The dining hall had never felt so loud.
Not because of noise.
But because of the silence.
Silver cutlery lay untouched. Crystal glasses caught candlelight. Long polished table stretched like a battlefield where no one dared move.
In the middle of it all sat a tiny storm.
Nera.
Her legs swung uselessly off the oversized chair, arms folded tight over her chest, lower lip stuck out in a stubborn pout that could have shattered glass. The high back of the chair, upholstered in dense velvet, dwarfed her. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, but her foot repeatedly tapped the underside of the polished wood, a minuscule drum beat of protest against the oppressive quiet.
The maids hovered nervously.
A silver tray of food sat in front of her — warm bread, creamy soup, soft rice, tiny sweets arranged carefully like she was royalty. The candlelight caught the metal of the serving spoons, reflecting tiny sharp sparks into her defiant eyes.
She looked at it.
