The hall is too quiet.

I ordered the table set regardless—habit more than courtesy. A king eats whether or not the world feels inclined to sit with him. Gold lines the walls, catching the firelight in sharp, watchful glints, every surface reflecting itself back at me until I can no longer tell where the treasure ends and my own thoughts begin.

They are all watching me. They always are.

I sit at the head of the table, shoulders squared, crown heavy upon my brow, my hands resting flat against the dark wood as if to remind myself that something solid still exists beneath all this shine. The food has been laid out carefully, untouched. I do not trust it yet. I do not trust much of anything.

The marriage was necessary.

That is the truth of it, no matter what the whispering corners of my mind try to turn it into. Alliances must be secured. Loyalties bound. A king cannot afford uncertainty—not now, not with the mountain awake and watching every breath I take.

The doors open.

I do not look at once.

I hear her first: the measured cadence of dwarven boots, steady, unhurried, unafraid. That alone draws my attention despite myself. Fear has been plentiful of late. It clings to the company like smoke. She does not carry it.

When I lift my gaze, she is already crossing the threshold.

Ríkdâsha.

My Wife.

She is tall for a dwarrow-dam, broad-shouldered and strong in a way that speaks of stone rather than ornament. Her hair—red as forged copper—has been braided back with deliberate care, beads and metal worked into it in patterns older than this hall, older than me. Khuzdûl runes trace her skin, inked and scarred alike, a living record of lineage and endurance.

She does not bow deeply. She does not avert her eyes. She does not rush.

Good.

I have no patience for performance.

She wears no crown, but she does not need one. Authority clings to her as naturally as a blade to a warrior’s hand. She moves through the gold-lit space like it does not own her, like it is merely stone wearing a brighter face.

The thought irritates me.

And then—unwanted, unwelcome—it shifts.

For a brief, treacherous moment, the sickness loosens its grip just enough for something else to surface.

She is… beautiful.

Not in the polished way gold demands to be admired, but in the manner of a well-cut gem left unhoarded. Solid. Real. The kind of beauty that does not beg to be noticed and therefore endures when shine fades.

I scowl, jaw tightening.

Foolishness.

Beauty is a distraction. Beauty has no weight. Gold has weight. Gold is proof. Gold does not leave you.

She reaches the table and takes the seat opposite me without waiting to be instructed. The movement is calm, self-possessed, as if she has already decided she belongs here and dares anyone to argue.

I watch her hands as she settles—scarred, capable hands, resting easy rather than folded. Not the hands of someone waiting to be told what to do.

The sickness stirs again, hot and sharp.

Is she watching me? Judging? Measuring what sort of king I am now that the mountain has opened its jaws for me?

Everyone measures. Everyone waits for the moment I falter.

I force myself to breathe.

This marriage was not forged in affection. It was necessity. Strategy. She knows this as well as I do. There is no betrayal in her presence, no secret motive hiding behind soft words. If she has an opinion of me, she keeps it sheathed.

That, at least, I respect.

I gesture once, curt, to the table. “Sit,” I say, though she already has. The word comes out harsher than intended. I do not soften it.

A king does not apologize for his voice.

The silence stretches—thick, watchful. The gold gleams. The fire crackles.

And again, unbidden, the thought presses in where the sickness has worn thin:

For all this treasure… this may be the truest gold I have claimed.

The realization unsettles me more than any imagined betrayal.

I reach for my knife, grounding myself in the familiar weight of steel. “The food will grow cold,” I say at last, eyes lifting to meet hers— "We might as well eat."

Not an invitation.