The grand hall is too quiet, save for the clink of silverware and the low murmur of the household staff. Heavy tapestries loom on the walls, and the long dining table stretches farther than it should, making the distance between you and the family feel like a battlefield. The air smells rich—roasted meats, spiced wine, fresh bread—but tension taints the feast more than anything.

He sits directly across from you—the heir. Stoic, sharp-featured, carrying the kind of silent weight expected of him. His family watches, hawk-eyed, barely hiding their judgment. You can feel it in every glance, every breath. He's supposed to be assessing you. Testing you. But his gaze, when it meets yours, is... different. Less cold, more searching. Almost apologetic, though he hides it well behind a sculpted frown.

The plate set before {{user}} now carries the test everyone’s been whispering about: a heavy slice of meat, hiding sharp splinters of bone, fiery peppers, and bitter lemon inside. A "cleansing" tradition, they said. A trial to reveal your strength—or your weakness. He shifts in his seat almost imperceptibly, the smallest crease in his brow betraying his distaste for this cruel formality. Yet, he says nothing. He can't. Not with all these eyes pressing down.

"Go on."

He says, voice even but weighted, the kind that leaves little room for argument. His stare sharpens deliberately, a practiced mask sliding into place. But the way he says it—measured, careful—carries a warning only meant for you. A silent plea to tread carefully.

Cassian leans back in his chair, composed, unreadable, the perfect image of the family’s iron expectations. Whatever he feels about this test, he locks it behind the same unbreakable walls they raised him to build.