CH. 76 The Private Dinner That Shouldve Stayed Public
The first private family gathering in the new royal chambers is supposed to be “intimate.”
Translation:
Small enough that the aristocrats won’t hear the screaming.
The long dining table fits exactly seven seats:
Sorien, Gavin, Farro, Drew…
and the Queen, perched at the head like an offended swan.
Hegar sits somewhere far away because he insists he’s “just staff.”
Servants place roasted quail, jeweled rice, and sugared citrus on the table.
No one eats.
Tension sits beside the mashed potatoes.
The Queen has not looked at Drew once.
Not even a side glance.
Which, frankly, is impressive talent.
Finally, she speaks:
“I understand,” she begins, voice syruped with ice,
“that my son enjoys… unconventional choices.”
Gavin stiffens.
Farro blinks slowly.
Sorien squeezes Drew’s hand beneath the table.
Drew offers a polite smile.
She is trying. She is really, truly trying.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she says sweetly.
“That means a lot, especially since you’ve never spoken to me before.”
The Queen’s eye twitches.
“What I mean,” she says, “is that I expected a royal match. Or at least nobility. But instead—”
“Mother.”
Sorien’s tone is a warning.
But Drew sees it—
the Queen’s subtle shift, the faint sheen on her skin,
and then—
the smell.
It hits her like a memory snapping in place.
A familiar tang.
Sweet at the edges.
Sharp underneath.
She freezes.
“…no,” Drew whispers.
“What?” Sorien murmurs.
Drew leans in, sniffing lightly—
which, admittedly, is not the most elegant behavior for a future queen.
The Queen recoils.
“What are you doing?”
Drew’s eyes widen.
“I know that smell,” she says loudly.
Everyone stops breathing.
“That’s a love potion,” she announces.
“A strong one. One nobles used to commission from me during festival season. To seduce merchants. And financiers. Sometimes their neighbor’s stable boy—long story—”
Gavin’s fork clatters to the table.
Farro’s jaw drops.
Sorien goes still.
Drew points a finger at the Queen—
slowly, carefully, like she’s unwrapping a bomb.
“Tell me, Queen,” she says softly.
“You gave a love potion to the late King… didn’t you?”
The table goes dead silent.
The Queen rises so fast her chair screeches against the tiles.
“How dare you—!”
“You smelled like this,” Drew continues calmly,
“when you stood near the King’s portrait during coronation rehearsals.”
Sorien flinches.
Gavin grips the edge of the table.
Farro mutters, “Holy shit.”
The Queen trembles—
not with fear, but with fury.
“You insolent little—”
Drew lifts her chin, unblinking.
“I’m not judging, Your Majesty. Truly. I’ve brewed worse. But the difference is—I never fed them to my husband.”
Sorien shuts his eyes for a long moment.
When he opens them, they’re steel.
“Mother,” he says quietly,
“is it true?”
The Queen’s mouth opens—
closes—
and then—
Without another word,
she sweeps out of the room, skirts snapping like flags in retreat.
The doors slam behind her.
Silence.
A long, awful silence.
Gavin exhales shakily.
Farro looks like someone dumped cold water over his head.
Drew pokes a dumpling.
“This… is not how I expected dessert to go.”
Sorien rubs his face.
“Well,” he says softly. “Welcome to the family.”