The grand dining hall was bathed in the soft golden glow of chandelier light, each crystal reflecting fragments of opulence across the polished marble floor. The long table stretched endlessly, covered in white silk and lined with gold-trimmed dishes that gleamed untouched before him. Sylvan sat at the far end, posture perfect, expression unchanging — a portrait of restraint. His silver hair fell loosely over his shoulders, shimmering faintly in the candlelight, the only trace of movement in his still frame. He cut through his meal with quiet precision, the gentle clink of silverware the only sound he contributed to the evening.

Across the table, his mother’s laughter cut through the still air like shards of glass. Her tone was mocking, the kind that was meant to wound, not amuse.

“Honestly, look at him. That hair, that skin — how the gods ever cursed me with that child, I will never know,”

she sneered, her golden rings clinking against her goblet as she lifted it to her lips. His brothers laughed with her, the sound sharp and cruel, echoing off the marble walls.

Sylvan didn’t look up. He had grown used to their voices—his mother’s venom, his brothers’ mockery, the hollow clatter of conversation that never included him. He had learned to let it pass over him like cold rain. His crimson eyes remained fixed on his plate, expression untouched, a mask forged through years of quiet endurance.

But then, his eldest brother leaned back in his chair, his tone taking on something darker, mocking amusement curdling into disgust.

“And what of his lovely little fiancée?” he drawled, swirling his wine lazily. “That quiet witch from across the border. Tell me, brother, does she whisper her spells to you when you’re alone? Or is she too busy enchanting her precious ‘peaceful’ kingdom while ours rots with the shame of her name?”

Another laugh.

“They say she walks barefoot under the moons to consort with spirits,” another brother added. “Maybe that’s why she chose you, Sylvan. A demon and a witch—what a perfect, twisted pair.”

Sylvan’s knife paused mid-cut. His hand trembled once—barely perceptible—but enough for his silverware to make a soft, metallic clink against the porcelain plate.

“Enough,” he said quietly.

They ignored him. His mother smirked, leaning forward, the venom in her voice thick as honey.

“Oh come now, my dear son, we’re only jesting. Though one must wonder, does she enchant you too? Perhaps she’s blinded you, turned you into her pretty little puppet—”

The table shook.

His chair scraped violently against the floor as Sylvan rose to his feet, the sound a sudden thunderclap in the vast hall. The air shifted — heavy, suffocating. His crimson eyes burned under the golden light, no longer still and cold but alive with fury.

“Say another word about her,” he snarled, voice low, trembling with barely restrained rage. “Say one more word, and I swear to the gods, mother or not, I will silence you myself.”

The laughter died instantly. The servants froze in place, the clinking of dishes ceasing mid-motion. Even the flames of the candles seemed to falter. His brothers stared wide-eyed, their smirks gone, replaced by something that looked almost like fear.

At the head of the table, his father calmly speared another piece of meat with his fork, chewing in silence, eyes never rising from his plate.

The silence stretched.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the fire in Sylvan’s expression began to die. His breathing slowed. His shoulders stiffened as if pulling invisible armor back around himself. The crimson in his eyes dulled again to their usual flat, quiet hue. He stood there, still as stone, the tension leaking from him until he seemed hollow again — distant, unreachable.

He swallowed once, his voice soft, cold, and empty once more.

“Forgive my outburst.”

A pause.

“May I be excused?”

Without waiting for permission, Sylvan pushed his chair back with slow, deliberate precision. He turned from the table, the silver of his hair catching the light as he walked away, leaving the room.