Each step I took echoed across the room as I made my way to the offered chair.
Damon nonchalantly twirled a fork between his pale fingers, casting sideways glances at his mother with barely contained amusement.
The twins, Cassian and Elias whispered conspiratorially behind their hands which covered their amused smiles, their eyes flitting between me and the adults like sparrows leery of a predator.
While Lucien and Damon had the eyes of the successor, the twins eyes were a lighter shade of violet which resembled muted amethysts.
I took my seat or at least I tried to. The table was massive and me, well I was much too tiny to even reach the chair.
Using the side of the table as support I somehow hoisted myself up and held my chin high despite the table's grandeur overwhelming my thin frame, dwarfed by the huge size of the table.
I felt a bit of embarrassment as this table was much too big for my small frame and that everyone was able to sit normally, even the twins who were only two years older than me.
My fingers grazed the smooth wood around the table's edge, seeking stability.
"Pfft." Cassian let out a chuckle seeing this comedic scene.
"Silence, Cassian. Someone, bring this brat a silk cushion, and a plate." The Duke ordered.
The servants standing at attention near the doors that led to the kitchen, casted uneasy glances towards each other before pushing out the youngest male servant.
The young servant stumbled out from behind the servants in the front, singled out by the rest of the servants.
His green hair which was usually perfectly tied into a long ponytail was unkempt and his black rimmed glasses were crooked as if someone had punched him earlier which wouldn't be surprising looking at his face filled with bruises.
He quickly adjusted his glasses and straightened out his messy uniform with a calm aura despite his messy look.
"Your Grace, I will be right back with the requested items." The servant said calmly, his body hunching over.
The servant bowed to the Duke before leaving to get the plate and cushion.
Hmm, this servant is not so simple.
Although he had a meek aura, it felt like something darker was hidden underneath that meekness. As if this is just an act.
The way his shoulders were hunched down as if apologising for existing and while his eyes were lowered, it seemed to be watching everything.
The servant appeared shortly after and approached me but I felt something weird.
It was a warm, tingling sensation that began to spread across my wrist, reminiscent of a gentle but invigorating touch.
It wasn't painful at all; rather, it felt akin to the delicate prick of fresh mint leaves, awakening my senses with a sharp yet refreshing sting.
The feeling was both unusual and strangely pleasant, as if a cool breeze had brushed against my skin, leaving behind a trace of something vibrant and alive.
As he neared, I heard a whisper of a name: Frasier
The soul mark of the intertwined hands, marked by a history of struggle, were adorned with a shining outline that illuminated their bruised skin.
Where once there had been a stark silver imprint, vibrant hues now cascaded across the surface, transforming the dullness of the gray hands into a warm light peach skin tone.
The deep black and purple bruises on the pair of hands stood out starkly against this new color, vividly showcasing the trials endured.
As Fraiser set down a carefully arranged collection of plates and dining ware on the table, I couldn't help but notice his hands.
His knuckles were visibly marred, peppered with an array of bruises that mirrored the intricate design of the soul mark.
Each bruise told its own story, a testament to the battles fought and scars earned, intricately weaving together the narrative of resilience etched in both the skin and the symbol.
As his hands pulled back from placing the tablewear, I slightly flinched thinking he was going to touch me to place the cushion down yet Fraiser took three steps back.
Frasier tightly gripped the fluffy red silk cushion, hesitantly waiting for me to say something, as if the very thought of touching me would bring him great pain.
Noticing everyone had their eyes on me only increased my anxiety.
"Help me." Was all I managed to say without dying of embarrassment on the spot.
"As you wish." Fraiser said calmly.
Frasier, about 19 years old, easily lifted me up, holding me tight in his surprisingly muscular arms as he gently placed the cushion on the seat of the chair and then lowering me down so I sat perfectly center on the cushion.
Lucein's curled his hand into a fist as he watched the scene, displeased yet unsure why he was feeling this way.
Frasier then proceeded to gracefully scoot my chair closer to the table and carefully placed a napkin on my lap before bowing to me and the Duke, successfully making his grand escape.
The air thickened with an oppressive silence.
"Did no one inform you?" Vespera's voice slashed through the quiet.
Sweet as honey yet sharp as glass, Vespera continued, "You are not obliged to join us for breakfast, dear Eiden. You've always preferred your meals in the North Wing... haven't you?"
Her words dripped with a quiet menace—a subtle warning, urging me to leave.
I smiled, slow and polite. "I thought... as the Duke's son, I ought to claim my place at this table."
A soft clink of glass broke the tension.
Lucien's hand twitched by his glass cup, his mouth tightening into a thin line. Damon's grin sharpened, transforming from amusement to something darker.
"And what place would that be?" Damon replied, sarcasm lacing his tone as he rested his chin on his pale hand.
"Among the dogs... or the heirs?" Damon continued his taunting.
The Duke set his papers aside, and a hush fell like the quiet before a thunderstorm.
The Duke voice emerged low and steady. "He is a Constello."
All heads turned towards him, including mine.
"He bears the mark. Let him eat."
Vespera's porcelain facade shattered, if only for a heartbeat. Panic flickered in her eyes, dark and hungry. The grip on her teacup tightened to white knuckles.
The four sons froze in place.
Lucien stayed silent, while Damon clenched his jaw, the tension coiling around us like a noose. Cassian and Elias were surprisingly quiet, shock littering their faces.
I directed my gaze at the Duke, whose expression remained as unyielding as steel. Yet, for a fleeting moment, I noticed his hand resting over the faint fading mark where his soulmate mark had once burned brilliantly, a mere ghost, lingering just beneath the surface.
My mother's mark.
I lowered my gaze and reached for the silver fork that Frasier had laid before me. My hands quivered slightly as they brushed against the polished metal, steeling myself against the weight of the moment.
Focus. Breathe. I told myself.
The enticing scent of roasted meat enveloped me. My stomach growled loudly, betraying my hunger.
Cassian let out a little scoff before yelping in pain as Elias stomped down hard on his foot beneath the table.
For the first time in both lifes, I was offered real food, solid and substantial, not the scraps from the kitchen.
Vespera carefully set her teacup down, her gaze pinning me with ferocity. "How peculiar... that you choose today, of all days, to remember your manners, little Eiden. Did some servant whisper sweet nothings into your ear? That you can dare to eat with us, especially today, the day when your dear mother died because of you? Did you dream of finally being loved?"
A faint shimmer brushed at the edges of my vision.
Threads.
Dark, thin, glimmering in the air.
I blinked, wide-eyed.
They flickered around her wrist like wisps of smoke, as if they could barely wait to shatter her wrist.
'Not yet,' a murmured voice echoed in my mind.
In a heartbeat, the threads vanished.
"Perhaps I simply wished to see the faces of my family," I replied sweetly, slicing the meat with precision.
"Such rare beauties. Like jewels on display."
Cassian stifled his giggles behind hands which in turn led to yet another harsh stomp to his foot.
The Duke remained silent, his expression a complicated mess.
As the meal progressed, the atmosphere crackled with tension, forks scraping against plates, each clang like a distant drumbeat heralding the impending storm.