The next morning, a quiet anxiety had settled over the family like a heavy fog. William and Asra, having reached an uneasy peace after their late night conversation, met at the sprawling dining table—familiar with the etiquette, at ease, each absorbed in his own thoughts. The air was filled with tension, a fragile stillness that threatened to break with every movement.
Julian and Payal arrived last. Payal's steps were small, hesitant, her presence delicate but heavy with uncertainty. She kept her eyes fixed on her plate, unable to meet the stares or the indifference of those seated around her. The crisp folds of her fine dress felt foreign, the smooth fabric slipping through trembling fingers as she tried to steady herself. The subtle sparkle in the cloth felt mocking—a visual contrast to the dread pressing on her chest.
No one spoke. Every sound—the clink of silverware, the shuffle of feet—became amplified, creating a nearly unbearable silence. Payal felt invisible, her existence acknowledged only by the food set before her. Her mind spiraled, torn between duty, fear, and a growing sense of resentment that no one seemed to care about her feelings or thoughts.
The dining room was flooded with pale morning light, filtering in through tall windows and glinting off the polished silverware. The aroma of fresh bread mingled with the buttery scent of scrambled eggs, while sharp notes of black coffee hung densely in the air, pressing against the silence like the hush before a storm. Every little sound—knife sliding through toast, spoon tapping lightly against porcelain—seemed unnaturally loud, punctuating the stillness.
The table itself was a painter's palette of color and texture: glistening slices of ripe melon and cool pears offered a sweet, clean fragrance that danced above the stronger, savory smells. A basket of flaky, golden rolls sat at the center, their warm, yeasty scent a reminder of home Payal could nearly taste but not claim. Yet, her own breakfast felt alien; the smooth fabric of her dress brushed her skin each time she reached for something, a reminder that nothing here felt truly hers.
Payal's trembling hands barely grazed the edges of her plate, fingers lingering over the cold rim of her teacup. She felt each shiver, as though the tension in the room had a physical weight—her pulse fluttering in her throat, her breaths shallow and slow. The taste of her food was muted by nerves, the soft texture lying heavy on her tongue.
With every glance up, she saw the three men—William, Asra, and Julian—each carved with impossible elegance, their quiet eating making the air itself thick with things unsaid. The light was unforgiving, laying bare the sheen of nervous sweat on her brow, the minute shake in her fingers, the stifled panic blooming in her chest
Finally, their father broke the silence. His voice, deeper and authoritative, cut through the tension with an unsettling ease. "What do you think about this girl?" he said, eyes surveying the room.
William replied, his voice calm but detached. "She's human." It wasn't an answer, just an observation—Payal saw his indifference as confirmation that she was an outsider among them.
Payal glanced up for a fleeting second, her vision swimming with unreality. These three men—handsome, poised, and untouchable—seemed like mythical beings, so removed from her life and experience. She felt a surge of anger and despair, wanting to scream, wanting someone to ask her what she wanted. But her voice was trapped, stifled by the weight of tradition and silence.
The father continued, moving on as if she was a commodity. "Okay, then. After one month, we'll discuss the wedding."
Julian, unwilling to waste time, interrupted. "I don't want to wait for a month. You must already know we're leaving for the Ability Tech resolutions next month. If you want, let's get married tomorrow."
Shock rippled through Payal. Rage boiled under her skin; her body started shaking, hands clutching the dress in a desperate attempt to anchor herself. If she hadn't been so paralyzed by circumstance, she might have lashed out—her mind roiling with the urge to disrupt the meeting, to refuse, to flee. But she could do none of it. Trapped by expectation, she sat motionless, her panic and frustration invisible to all but herself.
She couldn't process what was happening. The world felt both surreal and painfully real; each face around her was a wall she couldn't climb. The room's silence—broken only for decisions made without her input—was suffocating, a potent mix of family dynamics, cultural pressure, and emotional isolation
As soon as Lord Sen left, a hush lingered over the dining room. The ornate chandelier swayed gently, casting scattered glimmers in the morning light, and the lingering warmth of cocoa, buttery croissants, and sharp orange marmalade seemed to wrap the air around them. Payal sat uncertain, the remnants of her untouched breakfast giving off a faint sweetness she had barely noticed, more focused on the cold, nervous flutter in her chest.
Julian was the first to break the silence, his voice soft but clear. "Are you okay?" His red eyes—normally fierce, now gentle—glowed with a depth of concern. He leaned forward, his long, elegant fingers tracing slow circles around the stem of a glass, the sunlight catching on the deep blue thread woven into the cuff of his tailored coat. The subtle embroidery shimmered against the even paler fabric beneath, accentuating the quiet power he carried in every gesture.
Payal nodded, her voice tremulous, barely more than a whisper. "I am okay," she said, the syllables delicate, as if afraid they might shatter in the air. She glanced involuntarily at Julian's hands—strong yet gentle, nails clean and shaped, a faint silvery scar running along his knuckle. Something about the way he moved was mesmerizing, promising safety even in uncertainty.
"That's good," Julian replied, relief flickering across his face. Then, brightening, he continued with a gentle authority, "Let's go for today's lesson. It's tradition that every future queen must study—history, language, law, every aspect."
At the word "study," something in Payal rekindled. Her brown eyes lit up, spine straightening, the heaviness lifting from her shoulders. It was as if someone had dunked a fish into water, and she could breathe again. Her spirit found a pulse, and she said with unexpected clarity and joy, "Study?" Her voice echoed for the first time, warm and alive.
Julian's lips parted in an unguarded smile, the tension melting from his face. He watched her with genuine admiration, moved by the transformation in her expression. "Yes, study," he repeated softly, as if sharing a secret. "Get ready—today, I'll take you to the knowledge sect. There's much to learn—and I'll be there with you."
They forgot the existence of other two people sitting and watching them with unintentionally.
He stood, graceful yet firm, his coat releasing a subtle scent of cedar and fresh linen. His presence filled the room, every line and color of his clothing reflecting careful elegance—royal, but approachable. As Payal rose, the lingering anxiety faded, replaced by anticipation and the warmth of feeling truly seen, perhaps for the first time since her arrival.
At that moment, Payal no longer felt like an outsider, but like someone on the cusp of discovery—with Julian's gentle guidance and his understated