The Table Of Wolves

Tenebrarum sat at the head of the long obsidian table, the chandelier above him flickering with pale gold flames that cast shadows over every guest. Silver plates were untouched, goblets full—yet no one dared take the first bite.

He lifted two fingers.

"Call her," he said quietly to the nearest maidens.

They bowed and slipped away, silks whispering behind them.

Soon, a knock at her chamber.

Not loud. Not soft. The kind of knock that didn't ask—it informed.

Aurelia's hand froze around the ribbon she'd been tying. She didn't answer.

The door creaked open anyway.

Two maidens stepped in. Heads bowed slightly, eyes alert. Not cruel. Not kind. Just trained.

"The Master requests your presence in the dining hall," one of them said.

Aurelia stared at them from the edge of the mirror.

She had tried—foolishly—to smooth her hair. The brush still sat on the table. Her hands felt heavy, her breath thin. Her reflection didn't look like a girl invited to dinner. She looked like something dressed up for display. Polished. Prepared. But not wanted.

"Now?" she asked. Her voice didn't shake, but her throat burned.

The second maiden nodded.

Aurelia rose slowly. The room, quiet as it was, felt like it held its breath with her.

She didn't rush.

Every step from her small chamber to the grand hallway echoed like it had weight. As if the palace itself wanted her to feel it—that she didn't belong. That tonight, she'd be surrounded by the very people who wanted to break her.

Still, she walked.

Because he had requested her.

And in a place like this, a request was only a quieter kind of command.

Still—her fingers curled slightly in the folds of her skirt as she walked.

She wondered how his family would react. She already knew she didn't want to eat with them.

Monsters, she thought.

---

Moments later, the tall doors creaked open.

Aurelia entered.

Her head bowed, her pace measured, but her presence still turned heads. The dining hall stilled, like prey sensing danger it couldn't name. She moved toward the long row of seats, and just before reaching the chair—placed carefully, deliberately—at Tenebrarum's side, she hesitated.

Then she gave a gentle nod and sat.

The sound of her dress brushing the stone was enough to start the whispers.

"Why is she even here?" Rhazor said aloud, wine thick in his throat.

A pause.

And then it began.

The murmurs and gossip slid across the room like smoke—half-jokes, mockery dressed in silk. Even with King Mortifer seated near the end of the table, they didn't stop.

Until one voice sliced sharper than the rest:

"Let the slave sit on the floor."

Silence.

Everything stopped. Forks hovered midair. Breath caught. Someone dropped a spoon.

And Tenebrarum… didn't move.

But something cracked behind that bone-white mask.

He stood—slow, deliberate.

"Enough," he said. Cold. Final.

But then—

"STOP ALL THIS NONSENSE!" another voice roared beside him.

It was Kaelen's.

Even the king raised a brow.

The room turned to the prince, whose hand was still pressed against the polished wood of the table. His eyes were locked on Aurelia like he couldn't understand what had made him speak.

And yet—he had.

Even Aurelia didn't breathe.

She hated the way they looked at her—as if holding a knife they couldn't wait to watch her bleed.

Tenebrarum was already on his feet, palm slammed against the table, chest heaving like he had just run from war.

A deathly pause followed.

All heads turned. Goblets trembled. The servants froze where they stood.

Even King Mortifer leaned forward—just slightly, but the movement was enough to shift the room's gravity. His eyes, pale and gleaming like winter stars, flicked from Tenebrarum to Kaelen, then to Aurelia, still seated, still silent.

"So…" the King murmured, his voice smooth and low like old wine. "The slave has protectors now."

It was not a question.

It was curiosity laced with warning.

Tenebrarum turned his head, just barely—just enough to meet his father's gaze across the long obsidian table.

"She is not to be spoken to that way," he said.

Mortifer's expression didn't shift.

"And yet she was," he said mildly. "By my blood."

His gaze cut toward Rhazor, who instantly shrank into his chair, wine forgotten. He knew that look. They all did. The one the King wore just before something—or-someone—vanished from court forever.

Kaelen's jaw clenched.

"She may be a slave," Kaelen said, "but she has done nothing to deserve this."

Aurelia didn't look up, but something shifted in her chest. A muscle she didn't know had tensed now slowly released. Not safety. Not relief. But surprise. Kaelen?

Tenebrarum's mask remained unreadable, but his voice had softened, just enough for those closest to hear:

"She eats at this table. That is all you need to know."

The King leaned back slowly in his throne-like chair. A beat of silence passed before he spoke again.

"Very well," he said at last. "But understand this—both of you." His gaze lingered now on Kaelen. "Every defiance has its price. Even from my sons."

The warning was clear, and so was the permission.

Aurelia remained where she sat, still silent, still bowing her head. But the fire above cast new shadows across her face, shadows shaped like defiance… and like the beginning of something none of them saw coming.

The clink of cutlery resumed slowly—hesitant, almost mechanical—after the King's sharp hand signal had sliced through the tension. A gesture that meant: Eat. No excuses. No delay. But four did not move.

Aurelia.

Kaelen.

Tenebrarum.

Matrona.

Their plates sat untouched, steam curling upward like ghostly tendrils, wafting rich aromas no one at their end of the table could taste.

Matrona's eyes did not blink.

She stared. Unblinking. Across the table, directly at Aurelia.

It was not hatred in her face—it was worse. It was an insult. Wounded pride. Disbelief that this girl, this thing, this creature, had provoked a disruption at the King's table… and walked away from it unpunished.

Aurelia didn't lift her gaze. She didn't need to. She felt the fire of Matrona's stare slicing through the side of her face, branding her. She sat straight, hands on her lap, fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress where no one could see.

Kaelen, still rigid, hadn't moved since his outburst. His eyes were locked on the empty plate before him, but his fists were clenched at his sides. His jaw was set. Whatever had overtaken him—whatever had made him stand—it hadn't left him yet.

Tenebrarum didn't move either.

He sat like carved obsidian. Unmoving. Eternal.

But behind his silver mask, his eyes were on Matrona.

Watching her.

Watching her fury mount like smoke behind painted lashes.

The others whispered again. Forks lifted, then trembled. Rhazor drank too fast. No one dared speak of what had just happened, but the silence around the four was louder than words. A heavy orbit formed around them, pulling everyone in, choking the atmosphere.

Still, no food was touched.

And King Mortifer noticed.

His gaze swept toward Tenebrarum, then lingered—lingered longer on Kaelen, and then slid toward Matrona, who straightened in her chair with an elegant huff, as if realising she, too, had betrayed emotion she should've swallowed.

But Aurelia...

Aurelia sat motionless. Head bowed. Her presence, once ignored, now bled through every crack in the dining hall.

She had become the centre of gravity.

---

To be continued...