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Afternoon.
Small Dining Hall, Wyfkeep Castle.
Wyfellon. Wyfn-Garde.
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Meanwhile, In the dimming light of the early evening, the grand yet ironically named Wyfkeep Castle Small Dining Hall bustled with the Velthorne children.
Though the room could comfortably seat thirty, tonight it held only seven: the youngest of the royal family gathered around a long table laden with dishes and silver.
The walls of the hall were decorated with tapestries depicting old Velthorne battles, though the children paid them little mind as they chattered and ate.
Benedict, the bastard son of the Second Prince, sat distractedly near the end of the table, a pot of thick, glistening jam in front of him. Instead of eating, he was using his spoon to trace idle patterns in the red jam on the table's surface, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration.
His attire was simpler than the others—he wore a gray tunic with an ill-fitting waistcoat, a visible reminder of his status within the family.
The rest of the children wore embroidered finery: soft velvets, delicate silks, and tailored wool.
At the head of the table sat Simon, the crown prince, resplendent in a crimson doublet with gold-threaded designs across the chest, his dark blond hair combed to perfection.
His expression was one of practiced arrogance, his confidence almost tangible as he eyed Benedict across the table with disdain. His gaze settled on the haphazard mess of jam before sneering.
"What are you doing with your food?" Simon's voice carried through the room, dripping with contempt. "Do you even know how to act like a proper royal?"
Benedict barely glanced up, his pale eyes flicking toward Simon before returning to his artistic endeavor. "I grew up here with you, Simon," he muttered, the words sharp with thinly veiled irritation. "Stop trying to spout nonsense."
A few seats down, Phillipa, the first daughter of Spencer Velthorne, sat quietly, her delicate fingers toying with the lace of her forest-green gown. Her sharp gaze, however, was locked on Madison, the eldest daughter of the Third Prince, Jaron.
Madison was dressed in a soft lavender gown, her dark hair braided and resting neatly over her shoulder.
Phillipa's expression was one of suspicion, her mind racing as she stared at Madison, who ate her food in silence, pointedly avoiding eye contact.
Phillipa narrowed her eyes further, her thoughts spinning. 'Wasn't Madison supposed to be bedridden from that awful burn?' she thought, recalling the story her parents had told her—the scalding hot water that had supposedly left Madison in unbearable pain.
She leaned forward slightly. "How are you, Madison?" she asked, her voice cutting through the general noise of the hall.
Madison finally looked up, her gray eyes flashing with anger. She offered no words in response, only a cold glare before returning to her plate, cutting her meat with measured, deliberate movements.
Phillipa frowned, her unease growing. 'Why had her parents lied about Madison being injured? And why was the Third Prince and his wife—Madison's parents—suddenly banned from court?'
At the far end of the table, Hazel and Anastasia, the younger daughters of the Velthorne family, giggled and whispered to each other, oblivious to the tension brewing among their older siblings.
Hazel, dressed in a soft yellow gown, leaned over and stole a bite from Anastasia's plate, laughing when her cousin—a vision in a pale blue dress—mock-gasped in protest before doing the same.
Their carefree antics filled the hall with bursts of light-hearted laughter, a stark contrast to the underlying currents of intrigue surrounding them.
Meanwhile, little Rose Velthorne, barely four years old and without a mother, sat fidgeting in her high chair at the other end of the table.
She struggled with her spoon, her small hands unable to properly grip it as her food remained largely untouched.
A maid hurried over, her black and white uniform crisp and well-pressed, gently guiding Rose's hand to help her eat. The child's bright red dress, embroidered with small flowers, seemed oversized, adding to her fragile appearance as she ate under the maid's watchful eye.
John Velthorne, the son of Jaron and Madison's older brother, tore into his food with an almost animalistic fervor, his appetite unmatched by anyone at the table.
His shirt, a slightly wrinkled navy blue, was already stained with traces of gravy. His eating style—more suited to a battle-hardened warrior than a noble prince—earned occasional glances from the maids, though none dared say anything.
The maids themselves moved quietly around the table, replenishing drinks and ensuring the children had everything they needed.
Their muted footfalls and hushed whispers seemed to glide through the hall like a gentle breeze, the soft clinking of plates and utensils the only interruptions in their smooth, practiced movements.
The spread on the table was a feast of roasted meats, fresh bread, boiled vegetables, and various fruits and sweets.
The scent of herbs, butter, and honey filled the air, mixing with the faint warmth of candlelight that flickered across the ornate tablecloth.
Despite the rich fare, not everyone was focused on their plates. Benedict's mind remained far from the meal, his gaze distant as his spoon continued its idle drawing in the jam.
But his thoughts were elsewhere, not on the food, not even on Simon's jabs.
'How could he meet the Seventh Princess—the wife of the Third Prince?' Benedict mused, his mind turning over possibilities.
His curiosity about the banished prince's wife had grown stronger in recent days, ever since he first set eyes on her and the royal family had begun seeing her as a threat, as someone to hate which had been from first sight too. He might be sad for being different but misery loves company and the third princes wife looks to be company to him.
Phillipa, too, sat deep in thought, her fingers now clenched as she replayed the confusing web of lies surrounding the Third Prince and his family. 'Why did they hate him so much?'
'Isn't he family?'
The evening dragged on as the children continued their meals, each lost in their own thoughts or conversations, while the heavy weight of Velthorne politics hung silently over them.
And somewhere else in the castle, the elder Velthornes, prince and princesses were getting ready for dinner in the royal dining hall.
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PLEASE VOTE AND UNLOCK PRIVILEGE CHAPTERS TO HELP THE BOOK GROW.
~Love Nana.