Chapter 24 An Uncivil Dinner
An Uncivil Dinner
Dinner is announced before the sky has fully darkened, the last of the pale light still lingering along the windows as I am led into a room that feels both formal and entirely uncontained at once.
The moment I enter, attention shifts.
Voices soften, then turn toward me with practiced warmth that feels less like welcome and more like careful inspection disguised as courtesy.
Aunts I do not know and cousins I have never seen remark on how well I look, how strong I appear, how fortunate it is that I have arrived when I have.
Hands brush my arm in passing, questions following close behind about the child I carry, about how I feel, about what I have been eating, about what I should be eating instead.
Advice comes easily, layered over itself until it becomes difficult to follow. I answer where I must, and endure the rest.
A wave of nausea rises without warning, low at first and then sharper, turning my stomach in a way that forces my breath to slow as I steady myself where I stand.
It passes quickly enough that no one seems to notice, though I remain aware of the faint unease it leaves behind.
It has been like this since yesterday, brief but persistent, and I remember Hyverin’s voice as he spoke of it with quiet certainty, as though it were nothing more than another phase to be endured.
Early months, he had said. The body adjusting. Nothing to be concerned about.
I tell myself the same.
Before I take my seat, I catch sight of Nyara through the open archway leading toward the courtyard.
She is already dressed for the evening, her presence carrying a brightness that feels entirely her own.
A carriage waits for her, lanterns casting warm light across the courtyard as she prepares to leave for the theater.
Everything else recedes.
I step from the table and cross to her.
“You look happy,” I say.
She turns at once, her smile immediate and real. “I am.”
There is something different in her, something lighter, as though whatever waits for her beyond these walls belongs to her in a way this place never could.
“Any news of Colsar or Junis?” I ask quietly. I know the answer before she speaks.
She shakes her head. “No news of either.” There is no concern in her tone when she continues. “But I do not need news of Junis. It is the undead that would fear him long before he fears them.”
She laughs softly, as though the thought itself is enough.
I look at her, still uncertain what that means, what it is he can do, then let it go as she steps toward the carriage.
“You will be there?” she asks.
“Yes. Aunt Petunis is taking me.”
“Good,” she says, and pulls me into a hug.
She climbs inside the carriage, the door closing behind her as the carriage begins to move.
I watch it go longer than I intend, another faint wave of nausea rising and fading as quickly as it came, leaving behind a subtle heaviness that lingers beneath everything else.
When I return to the table, the meal has begun. Conversation moves across it in overlapping threads, plates filled and wine poured as though nothing here has the potential to fracture. For a brief moment, it almost resembles something ordinary.
That illusion does not last.
Across the table, seated beside Venya, a young man about my age sits next to her and eats his food silently, staring coldly at me in between bites.
"That is Hurstinal," Syle says in my head.
"The bastard my mother made with her brother.
He is a shit. Ignore him." I look at Hurstinal again.
He comes fully into focus in a way he had not before.
He carries both of them in his face so clearly that it feels less like resemblance and more like replication.
The same dark hair, the same pale skin that seems to resist warmth, the same narrow structure that leaves him looking thinner than he likely is, as though something essential has been pared away rather than built up.
His eyes hold the same coldness I have already come to associate with Venya, watchful without ever softening into anything resembling kindness.
Even in stillness, there is something unpleasant in him, something that does not invite attention so much as demand it and resent it at the same time.
He speaks without waiting for space to be given, his voice cutting through the room with confidence that feels entirely unsupported. “I would like a command post in Avanki,” he says, directing the request toward Uralish.
The reaction is immediate. Uralish laughs, the sound carrying fully across the table without restraint or courtesy.
Hurstinal’s expression tightens. “I am skilled with a sword. I do not wish to train alongside basic guards when I am of royal blood and should lead with a title.”
Uralish takes a slow drink, then lowers the goblet with something like satisfaction.
“You failed your swordsmanship training twice,” he says.
“You are unpleasant, you lack intelligence, and you have not demonstrated a single quality that would make anyone willingly follow you into anything resembling conflict. Why would I grant you command over soldiers who would die because of you?”
Hurstinal turns to me. “And yet you bring her here,” he says. “Handing everything to her like it belongs to her.”
Uralish doesn’t even look up. “It does.”
“For now,” Hurstinal says.
“Birthright aside, she is smarter and far more competent than you,” Uralish adds. A pause. “And as a reminder, the Avanki belong to her.”
As he speaks, nausea rises in my throat again.
A bitter swell that forces a small sound from me before I can stop it.
It catches halfway between breath and voice, more reflex than intention, and I press my lips together at once, willing it down, willing the sensation to pass before it betrays me further.
Hurstinal’s anger redirects quickly, his gaze snapping toward me.
“Queen Heir,” he says, his tone sharpening, "you dare laugh at me? Not all of us have the luxury of becoming royalty through birth. Or how was it you became Princess of Veynar again?” His lip curls.
“Oh, that’s right. Your cunt was sold to a—”
The room is swallowed by darkness. It happens so completely that I cannot tell whether my eyes have closed or the light itself has vanished. Sound continues around me but sight is gone, replaced by something that presses against my awareness in its absence.
When it returns, it does so all at once. Enovar crouches on the table in front of Hurstinal, his presence commanding the space with a force that leaves no room for anything else.
“Syle,” Uralish says, his voice carrying warning now in a way that a parent tells a child to stop when he does not truly care if he does or not.
Hurstinal attempts to respond, a flicker of power rising and collapsing before it can form into anything usable. I cannot tell if anyone else moves to intervene or if no one feels inclined to.
Before I can decide, Hurstinal is thrown back across the room, his body striking the wall with enough force to carry through it.
“Stop,” Venya says, rising too quickly. “Stop this at once. It was only a jest—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Uralish replies, his attention not even shifting toward her. “He is the result of what happens when two hateful things decide to create something together.”
Enovar straightens, his attention moving through the room with unsettling ease until it lands on Venya. “Where is your brother?” he asks lightly. “Ah, yes. With Ellavee, I believe. The newest girl at the brothel. Supposedly a beauty.” His head tilts slightly. “You are not.”
Venya’s face flushes deep red.
More questions rise in my mind. How does Enovar know what happens at the brothel? I wonder if he and Syle share women together, or perhaps he ventures out on his own? I wonder if he jumped out just now because Syle told him to or at his own behest.
Across the table, Petunis continues eating as though nothing here requires her involvement.
Uralish watches with open amusement. The rest of the room behaves as though this is expected.
Another wave of nausea rises, more intense this time, pulling tight through my stomach and throat at once, and I steady my hand against the edge of the table, forcing my breathing to remain even as it passes.
Enovar lifts his hand. Hurstinal’s head strikes the wall behind him once, then again, the force controlled but unmistakable.
“Apologize,” Enovar says.
Hurstinal sneers. “I would never—”
“Please,” Venya says quickly, leaning toward him. “My love, just apologize.”
I have to look away. The term of endearment does not belong on someone like him.
“Fine,” Enovar says, his tone unchanged as he forces Hurstinal down onto his knees, apparently to apologize.
What happens next is less clear. There is a change, immediate and undeniable, and when I look back, the front of Hurstinal’s clothing is darkened. Whether it is fear or something forced upon him, I cannot tell. The answer feels obvious anyway.
A small snake slips beneath the door. It moves quickly across the floor before reshaping itself into a dark-haired child who lands lightly as though this is entirely expected.
“Vinkarin, Elsarin,” he calls brightly. “Come see. Uncle Hurstinal has pissed himself.”
Hurstinal’s face turns a deeper shade of red as he struggles against the hold that keeps him in place. “You little—”
Two more children enter at once, laughter already building between them, Parshin close behind with a presence that does little to restrain them.
Another figure follows. I recognize the children's caretaker from yesterday, though she is no longer dressed as one. The silk of her gown marks the shift clearly.
“Nephew,” Uralish says, looking toward Parshin with open satisfaction. “Still fucking the help, I see.”
The room continues as though none of this is unusual.
Across the table, Jularin meets my eye and offers a small, knowing smile that mirrors Korvis’s so closely that the connection becomes obvious.
I wonder if he is missing because of work or because of another social obligation or because he knew this dinner would be dysfunctional in this way.
Before I can think about it further, Aunt Jularin speaks.
“How are you faring,” she asks softly, “without your husband?”
The question catches me off guard because she asks it at all. No one else has. Here, Colsar exists only in absence, unspoken, as though he no longer requires consideration.
“He has not come through the wards,” I say.
Her expression remains gentle, her attention on mine. “That must be difficult.”
There is no pressure in it, no expectation, only acknowledgment, and I find myself holding her eyes a moment longer than I intend.
“The wards can make distance feel permanent,” she continues, her voice low enough to remain between us. “They are meant to keep what lies beyond from entering freely.”
I listen, my focus narrowing.
“But they are not beyond influence,” she adds. “They can be softened, briefly, by those with royal blood.”
“If the path is prepared for someone,” she continues quietly, “the wards may accept them as permitted rather than foreign.”
Something stirs at that, the memory of the scouring brushing the edge of my awareness without fully forming.
“Alarna has always stood on its own,” she says. “But there are times when it cannot remain unchanged. Sometimes it is the presence of outsiders that ignites the change that is necessary.”
I let the thought rest where it is and return my attention to my plate, cutting into my food as the conversation around the table resumes without pause.
The children circle Hurstinal, arguing loudly with Enovar as he returns to Syle, only to begin arguing with him instead until Parshin steps in to separate them.
Uralish drinks and swears with increasing enthusiasm, while two distant cousins lean toward one another to discuss the Duke’s latest mistress and the gown she wore the previous week as though it holds equal importance.
Relief comes when the door opens again.
“Queen Regent, Queen Heir,” the servant says. “Your carriage for Aurelin Theater has arrived.”
I rise before anyone can delay it.
And for the first time since entering the room, I am grateful to leave it behind.