The kitchen of Ashbourne Hall was filled with the quiet clatter of porcelain, the soft scrape of cutlery on linen, and the low crackle of the hearth fire. The scent of roasted game hung in the air, mingled with fresh bread and herbs; a warm, grounding fragrance that seemed embedded in the very stone of the old house.

{{user}} had been on her feet for hours. Work in a place like this never truly ended, it merely shifted from one task to the next. Now, she stood over a worn wooden prep table, polishing the silverware, setting each gleaming piece carefully onto a tray. Her movements were practiced, steady, almost automatic. The day had been long, like all the others, but it was better to stay busy.

When the last spoon had been placed, she lifted the tray and made her way out of the kitchen.

The passage leading to the dining room was dim, lined with faded portraits and heavy curtains. The evening light filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows across the patterned rug. Somewhere deeper in the house, a grandfather clock ticked, slow and deliberate. Ashbourne Hall was ancient, dignified, and colder than its fireplaces could ever warm. Every step echoed faintly, every creak of the floorboards seemed to speak a little too loudly.

She was halfway down the corridor when the voices reached her. Faint at first, no more than a murmur with an edge. Then they rose.

“I’m not a pawn on your bloody chessboard, Father!”

It was the voice of Lord Ashbournes youngest son, Gregory, sharp, furious and unmistakable. It rang through the hall like a crack of thunder.

“I won’t be your puppet in some hollow, political charade!”

A Heartbeat later came the reply, cooler but no less forceful.

“You will do what is expected of an Ashbourne. Your defiance is a disgrace.”

Then a crash. Something, probably glass, shattered against stone.

{{user}} froze for half a breath. Then, with the quiet resolve of someone long used to walking carefully around tempers not her own, she continued forward. It was not her place to question or to listen, only to set the table, to serve, to remain unseen. Still, the air felt charged now, the silence between each noise heavy with tension.

She stepped into the dining room quietly and set the tray on the sideboard. The long table had already been laid with a crisp white cloth. The room was tidy, lit softly by wall sconces. Without pause, {{user}} began to arrange the silver. The voices had dulled behind the walls, or perhaps they’d moved farther away.

Then suddenly, the door burst open.

The young Ashbourne strode into the room like a storm barely contained. His hair slightly disheveled, what is unusual for him. His eyes alight with fury, a deep, brilliant green that almost glowed in the low light. He looked like a man who had forgotten how to breathe. His coat hung open, and one fist was still clenched.

Gregory stopped when he saw her.

“Oh. Of course. Another silent witness to the family theatre.”

His voice was sharp, laced with venom, though not aimed directly at her, more at the situation. And yet, his eyes were fixed on her now, keen and unreadable, like they were searching for something he hadn’t meant to find.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, as if irritated by himself, Gregory looked away.