Chapter Three — The Eastern Dining Hall
1085 Words
By the time the castle's bells chimed the eleventh hour, Isella stood before the mirror fastening the silver clasps of the forest-green coat.
The clothes fit perfectly.
Not merely well.
Perfectly.
The trousers allowed her to move without restriction, the boots were already broken in as though made for her feet, and the coat rested comfortably across her shoulders. It was practical attire, yet elegant enough to belong within a royal palace.
She still couldn't understand how.
A gentle knock interrupted her thoughts.
"My lady?"
The same servant from that morning stood outside the door, bowing politely.
"His Majesty awaits."
Isella nodded.
"I'm ready."
The corridors beyond Vaelthar's private wing seemed quieter in the daylight—or whatever passed for daylight in the Underworld.
Soft crimson light filtered through towering stained-glass windows depicting ancient battles between celestial beings and creatures born of the abyss. Black marble floors reflected enchanted chandeliers that floated silently overhead.
The servants guided her through the sprawling castle, passing nobles, knights clad in obsidian armour, and servants carrying silver trays.
Every single one stopped.
Every single one bowed.
None spoke.
None questioned why a human walked freely through the King's halls.
The silence followed her all the way to a pair of towering doors etched with twisting dragons.
"The Eastern Dining Hall," the servant announced quietly.
The doors opened.
Isella expected dozens of nobles.
Councillors.
Generals.
A feast fit for an entire kingdom.
Instead...
There was only one table.
Large enough for twenty.
Occupied by a single man.
Vaelthar sat at its far end, dressed not in ceremonial armour but in a fitted black tunic beneath a dark coat embroidered with subtle silver thread. Without the heavy crown he'd worn at the auction, he appeared almost... younger.
Not less imposing.
Simply less distant.
He looked up as she entered.
"You came."
"I said I would."
A brief pause.
The faintest hint of approval crossed his features.
"Good."
He gestured toward the chair opposite him.
"Join me."
His voice remained even, measured.
Never demanding.
Never warm.
Yet there was no hostility in it either.
Isella crossed the polished floor and took the offered seat.
Almost immediately, servants emerged from hidden doors, placing dishes before them with remarkable precision before disappearing just as quietly.
Roasted game glazed with herbs.
Fresh bread.
Seasonal vegetables she did not recognise.
A fragrant soup.
Wine for him.
Tea for her.
No one spoke until the doors had closed once more.
Vaelthar lifted his cup.
"I hope the room was satisfactory."
"It was... more than satisfactory."
His crimson eyes lingered on her for a moment.
"The clothing suits you."
She glanced down.
"You chose it."
"I did."
"...Why?"
"You dislike gowns."
She blinked.
"I've never told you that."
"No."
He took a measured sip of wine.
"You didn't have to."
Again, that unsettling feeling.
As though he knew far more about her than he should.
She reached for the bread more to occupy herself than from hunger.
Vaelthar watched quietly before asking,
"Tell me about your life."
She hesitated.
"There isn't much to tell."
"I believe there is."
His tone wasn't pressing.
Simply patient.
For reasons she couldn't explain, that made refusing more difficult.
She tore the bread into smaller pieces.
"My parents died when I was young."
He remained silent.
She continued.
"I don't remember much about them."
Another pause.
"I grew up wherever there was shelter. Sometimes abandoned houses. Mostly alleyways."
"Were you alone?"
"Mostly."
She shrugged.
"There were others."
Children.
Pickpockets.
Beggars.
People who disappeared overnight and were rarely spoken of again.
"I learned quickly."
She met his gaze.
"If you couldn't fight, you ran."
"If you couldn't run..."
She left the sentence unfinished.
Vaelthar finished it for her.
"You suffered."
It wasn't pity.
It was fact.
She gave a single nod.
"I survived."
"I can see that."
Silence settled between them again.
Not uncomfortable.
Merely thoughtful.
Then he asked the question she had expected.
"How did you end up at the auction?"
Her fingers tightened around the teacup.
"I was travelling with a merchant caravan."
She stared into the steam rising from the tea.
"They offered work."
Her laugh held little humour.
"They also sold people."
She swallowed.
"I found out too late."
"They drugged us before we reached the city."
Another breath.
"When I woke up..."
She looked around the vast dining hall.
"...I was standing on that stage."
Vaelthar's expression did not change.
Yet something in the room did.
The candles flickered.
The air grew noticeably heavier.
His voice became quieter.
"Do you remember their names?"
She looked up.
"...Why?"
"So I may ensure they never sell another soul."
No boast.
No anger.
Just quiet certainty.
A certainty that chilled her more than any threat could have.
She slowly shook her head.
"I never learned them."
"I see."
He nodded once.
"Then they have bought themselves time."
The oppressive weight vanished as quickly as it had come.
Conversation drifted elsewhere.
Small things.
The strange fruits served at the table.
The architecture of the palace.
The caverns beneath the kingdom.
To Isella's surprise, Vaelthar answered every question she asked without impatience, though his replies remained concise.
He never smiled.
Not truly.
But neither did he treat her as something he owned.
Halfway through the meal, Isella reached for her cup.
Her fingers paused.
A peculiar warmth spread across the back of her hand.
She frowned.
Had the tea spilled?
No.
The sensation travelled higher.
Across her wrist.
Up her forearm.
Like invisible threads of heat weaving beneath her skin.
She shifted uneasily.
The dining hall itself was cool—almost cold—but she suddenly felt as though she were standing beside a roaring fire.
She loosened the collar of her coat.
The warmth only intensified.
It wasn't painful.
If anything...
It was strangely comforting.
Her heartbeat quickened.
Vaelthar noticed immediately.
His crimson eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in concern.
"Isella."
She looked at him.
"...Are you unwell?"
"I..."
She pressed a hand against her neck.
"My skin feels..."
She searched for the right word.
"...Warm."
The strange tingling spread across her shoulders now, gentle yet impossible to ignore, as though something deep within her had only just begun to stir.
Across the table, Vaelthar's gaze lingered on her a heartbeat longer than before.
For the first time since she had met him, genuine surprise broke through his carefully controlled composure.
"...So soon?"
The words were barely more than a whisper.
A whisper he had never intended anyone else to hear.
- Writer
