Dinner was a funeral.
Celeste stabbed her fork into a roasted pheasant, the sound echoing in the cavernous dining hall. Alaric sat at the far end of the table—twelve feet of polished oak between them, as deliberate as a drawn sword.
"You know," she said, swirling her wine, "in some cultures, people actually talk while they eat."
Alaric didn't look up from his plate. "I find silence preferable to pointless chatter."
"Peace isn't silence," she countered. "It's knowing the silence won't kill you."
His knife stilled. "Then we are neither peaceful nor silent."
A log cracked in the fireplace. Somewhere, a clock ticked toward midnight.