The Queen's Table was not a room. It was a performance.
Thalric stood at its threshold in silence, letting the pressure swell behind his ribs like low tide. A chandelier of veined crystal hung above the hall, casting fractured light across the polished floor where the seal of House Worthing bloomed like a wound.
He was not the last to arrive. That honor fell to Cedric, who swept in late, laughing, one arm draped around a minor diplomat's daughter whose name he'd likely misremember by dessert.
But when Thalric entered, the laughter shifted. Paused. Just long enough to notice.
Seventeen guests. Eleven noble houses. Four tongues between them. All seated in order of precedence—except one empty chair halfway down the left flank.
Percival's chair.
They hadn't removed it.
A statement.
Or perhaps a trap.
The Queen sat at the head, posture carved from centuries. Her smile barely twitched at the edges as Thalric approached.
"Prince Percival," she said.
No "welcome." No "my son."
He bowed—not deeply, not disrespectfully—then claimed his place opposite the empty chair.
Conversations resumed in brittle bursts. Albrecht leaned in to whisper something to Lord Revan beside him. Cedric watched Thalric like a boy waiting for a beetle to flip belly-up.
The first course arrived: chilled trout with mint broth, ringed in candied root.
Thalric did not touch his wine.
He sipped water. Ate slowly. No flourishes.
He made them wait.
By the second course—pheasant glazed in burnt fig—House Luel's emissary coughed lightly and asked, "Your Highness, are the rumors true that you now walk the old gardens before dawn?"
"They're public grounds," Thalric replied. "Would you prefer I crawl?"
A ripple of restrained chuckles. A few downturned glances.
He let silence fill the gap.
Rowan passed him a dish without meeting his gaze. That, too, was a kind of message.
The Queen cleared her throat gently, and the table stilled.
"We are pleased," she said, not quite looking at him, "that your recovery has endured. The court was uncertain."
"I'm aware," Thalric said. He picked up his knife.
The third course came—lamb, rare, carved at the table by a steward who trembled beneath the Queen's gaze.
As the tray passed, Thalric leaned forward slightly.
"My Lord Cedric," he said softly. "Do you still practice with the estate's falcons?"
Cedric arched a brow. "Occasionally."
Thalric nodded. "Good. I find the sport instructive. The way they're taught to strike, not because they hate, but because they're hungry."
Cedric's grin twitched. "And what do you hunger for, brother?"
Thalric set down his fork.
"Accuracy."
The silence that followed was exquisite.
The Queen reached for her cup—slow, deliberate.
Solen, seated two rows down, scribbled something into her small ledger, and when he glanced her way, she was already watching him. One nod. Nothing more.
Dessert arrived in a blur of silver platters—lemon tarts, honeyed plums, candied iris.
He chose the tart.
Took a single bite.
And then let the plate sit untouched.
Conversation resumed at a slightly more respectful tone, but he heard it shift. Not dramatically. Not enough to name.
But they no longer spoke over him.
They waited.
By the end of the night, no toast was raised. No declarations made.
But when the guests filed out, they lingered near him—one step longer, one bow deeper, one question more careful.
Cedric left without looking back.
Albrecht offered a nod too small to mean anything.
Only Rowan remained, walking beside him through the corridor as they exited.
"She never once called you 'son.'"
"No," Thalric said. "And yet she set the table."
They parted without further words.
He returned to his chambers and found the vase—still on the shelf where he had left it.
Whole.
For now.