Vadyn looked down at her plate, watching the fork twirl—a lazy spin of silver that wound around the pasta that she had no intention of eating. Her appetite had abandoned her somewhere between the second toast and the fourth empty compliment.
She lifted the fork, let the pasta slump back to the plate, and reached for her wine instead.
A deep sigh escaped her lips as she raised her gaze to look at the hall that stretched long and amber-lit.
Currently, she was sitting inside a private room with a fine table of dark oak at the center. About three dozen high-ranking officials filled the chairs along its length; their voices were a continuous murmur that rose and fell without ever forming words she needed to hear.
They ate. They drank. They glanced toward her end of the table with measured frequency.
Evaluating their positions in Vadyn's eyes.
