Chapter 6: A Seat at the Table

Lunaria slept quietly, wrapped in her threadbare sheets, her breathing slow and even. The cold of the stone floor beneath her bed seeped up through the mattress, but she had long grown used to it. Her small hands curled near her chest, fingers twitching faintly as the shadows in the room pulsed gently, curling like smoke just beyond the reach of her dreams.

Then, without warning, the door slammed open.

Lunaria jolted upright, heart leaping into her throat, still halfway between sleep and wakefulness.

The sharp click of heavy boots and the rustle of skirts filled the room.

"Get up," a shrill voice barked.

Two maids stormed in, their expressions tight with irritation, their hands already reaching for the sheets.

Lunaria flinched as they yanked the covers away, exposing her small frame to the morning chill.

"W–What…?" she mumbled, disoriented, still blinking the sleep from her silver eyes.

"Stop dawdling," snapped the elder of the two. "You're to be dressed and presentable. Now."

One of them grabbed her arm while the other pulled a dress off a hanger and tossed it onto the bed—a muted lavender thing, stiff with lace and clearly not made for comfort. Lunaria stared at it in confusion, her mind still fogged.

Presentable? For what?

"No more of your dead-eyed stares," the maid grumbled as she tugged Lunaria's hairbrush through her tangled locks without care. "You're to dine with the family today."

The words barely registered at first.

Dine… with the family?

A small knot twisted in her stomach. Her lips parted slightly, her voice faint. "Why?"

But no one answered her. The second maid was already forcing her arms into the sleeves of the dress, pulling and adjusting as though she were dressing a lifeless doll. The brush scraped hard against her scalp again, and Lunaria winced, tears prickling behind her eyes from the rough treatment.

"Hold still."

Her skin itched beneath the fabric. The collar was tight, the waist pulled in too snugly, and the shoes pinched her toes. Her fingers twitched against the folds of the skirt, the material unfamiliar—too stiff, too fine compared to the rags she usually wore.

The maids continued their work in silence, save for the occasional scoff or muttered complaint. One of them spat at the floor when she caught Lunaria glancing in the mirror.

"Don't look at yourself like you're worth something," she sneered.

Lunaria lowered her gaze obediently.

She said nothing.

Once they were satisfied—or at least indifferent enough to stop—the maids stepped back, one of them brushing invisible dust off Lunaria's shoulders.

"Come," said the elder. "You're already late."

She didn't protest. She knew better than that.

They led her out into the corridor, guiding her through the vast halls of the mansion. The corridors felt colder than usual, their marble floors echoing with every step of her shoes. She kept her eyes down, hands clasped nervously in front of her. Her dress rustled faintly with every movement, a sound that made her stomach churn for reasons she couldn't place.

She'd never been summoned like this before. Never called to join them at the table. Usually, her meals were scraps brought to her door—stale bread, cold broth, wilted vegetables, or whatever could be spared without notice.

Now she was being dressed. Dragged out.

Why?

Was it punishment?

A test?

Another cruel trick from Caelan?

Her thoughts spiraled quietly, but her expression remained blank. She'd learned long ago to keep her face still, unreadable, lest it invite more scorn.

The hallway seemed to stretch forever as they passed tall windows and polished doors, every corner of the mansion colder and grander than the last. The portraits of her ancestors glared down from the walls with judging eyes, their painted visages filled with dignity and pride—expressions that had never once belonged to her.

She didn't belong in this world of golden chandeliers and velvet carpets.

She was the stain they tried to scrub out.

And yet… they had summoned her.

Her pace faltered only once, when they turned down the corridor that led to the main dining hall. Her feet grew heavier. Her fingers curled tighter in front of her, nails digging into her palms.

She had never walked this path before.

The maids didn't speak as they continued forward. They moved with practiced detachment, indifferent to the tension coiling in Lunaria's chest.

The ornate double doors loomed ahead—tall, carved with the Azar crest, polished to a gleam. The scent of roasted meats and rich spices wafted faintly from the other side, carried by the draft from beneath the doors.

Lunaria swallowed, her throat dry.

Why… now?

Why had they decided she was worthy of even a glance, let alone a seat at their table?

She was still grappling with the thought, her breath tight in her chest, as the maids moved to open the doors.

And that was when the fear truly set in.

Because this wasn't kindness.

This was the Azar household.

Nothing here ever came without pain.

The heavy doors creaked open, groaning beneath their own weight as Lunaria stepped into the dining hall.

It was a grand room—immense, cold, and filled with the weight of self-importance. Sunlight spilled through stained glass windows, casting fragmented hues across the marble floor. A long polished table dominated the center, adorned with silverware, fine porcelain, and steaming platters of food that filled the air with rich, mouthwatering aromas.

Lunaria's stomach gave an involuntary twist.

But it wasn't the food that unsettled her.

It was the stares.

At the head of the table sat the Duke, his expression unreadable behind a goblet of wine. To his right, the Duchess, a glint of thinly veiled contempt in her eyes. On either side of them, her siblings—Caelan, sharp-eyed and smirking, and Vivienne, composed in delicate lace, her mouth already curling with amusement the moment Lunaria entered.

No seat had been prepared for her.

"Stand in the corner," the Duke said, not bothering to look directly at her.

His voice cut through the air like a blade.

Lunaria obeyed silently, walking toward the far end of the room where the ornate curtains gathered in shadow. She pressed herself against the wall, trying to shrink into the marble, hands clasped tightly in front of her.

Her presence was nothing more than a blemish at the edge of their feast.

She watched from the corner as they ate. Silver cutlery clinked softly against porcelain. Meats were carved, sauces poured, and wine refilled. The scent made her light-headed—she hadn't eaten since yesterday's stale crust of bread—but she didn't allow her expression to waver.

Vivienne looked up from her plate and snorted softly.

"She's staring again."

Caelan chuckled. "Let the mutt look. It's the closest she'll ever get to a proper meal."

Their laughter echoed in the hall, light and cruel.

Lunaria kept her head low, gaze unfocused. Her eyes traced the cracks in the floor tiles beneath her feet, trying not to let her trembling knees give way.

Each passing minute stretched longer than the last, and every laugh dug deeper into the hollow place in her chest.

When the last dish was cleared away, the maids moved with quiet precision, removing plates and replacing empty glasses. The Duke wiped his mouth with a silk napkin and leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly on the armrest.

"You," he said finally, turning his eyes toward Lunaria. "Come here."

Her stomach dropped.

She walked forward slowly, each step heavy with dread. The polished floor reflected her small figure—dressed finely, yes, but still utterly out of place in the grandeur surrounding her.

She stopped just a few feet from the end of the table.

"Stand up straight," the Duchess snapped. "You look like a hunched rat."

Lunaria obeyed, back stiffening, jaw tightening slightly though she said nothing.

The Duke's eyes studied her for a long, drawn-out moment.

"You'll be engaged soon."

The words hit like a slap.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her breath caught in her throat.

Vivienne laughed softly behind her teacup. "Engaged? To whom? A dog from the stables?"

The Duke smirked. "To the Dornevale's youngest daughter."

Lunaria blinked. The name barely meant anything to her. She had never met the Dornevales, only heard their name in passing—another powerful noble house with its own long lineage and reputation.

"She's a bastard, too," Caelan said with mock cheer. "How fitting."

His laughter rang out again. "A union of bastards. How poetic."

Vivienne covered her mouth delicately, failing to hide her own amusement.

"Imagine the wedding," she said. "No flowers, just shame and whispers."

Lunaria stood frozen in place, her small hands curling at her sides.

A union of bastards.

That was all she was to them—something disposable. Her life traded and decided without her consent, without ceremony, without dignity. Not a daughter of the house, but a pawn to be offered for politics or convenience. Even now, the announcement wasn't made with honor or pride, but with derision. A joke passed around the dinner table.

"It's suitable, really," the Duchess said, lifting her goblet. "Two little stains tucked away into one corner of the world. Perhaps they'll vanish together."

The Duke chuckled under his breath, sipping his wine. "And maybe we'll be rid of her sooner than expected."

More laughter.

Lunaria remained still.

She didn't cry. She didn't flinch. But her heart pounded against her ribs, each beat echoing with quiet fury and a deeper, colder ache she didn't yet understand.

A union of bastards.

Her first engagement—her first brush with a world outside this cursed estate—and it was wrapped in mockery, delivered like a punishment.

She didn't know this Elowen.

But she already knew what the rest of the world would say when they heard of it.

She could already imagine the whispers in noble courts, the laughter behind closed fans, the disdain in the servants' eyes.

A bastard marrying a bastard.

A shadow marrying a shadow.

And still, she stood there, silent and small in the vast, echoing hall, while the rest of the Azar family drank their wine and laughed at her future.

The hallways of the mansion were eerily silent as Lunaria walked, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpets beneath her shoes. The laughter from the dining hall still echoed faintly in her ears, like a ghost that clung to her even after she had left it behind.

Her hands were clenched tightly at her sides, the knuckles white beneath pale skin. Her mind was a whirlwind of tangled threads—shame, confusion, anger, and something else… something she hadn't felt in a very long time.

Uncertainty.

When she reached her room, the door closed behind her with a quiet click, sealing her back into the world of shadows and dust. The stale air welcomed her like an old friend, heavy with the scent of old wood, fabric, and neglect.

She leaned against the door for a moment, breathing in slowly, pressing her forehead to the cool wood.

A union of bastards.

The words rattled in her skull again, bitter and hollow.

She had known—truly, she had always known—that her life was not her own. That she existed only at the whims of the Azar family, to be dressed and paraded or hidden and discarded as they saw fit. But today, it was as if that truth had been carved into her skin with a sharper blade than usual.

An engagement.

She moved across the room slowly, settling onto the edge of her bed, her fingers curling into the coarse fabric of the blanket. For a long time, she simply sat there, staring at the floor, her breath shallow and quiet.

It wasn't the engagement itself that unsettled her. It was what it might mean.

Until now, she had never even thought of a future. Her days had been a steady cycle of pain, silence, and the dull ache of survival. She was a ghost in this house, a stain everyone tried to scrub out, a presence tolerated only because her blood carried the Duke's lineage.

But now… now they were marrying her off.

Why?

Was it to get rid of her? To tie her off neatly, package her up like an inconvenience to be handed to another household?

Perhaps… perhaps that wasn't a bad thing.

The thought crept into her mind like a whisper in the dark.

Maybe this Elowen girl—this other bastard—was as unwanted as she was. Maybe the Dornevale household would keep her at a distance, isolated but at least far from the reach of Caelan's sneers or the Duchess's fists.

Maybe it was freedom.

The thought frightened her in its unfamiliarity.

Freedom had always been something distant and unreachable, something she never dared let herself imagine. It had no shape, no scent, no color—just a vague concept reserved for people who mattered.

But now… maybe this marriage was a door.

Not an escape in the grand, heroic sense—but a fracture, a crack in the walls of her prison.

She stared out the small window, watching the wind dance through the skeletal branches of the trees beyond. The sky was a dull gray, but even that looked gentler than anything she had known inside these walls.

Her fingers brushed absently across her forearm, remembering how the head maid's cane had struck her, how the welts still burned beneath her sleeves. She remembered the way Caelan had grinned at her pain, how the Duchess had stood by and watched, arms folded in smug satisfaction.

And now they were sending her away.

Could it be that simple?

Her thoughts drifted to the unknown girl—Elowen.

She knew nothing about her—only that she was another illegitimate child, another inconvenience dressed up as a noble's daughter. Did Elowen live as Lunaria did? Hidden behind curtains, beaten for existing, ridiculed for her blood?

Was she cruel? Was she kind?

Was she a girl who had dreams, who still believed in gentleness? Or had the world already stripped her bare, carved away all softness the way it had done to Lunaria?

She didn't know. But she hoped… irrationally, foolishly, she hoped that Elowen was not like the others.

Even if the engagement wasn't real affection… even if it was only politics, only convenience… even if Elowen despised her, it would still be a different cage.

And a different cage meant the rules might change.

Her hands slowly unclenched.

Maybe I can breathe there, she thought. Maybe I can eat without being laughed at. Maybe I can walk without being spat on. Maybe I can be unseen instead of hated.

It was such a small, pitiful hope.

But it was hope.

And that alone made her feel like she was standing on the edge of something dangerous and new.

She exhaled, softly, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly for the first time in days.

If she played her part right… if she kept her head down, spoke politely, followed all the proper forms… maybe, just maybe, she could shape this engagement into something more.

A foothold. A fracture. A thread of escape.

And if not… if it turned out to be just another form of hell…

Then she would endure.

She always did.

But for now, she held on to the only thing she could: the quiet flicker of a future not shaped by the Azar household's cruelty.

A path she hadn't chosen… but perhaps, just perhaps, one she could walk on her own terms.

Even if it began with a union of bastards.