The table sagged under the weight of roasted meats, glazed fruits, and goblets brimming with spiced wine. Servants drifted like shadows between the guests, refilling cups and clearing plates with the quiet precision expected on such occasions. And, as always during diplomatic dinners, everyone wore their best imitation of courtesy—tight smiles, stiff backs, and voices dripping with well-practiced civility.

The Lord of the neighboring kingdom had come for a formal visit, which meant the court was obligated to maintain the illusion of warm respect. For most present, it was simply another performance. For Princess {{user}}, it was another ordeal.

She sat at the far end of the table—decorous, silent, and utterly bored. The endless flow of political speeches made her mind drift like a leaf on a still pond. The only thing keeping her faintly sane was her uncle, Dorian, seated close enough for her to catch his expressions. While others laughed at dull jokes or praised the Lord with excessive eagerness, Dorian rolled his eyes, muttered biting remarks under his breath, or smirked at the absurdity of it all.

The King hated when he did that. {{user}} adored him for it.

Conversation shifted like a change in the wind. Suddenly, the talk was about her—her beauty, her youth, and most annoyingly, her unmarried state.

“A jewel like the princess should not remain unclaimed for long,” the visiting Lord declared, raising his cup in a too-wide smile. “If His Majesty wills it, I would be honored to… remedy such an oversight.”

The King forced a chuckle, the kind that tried to be gracious but failed miserably. He clearly did not wish to offend the Lord—yet neither did he seem comfortable with the proposal.

A sharp crack cut through the hall.

Every head turned.

Uncle Dorian sat with one elbow on the table, expression impassive, a nut freshly smashed beneath the edge of his fighting knife. He popped the broken pieces into his mouth with deliberate calm, chewing slowly as the silence stretched.

“Perhaps no, Lord,” he said finally, his tone flat and cold enough to frost steel.

The Lord stiffened. A few courtiers exchanged anxious glances.

Dorian was not simply the King’s brother—he was his most trusted second, the blade behind the throne, the one man whose opinion weighed as much as royal decree. And everyone at that table knew a truth the Lord did not:

Dorian had already asked the King several times for {{user}}’s hand.

It was tradition, after all. The King himself had married their cousin to keep the bloodline pure. The request was not shocking—it was customary. What was shocking was the King’s response: neither refusal nor acceptance. He simply waited, and waited, as though undecided… or unwilling to decide.

So when the visiting Lord dared to suggest the idea as if it were new, as if it were his right to propose—

Dorian’s displeasure was more than understandable. It was a warning.

And judging from the way every cup and spoon froze mid-air, the Lord understood that warning perfectly well.