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Evening.
Grand Dining Hall, Wyfkeep Castle.
Wyf-fellon, Wyfn-Garde.
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Salviana froze for a moment at the question that sliced through the otherwise quiet tension at the table.
"Where is the dark prince?" Diana asked.
It wasn't spoken by one of the Velthornes, but the sound seemed to float on the air, almost as though the castle itself had whispered it. Yet, the weight of those words caused an immediate shift among the family. Heads subtly turned in her direction, eyes darting toward one another in quiet exchange.
Salviana felt the tightening knot in her stomach twist even further.
She had been asking herself the same question—where was Alaric? His absence weighed heavily on her, and now it seemed it had become the focus of everyone else's curiosity as well. A small panic rose in her chest, though she swallowed it down quickly. This was not the moment to falter, not here, not now.
"He is… indisposed," Salviana answered softly, her voice steady despite the storm of uncertainty brewing inside her. She didn't dare elaborate, for she didn't know the truth. Alaric had left, and she was left to face these people alone without a single explanation.
Was it her fault that he hadn't returned?
Did he regret their union already? But he said he still wanted her earier even after she choose him second.
Lilian's eyes flickered with something—amusement perhaps, or suspicion. "Indisposed? How interesting." She drew out the words slowly, savoring the reaction around the table. The other princesses exchanged glances, while Abigail's narrowed eyes lingered on Salviana, as though trying to pierce through her. Something was wrong, she simply knew.
"Well, perhaps it's for the best. He is known to prefer solitude during… such occasions," Lady Diana Reed commented, her tone dismissive, though there was an underlying venom to her words.
Christiana, always eager to fuel the fire, smirked. "Of course, the dark prince has always been… peculiar. But I suppose that's what one must expect when marrying into this family, isn't it, Salviana?" Her voice was laced with mock sympathy.
Salviana smiled tightly, her hands clasped under the table to keep them from trembling. "I suppose every family has its peculiarities." She chose her words carefully, knowing she was walking a delicate line. She couldn't afford to let them see how vulnerable she felt, how completely out of place she was at this table.
The maids moved silently around them, placing the first course in front of each guest—something elaborate, though Salviana barely registered the aroma or the careful arrangement of the dish. Her thoughts were consumed by the weight of Alaric's absence and the ever-watchful eyes of the Velthorne family.
As she picked up her silverware, she could feel their gazes still on her. She moved with deliberate precision, making sure not to show any sign of discomfort. She might have been alone at the table, but she refused to let them see her as weak.
"Do you not enjoy your meal, princess?" Jollene's voice broke through the brief silence as Salviana raised the fork to her lips. There was a challenge in her tone, one that Salviana couldn't ignore.
She took a small bite, forcing herself to chew slowly, maintaining composure even as her pulse raced. "It's quite delicious," she replied evenly. "Though I confess, I'm still growing accustomed to the cuisine here." some didn't taste the way she wanted her food at all.
Jollene raised an eyebrow, her lips twisting into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, I'm sure you'll adapt. After all, adaptation is the key to survival, isn't it?"
Lilian's laugh was too loud, too sharp, and Salviana could feel the mockery tightening around her like a noose. "Indeed, sister. One must be very adaptable to thrive here."
She didn't know if she liked Lilian or fear her now.
The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of their judgment pressing down on her shoulders. Salviana's smile faltered for a brief moment, but she quickly regained it. She couldn't let them see her discomfort—couldn't let them win.
She reminded herself of who she was—Salviana, the whispered divine lady of the myths. Her family had known she was divine since birth and they'd kept it a secret until she overheard her parent talking about it like it was a gold they couldn't wait to sell.
She had hated that about herself because they didn't exactly ever treat her special but they wanted to use her yet again for riches after selling her art too.
She is the woman who had been married off to a man she barely knew, but who would not be broken by the whispered rumors and sneers of those around her. She had endured worse before, and she would endure this too.
They ate in a blur of quiet conversations and subtle barbs, but Salviana held her own, responding politely when necessary, and maintaining an aura of calm detachment. But in her heart, the loneliness weighed heavily.
The dinner dragged on, and Salviana could feel the eyes of the Velthornes on her, studying her every move, every response. The barbs, subtle and sharp, continued to rain down on her, as she did her best to maintain her composure. Each comment was like a tiny blade, slicing at her resolve, but she refused to falter. She had never felt so isolated, even in a room full of people.
It was as if everyone was determined to eat too slow and not leave the table and the more agitated she became the more she couldn't eat.
Suddenly, there was a loud clatter as Irene, Jaron's wife, stood up abruptly from the table. The sound caused everyone's attention to shift to her, though she looked frazzled, her expression a mix of annoyance and embarrassment.
"I apologize, I just—" Irene stammered, her eyes darting to a maid standing off to the side. "I asked for my water to be lukewarm, not cold! Do you not understand a simple request?" Her voice was sharp, filled with irritation. The maid stepped forward, bowing her head apologetically.
"I'm sorry, my lady. I will fetch another—"
"No," Irene interrupted, her tone curt. "I'll get it myself." With that, she pushed her chair back with a screech and swept toward the side of the room, where a jug of water sat on a tray. There was a tension in the air, a quiet unease at her sudden outburst.
Salviana watched carefully, feeling the strange shift around the table as Irene moved past her. She was seated between Jennifer and Jollene, but as Irene returned to her seat, her steps missed suddenly… too deliberate.
And then, before Salviana could react, a rush of heat spread across her shoulder. A sharp sting of pain. She flinched along with a small cry that escaped her lips.
"Oh!" Irene gasped, her voice dripping with false surprise. "Oh no, I—I'm so sorry!" Her voice, however, lacked the true shock that should have accompanied such an accident.
Everyone at the table froze.
Hot water.
'Didn't she just say she wanted lukewarm? Why then was it hot she took?'
Salviana could feel it seeping into the fabric of her gown, the sting on her skin undeniable, though the physical pain was a small part of the humiliation that washed over her. Irene had spilled—no, poured—the water directly onto Salviana's shoulder.
Jennifer's head turned sharply, her eyes darting between Salviana and Irene, her lips pressing into a thin line. Irene looked up, her face a picture of false horror as she clasped her hand over her mouth. "I can't believe I—please, I didn't mean to…"
But Salviana knew better. It hadn't been an accident but she couldn't say anything. It stung so much and she wanted to touch it─scratch it but she resisted.
"Irene, how careless," Lady Diana Reed tutted from across the table, though there was no real rebuke in her voice. In fact, some of the others seemed almost… pleased by the mishap, their amusement thinly veiled behind expressions of feigned concern.
"It's just a little water," Christiana murmured, glancing sideways at her sisters with a knowing smirk. "No harm done, I'm sure."
"The dress looked like it needed to be thrown out anyway," someone commented but she didn't want to look that way in fear of showing them her blurring eyes.
This isn't about the dress, she'd been burned! She'd scar.
Salviana felt the heat of the water, the sting of the burn, but more than anything, the heat of humiliation. Yet, even as the hot tears prickled at her eyes, she forced them back. She would not cry here. She would not give them the satisfaction.
Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but steady. "It's alright," she said, though her tone was distant, polite. "Accidents happen."
Irene shifted uncomfortably but offered no real apology. "Yes… such a clumsy mistake. I do hope you forgive me," she said half-heartedly, the insincerity palpable in the air.
Salviana offered a tight, strained smile, the burn on her shoulder still throbbing beneath her dress. She couldn't stay at the table any longer. The tension was unbearable, and every eye in the room was focused on her, watching her every reaction. They wanted to see her break, but she wouldn't give them that satisfaction.
"If you'll excuse me," Salviana said softly, pushing her chair back with quiet grace, despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her. "I think I need a moment, I'd be in my chambers."
Without waiting for a response, she rose from the table. She could feel the heat of the gazes on her back as she walked toward the door, her steps calm, controlled. The weight of Alaric's absence felt heavier than ever as she left the dining hall, leaving behind the quiet whispers and pleased glances of the Velthornes.
Only when she was alone did she allow herself to breathe, to acknowledge the flood of emotions that had been threatening to overwhelm her.
Salviana wasn't sure where Alaric was, but she had never needed him more than in that moment.
As she walked, the question echoed in her mind once more.
'Where is the dark prince?'
Salviana didn't know, but she couldn't help but feel that his absence was more than just physical.