The Goldheart dining hall was a picture of elegance and calm — too calm, in Raiden's opinion.
The long table was fully illuminated under the light of floating mana lanterns, each one casting warm gold across silverware and polished plates.
The scent of roasted herbs and garlic drifted through the air, far too comforting for what had been, in Raiden's words, "a near-death experience disguised as sword training."
He slumped into his seat, half-dead and still sore. Every movement reminded him of Sir Leonard's wooden blade striking yet another part of his anatomy. His arms felt like pudding, his pride felt worse.
Across the table, his father, Lord Cedric Goldheart, sat in his usual calm authority — shoulders square, expression composed, as if he hadn't heard his youngest son's very public screams for help from the courtyard hours ago.
Raiden's eyes narrowed.
