The dining hall smelled faintly of lavender, silver polish, and unresolved childhood trauma.
Kael sat in his designated seat—back too straight, posture too perfect.
Like someone playing noble rather than being one.
Which, to be fair, he was.
The silverware in front of him gleamed like surgical tools, and he was pretty sure the butter knives were emotionally judging him.
Beside him, Selene stood stiffly, eyes wide, soul halfway out the door.
Then, the double doors creaked open.
First came the Duke.
A man carved from granite and low expectations.
His expression suggested he hadn't smiled since the kingdom was founded and had no plans to start now.
His eyes swept over Kael with the detached assessment of a butcher evaluating subpar meat.
No words. Just a nod.
Cold. Dismissive. Surgical.
He took his seat with the gravitas of someone who had commanded armies, executed revolts, and once killed a wyvern with his bare disappointment.
Then came the Duchess.
She glided in like a whispered threat—soft voice, soft perfume, spine of steel.
She offered Kael a smile so distant it could've been mailed from another continent.
Then her eyes drifted to the empty chair beside her.
And lingered there.
Longer than necessary.
That was his chair.
Her golden son.
The one everyone remembered.
Then the doors opened again.
And in he walked.
Veyran Drenlor.
The prodigy. The heir. The sword that had never been dropped.
He didn't enter—he arrived.
Like a storm that knew it was invited.
His robes shimmered with active enchantments Kael couldn't even name.
The air around him felt curated.
Even the maids seemed to sigh in unison, as if paid to admire.
Kael muttered, deadpan,
"Main character syndrome is a disease."
Behind him, Selene had gone very, very still.
She wasn't breathing.
Kael elbowed her gently.
"Hey. Stay with me."
She blinked rapidly.
"Your family is terrifying."
Kael offered a dry smile.
"You get used to it.
Then you develop lifelong trust issues."
She nodded solemnly.
"Makes sense."
The dinner hadn't even started, and Kael already felt emotionally overfed.
He'd expected an interrogation.
A passive-aggressive toast.
Maybe a dramatic wine spit from his father.
Instead?
Just silence.
They sat.
They nodded.
They began to eat.
No words.
No glares.
No monologue about duty or honor or how Kael had disgraced the family name by merely existing.
It was... unsettling.
Like the calm before an emotional hurricane.
But Kael wasn't one to waste perfectly good roast duck over paranoia.
So, he dug in.
And not the way nobles did—tiny bites, dabbing lips, whispering critiques about seasoning.
No, Kael ate like a starving orphan who'd just been adopted by a bakery.
Like a man who'd faced death, treachery, transmigration, and existential dread—and decided food was the only thing that made sense anymore.
Fork in one hand, bread in the other.
Meat disappeared.
Sauce vanished.
Even the garnish wasn't safe.
Selene, standing behind him, began to sweat.
She leaned down slightly, whispering in panic,
"M-Master... Master... they're staring."
Kael, chewing enthusiastically, glanced up.
Veyran had paused mid-cut.
His father's fork hovered in the air.
His mother's eyebrow had arched so high it entered the divine realm.
Kael swallowed and muttered,
"What?" he said flatly. "I waited. For like—ten seconds."
Selene whispered, mortified,
"You ate before the Duke did !!!!"
Kael blinked.
Then looked at the empty plate before his father.
Then at his own half-finished third serving.
Then at the table—where everyone else had paused to witness what appeared to be a complete psychological breakdown, performed with a side of mashed potatoes.
Kael, still chewing the remnants of what might have been a suspiciously buttery turnip, looked up at their frozen tableau as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then, coolly, he dabbed his lips with the napkin, straightened his back, and said with a perfectly calm expression:
"I was just testing for poison."
A pause.
"You may all eat now."
The silence hit the room like a dropped chandelier.
Selene, standing behind him, forgot how lungs worked.
She stared at her master—this strange, reckless, terrifyingly calm man—who had just devoured dinner like a vagrant, insulted the entire hierarchy of table etiquette, and then reframed it as a tactical maneuver.
A strategy.
Like some kind of unhinged food-based diplomat.
Selene didn't know whether to applaud or faint.
Possibly both.
Across the table, the Duke didn't move.
The Duchess blinked.
Even Renold, standing in the corner, coughed discreetly—probably to cover a laugh, or a sob.
Kael didn't flinch.
His poker face was ironclad, his posture impeccable.
He looked like someone who had planned to devour half the banquet table just to make a point about family security.
Finally, the Duke set down his wine glass with a soft clink, his sharp eyes narrowing at Kael.
"You've changed a lot."
A pause thick enough to spread on bread followed.
The Duchess, more gently, added,
"Yes… you used to sit so quietly.
Never spoke.
...Never ate this much either."
Kael smiled politely.
"Character development."
Across the table, Veyran kept eating, perfectly composed, the very image of a fantasy protagonist who knew he was being watched.
Without looking up, he said,
"Or maybe he hit his head."
The table fell into silence again, the clatter of cutlery fading into tension.
The Duke leaned forward slightly, his voice low but laced with steel.
"So, you're saying you were poisoned… and the poisoning was orchestrated by your second brother?"
Kael didn't flinch.
He met his father's gaze directly—sharp, unblinking.
The boldness of it made even Veyran pause mid-bite.
Selene behind him tensed.
"I'm not saying anything like that," Kael said smoothly.
"I'm only repeating what Lana said before her… 'suicide'.
She claimed it was all part of the second brother's plan...."
The Duke's brow furrowed.
"But it leads to the same result, Kael… your life was in danger.
And if you truly were poisoned…"
He paused, voice dipping into a dangerous calm.
"To obtain a toxin subtle enough to fool our house physicians?
That narrows the suspect list.
Fewer people could afford such a thing.
Even fewer would dare to use it under this roof."
The Duchess looked visibly paler.
"Why would he… your own brother…"