Titania's POV
My father sat at the very end of the long dining table, claiming the head seat like he always did, as if the wood itself had been carved to fit his authority. I was seated at the opposite end, far enough that the distance felt symbolic. The table between us was heavy oak, polished to a dull shine, lined with dishes that steamed gently in the warm light of the chandeliers above. The scent of roasted meat and spices lingered thick in the air.
He was eating an entire roasted cow leg—yes, an entire leg—holding it with his bare hands like utensils were an insult to his pride. Grease coated his fingers. The sound of tearing flesh and bone echoed faintly through the hall. He chewed with the casual indifference of a man who had never once worried about how he looked while eating. If a noble walked in and judged him for it, he'd probably just offer them a bite.
Honestly, I wasn't bothered by how he ate. I'd grown up with it. If anything, it was predictable.
