Chapter 40- A Table of Wolves
The grand dining hall has never stopped astonishing me.
I have eaten in this room nearly every day since arriving at the palace quiet breakfasts where servants glide like shadows between chairs, long dinners where nobles smile too brightly while pretending not to measure each other's power, and late evenings where Achilles eats slowly while reading reports of wars, taxes, and rebellions as though the fate of the empire were just another line on a page.
And yet every time I walk through the doors, the sight of it still steals the breath from my lungs.
It is not like the throne room.
The throne room is magnificent in the way a blade is magnificent sharp, cold, and built to remind every soul who enters that they stand beneath the authority of something greater.
Its marble floors gleam like polished bone, and its towering pillars stretch toward the ceiling like spears frozen in stone.
Every line of that room was designed to inspire awe. .. and fear.
The dining hall is something far more dangerous.
The moment one steps inside, the space seems almost warm.
The room stretches long beneath a vaulted ceiling painted in sweeping scenes of ancient legends gods descending from clouds wreathed in lightning, kings crowned beneath burning suns, warriors clashing across seas painted so vividly they almost seem to move when the candlelight flickers across them.
Even after months of dining here, my eyes still wander upward when I enter, catching details I had somehow missed before.
A goddess hidden in a storm.
A crown held in the hands of a ghostly figure behind a king.
A warship breaking through painted waves as though it might sail across the ceiling itself.
But it is not the ceiling that captures the eye first.
It is the chandeliers.
They hang from the vast ceiling like captured constellations great structures of gold and crystal dripping with thousands of cut diamonds and glass prisms. Hundreds of candles burn within them, their flames reflected again and again until the entire hall seems to shimmer with broken light.
When the candles are lit, the room sparkles.
The diamonds catch every flame and scatter it across the walls like falling stars.
Even the marble beneath our feet reflects the glow, polished so smooth that it almost looks like still water beneath the chandeliers.
It is breathtaking.
And impossibly expensive.
The chairs alone could probably feed a small village.
Each one is carved from dark polished wood with delicate golden filigree twisting along the arms like vines. The backs are upholstered in thick velvet embroidered with gold thread so fine it almost looks painted instead of stitched.
The gold threads catch the candlelight and glow softly.
the long table itself speaks of wealth.
The surface is polished black marble streaked with veins of silver that twist through the stone like lightning trapped beneath glass.
A delicate trim of gold lines the edges, subtle enough to appear elegant but heavy enough to remind anyone seated here that the empire's wealth rests within these walls.
Crystal goblets sparkle beside every plate.
Silverware gleams beside every setting.
The entire room feels warm.
Welcoming.
Beautiful.
If the throne room reminds people that kings rule through strength, the dining hall whispers something far more seductive.
Here, power smiles.
Here, it offers wine and velvet and warm candlelight and makes people forget—just for a moment—that the same empire capable of building this room was also built on war, conquest, and blood.
The beauty of the hall is a trap.
A siren's song.
It draws people in with comfort and elegance before reminding them that the hands offering them food could just as easily close around their throat.
I walk beside Achilles as we enter.
Our footsteps echo softly across the marble floor.
Servants move through the room like quiet spirits, adjusting candles and arranging trays of silver dishes along the long table. The moment the king steps inside, every one of them lowers their gaze slightly and steps back, giving him space without a single word being spoken.
Achilles walks through the hall as if none of its beauty exists.
He has lived here too long to notice it.
But I still do.
My eyes drift upward briefly, watching the chandelier light scatter across the ceiling like falling stars.
For a moment the room almost feels peaceful.
Then I remember who waits at the table.
My family.
The warmth of the hall suddenly feels thinner.
Achilles pulls out the chair beside him, and I sit on his left.
Elias drops into the chair on the king's right with the relaxed satisfaction of a man settling in to watch a play he has been waiting weeks to see.
Across the table sit the people who once controlled every moment of my life.
My father sits stiffly at the center of his side of the table, his back straight and his expression composed in the way men who believe themselves powerful often practice in mirrors.
His clothing is expensive, though even from here I can see the difference between the tailoring of a provincial court and the craftsmanship worn by nobles of this palace.
Beside him sits my stepmother.
Her posture is perfect.
Her smile is thin.
And beside her sits my sister.
The golden daughter.
The one who was always meant to live.
Isaac sits farther down the table, quiet and watchful.
The moment everyone settles into their seats, servants begin bringing the first course.
The room fills with quiet sounds.
Silver touching porcelain.
Wine being poured into crystal glasses.
The faint rustle of velvet as people shift in their chairs along with my brothers.
Achilles says nothing.
But the silence around him is not peaceful.
It is the silence of a storm waiting for the right moment to break.
His posture is rigid.
Controlled.
The scar along his cheek seems darker beneath the chandelier light, cutting across his face like a permanent reminder of the battles that shaped him into the man who sits at the head of this table.
His hands rest beside his plate.
Large.
Still.
Dangerous.
Then slowly—
The fork in his hand bends.
I notice it first.
The silver prongs curl inward under the pressure of his grip.
A servant appears instantly, removing the ruined fork and replacing it with another without a word.
Achilles does not even look at him.
Five minutes later the second fork bends as well.
Another servant removes it.
Another replaces it.
Across the table Elias watches the entire process with open amusement.
He leans back comfortably in his chair, swirling wine in his glass with the satisfied expression of a man watching a very entertaining performance.
He looks far too happy.
Which means he is planning something.
Achilles' anger is quiet.
But it is there.
Every time my father glances toward me.
Every time my stepmother sighs as though this dinner were an inconvenience to her.
Every time my sister looks at me with that same soft pity she wore when we were children.
Achilles notices every one of those looks.
I know he does.
The king notices everything.
And he hates it.
Another piece of silverware bends.
Another servant removes it.
Another replaces it.
Across the table Elias finally sets his wine glass down with a soft clink.
And smiles.
Which means the peace in this room is about to end.
He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table with the casual confidence of a man who has absolutely no fear of the consequences of what he is about to say.
"Well," Elias says cheerfully.
"I have a question."
The room grows very still.
My father looks at him with obvious irritation.
"And you are?"
Elias smiles politely.
"Damage control."
My father blinks.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I manage disasters before they become catastrophes."
Elias lifts his glass again and takes a slow sip.
"My job tonight is to make sure this dinner doesn't end with your heads decorating the palace walls."
A servant freezes halfway through pouring wine.
My father's expression darkens.
"And what exactly is your question?"
Elias tilts his head thoughtfully.
"What kind of father sacrifices his daughter?"
The words land like a dropped blade.
My father stiffens.
"I never sacrificed my daughter."
His voice carries the stiff certainty of a man who has repeated that statement many times.
"She went willingly to save her kingdom."
"That's interesting."
He swirls the wine slowly in his glass.
"Because there's a part of that story that doesn't make sense."
Across the table my stepmother shifts in her chair.
It is subtle.
"From what I can see," Elias continues pleasantly, "your wife would never allow her daughter to be offered as sacrifice."
He gestures lightly toward my sister.
"She seems rather fond of that one."
My sister stiffens.
My stepmother's smile tightens.
My father says nothing.
Elias continues calmly.
"So that leaves a question."
He leans forward slightly.
"Why offer the youngest daughter..."
His eyes slide slowly toward me.
"...when there was another child in the family you clearly disliked?"
The room feels colder.
My father's jaw tightens.
"You presume too much."
"Perhaps."
Elias shrugs lightly.
"But from where I'm sitting..."
He sets his glass down carefully.
"...the situation looks very simple."
The chandeliers glitter above us.
No one breathes.
"You never intended to send the younger daughter."
My stepmother's fingers tighten around her napkin.
"The eldest daughter was always meant to go."
His voice remains calm.
"But you didn't want your kingdom to believe you sent her to die."
My father's expression grows darker.
"So you created a story."
Elias leans back slowly.
"A brave princess."
"A noble sacrifice."
"A daughter volunteering to save her people."
His eyes lift again.
"When in reality..."
Silence fills the hall.
"...you simply made sure she believed it was her idea."