The evening feast in the Great Dining Hall was an exercise in strained endurance, a theatrical performance of domesticity held under the watchful, judgmental eyes of the Nevarethian elite.
Despite the storm howling outside, the hall was stiflingly warm, lit by massive chandeliers that dripped wax like slow, golden tears.
Bjorn was currently the primary source of disruption. Restless from the day's confinement, he had taken to prowling the perimeter of the table, his predatory presence scaring the younger servants into near-dropsy.
At one point, he lunged with lightning speed, snatching a whole roasted pheasant off a minor duke's plate before retreating under the table to crunch bone with a sound that made several noblewomen lose their appetites.
Aldric, the perpetually exhausted imperial secretary, watched the chaos with a raised eyebrow and a silver goblet of wine that remained untouched.
