Cold food

The dim orange glow of the setting sun filtered through the tall windows, casting a warm hue across the room. Lord Reginald sat in the velvet-covered chair before his desk, his gaze fixed on the young woman seated quietly across from him.

Cierra had swept her long, wavy blonde hair over one shoulder. Her gown, cut in an elegant style, shimmered in deep shades of blue. It draped modestly over her figure, hinting at her silhouette without revealing it. Her fair skin stood in striking contrast to her blue eyes. 

Reginald looked at her for a moment, then smiled, unable to contain the emotion rising within him.

"You know what, Cierra?" he said, "the king placed his hand on my shoulder today. He said nothing. But in that silence, I felt more than words could ever express."

Cierra tilted her head slightly, a soft curiosity flickering in her expression. "What did you feel, Father?"

"Trust," Reginald replied. "Not just in me… but in our house, in the men we've raised, in our past. In that one gesture, he silently acknowledged that he was king to us all. And for the first time... I truly wanted to serve."

Cierra lowered her head. A strand of hair slipped forward. Her eyes remained fixed on her father, but her face betrayed no emotion. She simply listened. She couldn't even remember the last time her dear father had spoken about someone with such admiration, so she did nothing but lend him her full attention. And this new king... had caught her interest.

Her silence, so graceful and composed, encouraged Reginald to go on.

"You know\... in my youth, I never truly believed I would serve a king with my heart. It was always just duty. We followed orders, drew our swords. I always thought of myself not as a servant of the crown or the king, but of the realm itself. And that's how our house has always seen it. But today… it felt as if the very soul of the kingdom had been reborn."

Cierra turned her gaze to the window. "I had the chance to see him from afar. He didn't notice me, so I took the opportunity to observe him closely. The king… he seems a little intimidating. But at the same time… oddly reassuring."

Reginald nodded. "He frightened me, too. And he awed me. Perhaps that's what a true king is meant to be. Quiet, yet unshakable. Gentle, yet unquestionably powerful."

Leaning forward slightly in his chair, Reginald clasped his hands and met his daughter's eyes.

"Cierra… this king is no ordinary man," he said. "He doesn't flaunt his power, yet everyone pays attention to him. He is silent, but somehow the most dominant presence in the room."

Cierra gave a slow nod. "You seem deeply impressed by him, Father. I suppose it's time I met him face to face."

Reginald paused for a beat, then chose his next words carefully.

"If this war is won—somehow—then a new era will begin in the kingdom. And that era... will form around him. We must adapt to that. I... want to stand beside him."

Cierra narrowed her eyes. "What exactly are you saying, Father?"

Reginald smiled—an expression shaped by years of wisdom and experience. "I'm not only talking about politics. Loyalty alone will not be enough. We must earn his trust. We must share in his vision."

Cierra did not look away. Her tone was calm but probing. "Does that vision include me?"

Reginald bowed his head slightly, then sat up straighter as he answered.

"If he deems it so… why not? A powerful king needs strength at his side. This isn't merely about marriage. I speak of a bond forged in loyalty. Perhaps the future of the realm depends on it."

Cierra turned back to the window in silence. The sun had fully set. Her reflection in the glass had grown faint, but her eyes were still lost in thought.

"You've likely already earned his trust, Father. But I… I won't make any judgments until I see him with my own eyes."

Reginald nodded. "That's exactly why I want you to meet him."

Just then, the door opened gently. A young maid stepped inside, carrying a delicate tray bearing a silver-etched goblet. She approached Reginald with a respectful bow.

"… my Lord," she said softly. "Your evening drink."

Reginald smiled. "Thank you."

He took the goblet and gave it a gentle swirl. The red wine rolled slowly along the glass. Cierra waited for the maid to leave, then turned back to her father.

"Is this king truly as trustworthy as you believe?" she asked. "What if he's not the man everyone thinks he is?"

Reginald paused, the rim of the goblet just inches from his lips. He met his daughter's eyes before answering.

"No king is entirely good or entirely evil. But some do what must be done—no matter the cost. I believe Etharell is one of them."

Then he took a sip.

As the wine slid down his throat, his eyes narrowed slightly. There was the briefest hitch in his breath. Yet his face betrayed no pain, no doubt. He smiled.

"Delicious," he murmured.

Cierra noticed that his eyes lingered on focus for a moment longer than usual. Then that focus faded. The goblet in his hand began to tremble slightly. A sudden silence fell over the room. His left hand gripped the armrest of the chair.

"Father?" Cierra said, her voice rising with concern.

Reginald didn't respond. His complexion had gone pale. His breathing turned sharp—then halted. He looked at his daughter one last time before his eyes closed. From his lips escaped a single word, softer than a whisper:

"Cierra…"

The goblet slipped from his hand. It shattered against the polished floor. The wine spilled like blood, spreading dark and thick across the carpet. And then, foam began to spill from Lord Reginald's mouth.

Cierra's eyes widened in horror. As her father's head lolled back, the guttural sound escaping his throat cut through the room like a blade. For a moment, time stood still, frozen between the fall of the goblet and the spreading silence.

Then Cierra lunged forward.

"FATHER!"

She dropped to her knees beside him, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him desperately. She slapped his cheek, trying to rouse him.

"Father! Please! What are you doing? Open your eyes—come on!"

Her voice cracked. Her breathing grew rapid and shallow. She pressed her hands to his chest, urging him to breathe—but there was no movement. She searched for a heartbeat with trembling fingers—nothing. Her eyes brimmed with tears—not of grief, but denial. She couldn't cry. Not yet. She could only whisper in panicked repetition,

"No… no… no…"

The tears finally broke free. Her hands shook violently. Her fingers no longer felt like her own.

She tried to stand, but her knees buckled, sending her back to the floor. She turned her head sharply, searching—until her gaze landed on the goblet.

Shards of glass. Crimson liquid.

Was it wine?

No… it spread like blood. Thick, dark, and eerily still.

Her eyes widened.

"No… no… no, this can't be…"

She crawled toward it, dragging herself across the floor. Her hand reached the liquid. She touched it—her fingers trembling. She brought it close, sniffed it. Her lips parted slightly… then recoiled in terror.

Her gaze snapped back to her father.

"Poison… It's poison…"

She screamed. A sound wrenched from the deepest part of her throat. Wracked by sobs, she wrapped her arm around her father's body. She no longer had the strength to stand. She remained on her knees, unable to speak through the sobbing. Her hair had fallen loose, her eyes swollen without makeup, but she no longer cared.

Now, only three things remained in the room:

A shattered goblet.

A cooling body.

And the trembling voice of a helpless daughter.