The tension during the dinner had simmered just below the surface, but Young Viscount Horas was determined to stoke the fire, and his target was clear—Fenrir. For the viscount, every glance his wife, Lady Hana, directed toward the crippled servant felt like a dagger to his pride, and he was not the sort to suffer humiliation quietly.
"Servant!" Young Viscount Horas barked midway through the evening, his voice cutting through the ambient hum of conversation and clinking cutlery. All eyes at the table turned toward Fenrir, who stood quietly at the periphery of the room with Rui, blending into the background as proper servants should.
Fenrir pushed himself forward slightly, hands resting casually on the wheels of his chair. "Yes, my lord?" he responded with unfailing calm.
The viscount gestured toward the table with a goblet of wine. "My glass is empty. Bring me another bottle. The finest red. Quickly, now."
