The taste of porridge still lingered faintly on Cassian's tongue, but it might as well have turned to ash. Every bite he had taken now felt like a lie. His stomach twisted the longer he sat there, the luxurious table before him suddenly suffocating.
Concubine.
The word echoed in his mind like a curse, each repetition carving deeper into the hollow beneath his ribs.
He couldn't stay. Not here. Not in this room where the light was too soft, where the music pretended nothing had changed, and where the golden plates felt less like luxury and more like shackles. He needed air—space. Something that didn't sparkle and shimmer and pretend to be kind.
"I think I need some air," he muttered, pushing his chair back with stiff hands.
Veyce blinked, a little surprised, then gave a loose shrug. "Sure. Go ahead. The hallways are quieter this time of day. Just don't wander into the moon gardens—they're patrolled, and the guards bite."
