As if to prove that Emperor Callian truly didn't do it, he didn't just look angry.
He looked offended on a cosmic level.
The kind of furious where veins appear that probably weren't there a second ago. The kind of rage that made even the chandeliers feel like they should apologize.
Well.
Good for him.
Still wasn't eating palace food ever again though. Trauma is trauma.
In front of the Emperor, everyone who so much as breathed near my plate was kneeling now.
The chef.
The sous-chef.
The assistant's assistant.
Three maids.
The butler.
And two poor souls who looked like they only carried vegetables from point A to point B and were now reconsidering every life choice they'd ever made.
All of them had their heads bowed so low they were one existential crisis away from merging with the floor.
Terrified.
Sweating.
Silent.
Meanwhile, I was just… sitting there.
Hands folded politely on my lap. Back resting against the chair. Legs crossed.
Waiting.
