Chapter 70: The Twilight Before The Crown (5)

The hall was a gilded cage, a monument to elegance and restraint.

Polished silver cutlery reflected the golden candlelight.

Crystal goblets glimmered beside plates that held artfully arranged meals, tiny servings meticulously plated on enormous porcelain dishes, more sculpture than sustenance.

The air smelled faintly of truffle oil, roasted game, sugared fruits, and other decadent indulgences.

But no one was eating.

The noble sons of prominent houses stood with perfect posture, wine glasses in hand, nodding thoughtfully to one another while discussing trade routes and inheritance law.

The daughters of marquises and dukes daintily circled the room in gowns worth more than most merchant homes, their expressions frozen in effortless disinterest, laughing delicately behind gloved fingers while subtly inspecting one another’s jewelry for signs of new wealth.

To eat, at a gathering such as this, was frowned upon.

Vulgar.

Barbaric.

One did not attack a slice of roasted venison or lick one’s fingers after savoring sugar-glazed figs in mixed company.

One admired.

One nibbled.

One performed civility.

That is… until Lucien Crowley appeared.

His movements were slow, slightly unsteady, a residual haze of healing magic and sleep still lingering in his limbs.

He looked like he didn’t belong, and that was because, by all surface measures, he didn’t.

He had a nice suit on.

His hair was combed well.

Yet.

His eyes, half-lidded and gleaming with focus, were locked onto one thing: the food.

He made no introductions.

He sought no company.

He walked past startled gazes, ignored the gasps muffled behind fans and glasses, and beelined to the nearest table like a starving man spotting salvation.

And then he ate.

Not nibbled.

Not sampled.

Not delicately dissected his plate like he was performing a surgical procedure.

He ate.

He carved a slice of tender duck breast with practiced ease, dipped it in the berry glaze with an expression approaching reverence, and took a bite that made his eyes flutter closed.

“Hmmm,” he murmured through a full mouth, chewing with delight.

“That’s actually divine.”

He moved on to the next plate with the excitement of a child at a festival, soft cheeses, roasted nuts, spiced potatoes layered with cream, fruit tarts so delicate they looked like porcelain flowers.

And with each bite, his body seemed to regain a bit more life.

His expression turned bright.

Relaxed.

Sincere.

And that, perhaps, was the most alarming part.

He was enjoying himself.

Openly.

Genuinely.

In the middle of a hall full of future aristocrats trained from birth to suppress, project, posture.

A hush fell around him like a dropped veil.

Conversations stuttered.

Eyes began to drift his way.

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

Lucien looked up mid-bite, blinking crumbs off his lashes.

“Hmm?”

A young nobleman stood awkwardly nearby.

Immaculately dressed.

Clearly unsure whether he was intruding.

“Pardon, I… I just noticed you seemed rather, um…”

He gestured vaguely at Lucien’s overflowing plate.

“Confident in the offerings.”

Lucien perked up.

“Oh, yeah! You have to try the duck. It’s insane. And this-”

He lifted a tiny tart, nearly dropping it in his excitement, “-this is like, some kind of apricot-cream explosion. Just melts on your tongue.”

The nobleman blinked.

He stared at Lucien.

Then down at the tart.

Then back again.

Lucien tilted his head innocently.

“Here, grab one before they’re gone.”

The nobleman's heart rate spiked.

‘Gone? Did he just imply the best dishes would be snatched up?’

What kind of guest would speak so casually, so boldly, unless he held the status to do so?

‘Was this someone from an Archducal house?’

‘A foreign royal in disguise?’

‘A hidden heir?’

‘Or worse… someone already so high up the social ladder that he didn’t need to care how he was perceived.’

The nobleman gave a nervous chuckle and reached for a tart.

“I mean… I suppose one bite wouldn’t hurt.”

Moments later, he was nearly moaning.

“Oh my gods.”

Lucien grinned.

“Told you.”

From there, it spread like wildfire.

Another student wandered closer, “I saw you had the creamed spinach pastry, was it good?”

Lucien nodded.

“So good. Better with a little of the mustard glaze, though.”

‘Ah’, thought the eavesdroppers.

‘He has opinions on pairings?’

‘He’s that refined?’

One girl, a count’s daughter, who’d spent the last hour sipping nothing but water, slowly reached for a delicate salmon roll and nibbled it, her eyes widening.

Another group of boys who’d been debating border tariffs began whispering urgently before cautiously approaching the roast.

Soon, plates began to vanish.

The clinking of silverware became a chorus.

Gloved hands reached for skewers, velvet sleeves brushed against tablecloths, and dignity gave way to sheer, unadulterated hunger.

Mouths that once offered only political platitudes were now filled with herb-glazed lamb and butter-soft bread.

The taste did the rest, pleasure dulled judgment, and then shattered it entirely.

For the first time all evening, the hall felt alive.

Laughter, not the restrained, porcelain kind, but real and from the gut, bubbled up from tables.

Students who had never spoken shared tips on which dish was best.

An older student leaned in beside Lucien and asked, “Be honest, how many of these have you tried?”

Lucien shrugged, still chewing.

“Most of ’em. Still working on the corner table.”

The upperclassman raised a brow.

“A man on a mission. I respect that.”

One of the waitstaff sprinted down the hall toward the kitchen in a flurry of white linens.

“Chef!” he cried breathlessly as he burst through the door, “They’re eating! The students are eating! They’re praising the food!”

The head chef dropped her ladle in shock.

“The nobles? Praising?”

“Like it’s a royal feast! One boy even said the duck was divine!”

Back in the hall, Lucien, now working on a third plate, paused as someone offered him wine and asked about his house.

He blinked.

“Uh… I live in a manor, actually.”

They all laughed, misinterpreting it as dry wit.

‘A ‘manor’, he must mean a private holiday estate with modest acreage. So modest, it’s charming. How grounded.’

Lucien sipped and looked around.

‘Why is everyone staring at me?’

But he shrugged it off and reached for another slice of duck.

***

Vaelira had only stepped out for a few minutes.

A breath.

A moment of silence.

A desperate gasp of freedom outside the ornate prison masquerading as a ballroom.

The night air had been crisp, cool on her skin, laced with the scent of dew and distant lilacs.

She had stood alone on the marble balcony, nursing half a glass of wine and an overflowing mental catalog of every inane conversation she’d endured so far.

House Blackthorn’s youngest son trying to impress her with his investment in wyvern silk.

Lady Alencia from the north rambling about her cousin's engagement to a minor baron and the politics behind the dowry negotiations.

One girl even asked if Vaelira personally knew any assassins, as if being from the Aetherveil bloodline meant she had some kind of catalogue of hired killers.

Vaelira had smiled.

She had nodded.

She had lied with her teeth.

Now, as she returned to the hall, her glass nearly empty and her patience completely so, she braced herself for another wave of social drain.

But the moment she crossed the threshold, something hit her.

She paused.

The air had changed.

No, not the temperature.

Not the scent.

The mood.

There was noise now.

Not the stale hum of half-bored nobles trying to out-boast each other in polite decibels, but real noise.

Laughter.

Excitement.

The scraping of silverware.

The clinking of dishes that were actually being used.

The muffled thud of someone tripping over a tablecloth and laughing it off instead of pretending it didn’t happen.

Vaelira blinked.

The noble sons who’d been posturing like wax statues were now in animated discussion over which dish had the better seasoning.

The daughters who’d been calculating their calorie intake per slice of grape were now sipping cider and arguing (politely) over the superiority of truffle oil versus black pepper glaze.

It was surreal.

Like someone had rewound the room and played it back again, correctly this time.

She stepped deeper into the hall, her heels tapping softly against the polished floor, eyes sweeping across the impossible transformation.

No more stiff shoulders.

No more frozen expressions.

Even the music, was it just her imagination, or was the string quartet playing something more upbeat now?

A blur of motion passed her, and Vaelira turned just in time for a smiling student, one of the girls who’d previously spent the entire evening judging others from the safety of her circle of aristocratic friends, to approach her with a plate.

“You have to try the funnel cake,” the girl said brightly, pressing the plate into Vaelira’s hands like it was a divine offering.

“It’s ridiculous. Like sugar clouds fried in actual heaven.”

Before Vaelira could respond, the girl laughed, already moving on to greet someone else with a plate in her own hand.

Vaelira stared down.

It was… funnel cake.

Cut neatly into a triangle slice like a dessert pizza.

Still warm.

The powdered sugar melted slightly at the edges where it had been freshly dusted.

She could smell cinnamon.

Vanilla.

Fried dough.

She had no idea what to do with it.