End of meal

Dutchmund rambled on about his tedious experiments—the kind of gory details no one should have to stomach at the dinner table. Who discusses such horrors while eating? Rather than endure it, I let my mind wander, taking in the scene around me.

My father, unfazed, allowed this so-called 'Noble Thorne' to lean in close and whisper something in his ear. That disgusting jaw of his practically brushed against my father's cheek, while I wasn't permitted to speak unless spoken to first. The insult burned me to no end. To make matters worse, the fat fuck had the nerve to glance my way as he whispered, as though daring me to protest.

I loathed him. It seemed so unfair that someone born so low could be treated so highly, while I—my father's own daughter—struggled to claim even a few seconds of his attention. And those were offered only when he wanted to placate me, as though I were a child waiting for crumbs of affection.

I exhaled slowly, pushing the surge of resentment into a locked corner of my mind—something to address another day, when I had the power to act on it. For now, I needed to maintain my composure.

"Father, gentle sirs," I began, injecting just enough deference into my tone, "I realize it might be poor form, but may I be so bold as to request an early departure from your company? I'd like to make preparations for our upcoming trip." 

My father pinned me with a stare that seemed to bore right through my soul. 

"Go," he said curtly.

 "Just don't miss the departure. And one more thing—you'll be riding with Thorne."

I left the table, heading for the door with my posture straight and my steps measured to perfection. I knew I looked every bit the regal princess—my face carefully schooled to reveal none of my thoughts, and I took solace in that. The guards stood at attention, opening the door as I passed.

Walking down the corridor, I noticed a servant girl hastily stepping aside to make room for me. In her rush, she bumped into a hanging portrait of me, the frame rattling loudly. A flicker of irritation flared within me. It felt like a personal slight, as though another lowborn had just spat in my face.

I stopped in my tracks, turning toward her with a practiced, unreadable expression. My gaze was cold, but my face still in the practiced smile as I let the moment hang in the air.

"Follow me. I have a use for you."

The servant girl's eyes went wide, and she bobbed her head in a hurried bow. "Y-Yes, Princess!"

I led her down the corridor and back to my quarters, the guards swinging the door open as I swept inside. She trailed behind me, her shoulders tense with apprehension. Once the door clicked shut, I turned on my heel, regarding her with the kind of detached disdain I might give a broken object.

"Turn around," I said softly, though there was nothing gentle in my tone. "Show me your back."

She hesitated only for an instant before obeying, her posture stiffening as she turned away. Some small part of me relished the power in that moment, it was the promise that I could do as I pleased. It soothed my nerves just enough that I decided not to go all out—but I still intended to leave a reminder.

I crossed to my desk, where a length of heavy cable lay coiled beside a leather rod. Picking up the handle, I tested its weight with a slow flick of my wrist. Then I returned to her, letting the cable dangle, swaying behind me.

I raised my arm, swung forward in a smooth, and very practiced motion, and snapped my wrist at the apex of the arc. The cable sliced through the air with a sharp crack before biting into her skin. A barely audible whimper escaped her clenched jaw. I could almost feel the tension in her body, the sting of the wound opening a red arc on her back.

My anger receded just a fraction, replaced by a cold thrill. It was satisfaction, reasserting my position—of reminding her exactly who held the power here. If my father insisted that those beneath me could act as though they were my equals, I would simply show them where they truly stood.