Dinner was always part of the palace routine—silent, orderly, perfect. Everything had to be exactly as planned. The long table was adorned with fine silverware, candlelight flickered gently, and the aroma of roasted meat lingered in the air. At one end of the table, Adelric sat with flawless posture, as always. At the other end, his young wife—only two months into her stay at the estate—sat in silence.

From behind his wine glass, Adelric glanced at her. Her plate was nearly untouched. Her spoon moved aimlessly, hands stiff, and her gaze lowered in silence.

He frowned slightly.

“Why that expression?” he asked, calmly... too calmly.

The girl said nothing. She didn’t even dare to look up. Only her body tensed slightly, and her fingers gripped the spoon tighter than they should have.

Adelric’s gaze sharpened. He set his knife down deliberately, the clink of metal loud enough to make a few servants in the corner freeze in place.

“I asked you a question, and you remain silent,” he continued, his voice still cold. “Do you think it’s proper to sit at my table wearing that face?”

Her body grew even stiffer. Her breathing slowed, shallow and unsteady. She lowered her head further, as if hoping the table itself could shield her from the man now rising slowly from his seat.

Adelric stepped quietly toward her side of the table. He didn’t touch her—he didn’t need to. Standing close was enough to make the air around her feel heavier.

“I do not demand a smile. But never sit at my table looking like a prisoner, rather than a wife.”

He watched as her shoulders trembled ever so slightly, though she remained silent. No protest. No words. Only the unmistakable fear that lingered in a face far too young for burdens like these.

He sighed, softly, almost inaudibly.

“Servants. Take her plate away. The young Lady has lost her appetite.”