but there was a charge to it—an edge beneath the silk of his movements as he stood. It wasn’t haste. It wasn’t indifference. It was quiet intention.
Aira too stood, though for a different reason than she would have liked. Her appetite was stifled, not just from the tension in the room but because she wasn’t allowed to eat too much while pretending to be sick. Her stomach, though mildly hungry, remained half-empty by design. She moved slower, careful to maintain the image Zyren had set for her. The one he had framed in front of everyone.
Zyren had just gotten up to leave when he opened his mouth to speak. His voice sliced clean through the silence like a blade through ice.
"Our visitors will be leaving tomorrow. I have made arrangements for a banquet as a sendoff," he announced, his tone even and devoid of warmth but somehow still perfectly composed. Regal.
"It’s the least I can do," Zyren continued with a genuine look on his face, though his expression betrayed nothing of what he truly felt. It was polished. Prepared. His gaze, which had lingered steadily on King Jared during the statement, shifted deliberately to Aira, who had been waiting for him to leave so she could also head off.
Only to freeze when she heard him speak directly to her. His voice was cool, low, and certain—yet loud enough to carry.
Aira was unable to help the frown that instantly flashed across her face and settled there as she instantly nodded and bowed, the motion tight and mechanical. Without a word, she followed behind him, every step taut with hesitation even though her legs obeyed automatically.
Rymora, who stood by the wall close to the door as they passed, didn’t look at her. Her posture was straight but heavy with discomfort, her gaze fixed on the ground, not daring to raise her head. Her body was still, breath held—like even her presence might be enough to offend.
Aria quietly followed Zyren for a while, her mind racing with possibilities. She expected him to speak, to say something, anything. But silence persisted. Instead of words, he led her not to their shared room but right past it—to his study. Her heart skipped.
Her feet slowed involuntarily.
Her eyes widened the moment she realized. He opened the door for her to step in, a gesture that should have been gentlemanly but felt more like a trap than an invitation. It was not a kindness. It was a command wrapped in silk.
She stepped in anyway, every nerve in her body prickling with tension as he closed the door behind her, the sound final and deliberate. The guards remained outside, as always. But their absence inside the room only amplified her discomfort.
She had barely stood still before Zyren passed by her, walking ahead with effortless grace toward the majestic table that dominated the room. His steps were soft but firm, confident as always.