The sound still rang in the air — a high, sharp echo that seemed far too loud for such a delicate thing.
The goblet lay in jagged pieces, its stem snapped clean, wine pooling and spreading like a dark bloom across the white tablecloth. The red seeped toward the polished silverware, curling around the prongs of a fork as though it sought to stain every inch it touched.
Every noble in the hall had frozen mid-motion, their expressions frozen masks of civility while their eyes told a different story — glittering with calculation, suspicion, and the thrill of the hunt. The clink of glass and murmur of voices had vanished, replaced by a silence so taut it felt like the whole room was holding its breath.
The man who'd stood — a tall, lean courtier with hair like spun silver — adjusted the cuffs of his embroidered sleeves with deliberate care. "My apologies," he said to no one in particular. His voice was calm. Too calm. "A slip of the hand."
