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The royal dining hall was opulent tonight, a scene fit for portraits — if not for the dark intentions simmering beneath the glitter. Gold-rimmed chandeliers bathed the table in soft light, illuminating jeweled goblets and silver platters laden with food. King Thorne sat at the head, draped in his red and gold ceremonial robe. To his right sat Ethan, his features calm but his thoughts sharp as razors. Wilson lounged opposite him, unusually quiet.
Ethan's temple throbbed, not from the wound hidden beneath his carefully combed hair, but from anticipation. Everything was set.
He glanced toward the grand doors just as they opened. Rosalyn, the private palace chef he had manipulated through Wilson, entered with a silver tray. On it, a single porcelain bowl of steaming king’s broth
