Meredith.
Dinner was quiet.
Too quiet.
I sat in my usual seat at the long dining table, watching the subtle rise and fall of steam from my oxtail and butter bean stew. The aroma alone was heavenly—rich, savoury, layered with spices, but it wasn't enough to distract me from the atmosphere.
Wanda sat across from me at the table, oddly silent. Her posture was stiff, her gaze lowered, and she chewed with mechanical precision, as though her mind was elsewhere.
Not once did she attempt her usual glares or half-hearted insults. Not once did she try to provoke me or look for something to say to Draven.
Something was off.
I glanced sideways at Draven, catching only the hard line of his jaw as he cut into his meat. Calm. Controlled. But too still.
My eyes returned to Wanda. She looked like someone who had been recently scolded.
I don't know what prompted it—curiosity or boldness—but I asked, softly, "Where's Xamira?"
