She felt every gaze, but acknowledged none of them.
With the silence following her like a veil, Jasmine walked forward and claimed her seat at the table, closer to the head of the table.
The din rose again, though not to the same fevered pitch.
She sat in silence, her spine straight, her expression unreadable. Lilian stood a respectful step behind her chair, her presence quiet but unwavering.
The hall grew steadily more crowded as the minutes trickled by. The princes swaggered in with their entourages, daughters of royal blood slipped through the tall doors like perfumed shadows, and consorts of every age arrived in silk and jewels that glittered beneath the chandeliers.
Most of her siblings were present, but not all of them, despite how many of them were already here. Some had duties to attend to and dreams to chase.
Servants flitted about, adjusting place settings, pulling out chairs, and pouring wine into crystal goblets.
Jasmine remained still in her seat, her gaze never lifting from the polished wood of the table. She acknowledged no one and spoke to no one, yet their eyes often strayed toward her regardless, as if drawn despite themselves.
Finally, when the emperor arrived, the air shifted.
The guards at the hall's main entrance struck their halberds against the floor, the steel ringing like thunder. The grand doors swung open, and a tall figure stepped through, golden hair catching the light like a crown of fire. His presence alone carved silence into the room.
The emperor walked with measured authority to the head of the long table. The scrape of chairs and the rustle of fabric filled the space as every man, woman, and child rose to their feet.
"Your Majesty," they intoned in unison, voices blending in reverence.
Even Jasmine bowed her head, though it was a subtle dip, a motion more perfunctory than reverent.
The emperor took his seat. Only when he was settled did the rest follow, chairs sliding once more into place.
With a motion of his hand, the feast began.
The servants streamed forward, carrying trays laden with steaming dishes. The scent of roasted meat and herbs filled the hall, mingling with the sweet perfume of baked fruits and sugared pastries.
Dishes of foreign origin gleamed beneath silver lids: frumenty rich with saffron, wild boar glazed in honey, thick steaks seared to perfection and draped with mushroom sauce, salads tossed with fresh herbs, platters of vibrant vegetables cut into delicate shapes.
The chatter resumed, though quieter now, softened by the emperor's presence.
Jasmine reached for the steak nearest her. She was not one to demand a particular dish, nor did she share the pickiness common among children of her age. Her appetite was steady and calm, untethered to whims or extravagance. She ate what was convenient, what was placed before her.
Her knife cut through the meat with practiced elegance, portioning each piece into delicate sizes. She lifted each morsel to her lips with precision, never hurried, never distracted. Even her chewing was quiet, measured.
Around her, the noise swelled again, her siblings laughing too loudly, courtiers boasting, consorts whispering sharp words behind painted fans.
Jasmine paid them no mind.
Her servant Lilian, standing a step behind her, observed in silence. To watch Jasmine eat was to watch a ritual: every motion controlled, every gesture refined. It was not affectation; it was simply who she was.
No, not just eating, her lady had a habit of doing every simple action, motion, and even speaking with complete elegance. How one so young could exude such an air of superiority was a mystery.
After several quiet bites, Jasmine set her utensils neatly upon the plate. She had eaten enough. Her pale fingers slid the dish away with a fluid motion. Straightening her spine, she folded her hands lightly in her lap and fixed her gaze upon the opposite wall, her expression cool, bored.
She did not speak. She did not fidget. She waited.
Tedious as it was, she could not leave before her father.
Minutes passed. The laughter grew louder, the voices bolder. Jasmine remained unbothered by it all, like a still pond in the middle of a storm.
At last, the emperor lowered his goblet, setting it upon the table with a decisive clink. The noise softened instantly.
He swept his gaze over the table, pausing only briefly on each face. When his eyes passed over Jasmine, she met them without hesitation, calm and unwavering.
"Next week," the emperor said, his voice deep and steady, "we will hold the coming-of-age ball for Jasmine."
A ripple passed through the hall. Eyes turned to her once more. Some lingered only a moment, others longer, measuring, judging, wondering. Contempt gleamed in some gazes, indifference in others, though they were somewhat restrained in the presence of the head of the house.
Jasmine neither flinched nor acknowledged them. She held herself upright, her whole being serene, as if their stares were no more significant than the shifting of candlelight.
The emperor gave a single nod. "That is all."
He rose. At once, the entire hall stood with him.
"Your Majesty," they intoned again as he departed.
The moment he passed beyond the doors, the spell of silence fractured. Conversations flared once more, voices rising like waves crashing upon stone.
Jasmine stood.
Lilian moved instantly to her side, ready to follow.
Neither waited for the meal to resume nor for courtesies to be exchanged. Jasmine walked from the table without a word, her black gown trailing like a shadow behind her, her head high, her gaze straight ahead.
The hall quieted briefly as she passed, all eyes pulled toward her departure, then roared alive again. It began softly, like the hiss of a serpent beneath silk.
"Wretched girl…" a woman muttered, her voice low but dripping with venom.
"She thinks she's better than us," another added, the sneer in her tone unmistakable.
From further down the table came the whisper of one of her elder sisters, delicate and cruel all at once. "So cold. No wonder no one can stand to be near her."
A chuckle followed, male this time, one of her half-brothers. "Ungrateful devil's spawn," he murmured just loud enough for those near him to hear. "She forgets whose blood she carries."
"She carries her mother's cursed blood," said another, voice laced with bitterness. "Her mother's death was the first proof of that."
Each insult landed like thrown stones, bouncing off the surface of calm she wore like armor.
Jasmine heard every word.
But she gave them nothing. Not a glance. Not a twitch of expression.
Of course, those hurling insults were in the minority, and they did not dare say it straight to her face, but she did not care either way.
Her face remained perfectly composed, as though she were walking through a corridor of wind and all the venom in their voices was nothing more than a passing breeze. Her steps were measured, unhurried, her chin lifted slightly, not in arrogance, but in quiet refusal to stoop to their level.
Lilian's eyes flicked nervously between the sneering faces and her lady's back, her hands tightening around the folds of her skirt. She wanted to speak, to defend Jasmine, but she knew better. Her lady did not need a defender.
For Jasmine, silence was not weakness; it was contempt made graceful.
The insults grew quieter as she neared the end of the hall, not because their hate had faded, but because something in her stillness unsettled them. Her composure reflected their smallness back at them, made their words feel cheap and ugly.
A duchess's daughter whispered sharply to her neighbor, "Look at her, doesn't even flinch. Just walks away like a ghost."
And indeed, as Jasmine reached the tall doors and the torchlight fell across her black gown, she seemed almost otherworldly, pale, distant, untouched by mortal noise.
The guards swung the doors open. The noise did not reach her. The doors closed behind her, and the loud world of the dining hall was left behind.
Jasmine walked through the long, gilded corridor, her steps unhurried. Lilian followed, quiet as always.
"Finally," Jasmine murmured under her breath, more to herself than to anyone else. "Peace."