The dining hall smelled faintly of lavender, silver polish, and unresolved childhood trauma.
Kael sat in his designated chair—too straight, too formal, like a guest in someone else's skin. Which, to be fair, he was.
The polished cutlery glinted back at him, arranged with surgical precision. Beside him, Selene stood rigid and ghost-pale, still not fully recovered from the whole "I'm not who you think I am" revelation.
He could still hear her scream echoing in his skull. His ears were ringing. Or maybe that was just trauma bonding.
The double doors swung open.
First, came the Duke. A man carved from stone and disapproval. His gaze swept over Kael like one might assess an undercooked meal—still edible, but disappointing.
He didn't speak. Just nodded, coldly, and took his seat with the gravity of a man who ran duchies, crushed rebellions, and probably bench-pressed guilt.
Then the Duchess. She arrived like perfume and expectations—soft on the outside, iron on the inside. She spared Kael a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, then spent twice as long staring lovingly at the empty chair beside her.
The one meant for him.
And then, the door opened again—and he entered.
Veyran Drenlor.
The prodigy. The pride. The walking war banner.
He walked in with the kind of effortless grace that said, "I've already won, but let's pretend this is a competition."
His robes shimmered with enchantments. His boots barely made a sound. Even the housemaids seemed to sigh in sync as he passed.
Kael muttered under his breath,
"Main character syndrome is a disease."
Selene, behind him, was so stunned she forgot to breathe. Kael elbowed her gently.
"Hey, don't pass out. I already lost one identity today, can't lose my moral support too."
She blinked, shook her head slightly, and whispered back,
"I hate your family."
Kael smiled thinly. "Same."
The dinner hadn't even started, and he was already emotionally full.
Kael had expected probing questions. Accusations. A dramatic wine spit from his father, maybe.
Instead—silence.
They sat. They nodded. They began to eat. It was... unsettling.
Like the calm before an emotional hurricane. But Kael wasn't one to waste perfectly good roast duck over paranoia.
So, he dug in.
And not the way nobles did—tiny bites, dabbing lips, whispering critiques about seasoning.
No, Kael ate like a starving orphan who'd just been adopted by a bakery. Like a man who'd faced death, treachery, transmigration, and existential dread—and decided food was the only thing that made sense anymore.
Fork in one hand, bread in the other. Meat disappeared. Sauce vanished. Even the garnish wasn't safe.
Selene, standing behind him, began to sweat.
She leaned down slightly, whispering in panic,
"M-Master... Master... they're staring."
Kael, chewing enthusiastically, glanced up. Veyran had paused mid-cut. His father's fork hovered in the air. His mother's eyebrow had arched so high it entered the divine realm.
Kael swallowed and muttered, "What? I waited."
Selene whispered, mortified, "You ate before the Duke did !!!!"
Kael blinked.
Then looked at the empty plate before his father. Then at his own half-finished third serving.
Then at the table—where everyone else had paused to witness what appeared to be a complete psychological breakdown, performed with a side of mashed potatoes.
Kael, still chewing the remnants of what might have been a suspiciously buttery turnip, looked up at the frozen tableau of nobles like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then, coolly, he dabbed his lips with the napkin, straightened his back, and said with a perfectly calm expression:
"I was just testing for poison."
A pause.
"You may all eat now."
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Selene blinked behind him, unsure if she should be horrified or impressed. Honestly, it was both.
Her master had just eaten like a starving bandit in front of the entire ducal family, claimed it was a tactical maneuver, and somehow owned it like it was a military strategy.
Even the head butler coughed discreetly, probably to cover a laugh—or a sob.
Kael didn't flinch. His poker face was ironclad, his posture impeccable. He looked like someone who had planned to devour half the banquet table just to make a point about family security.
Finally, the Duke set down his wine glass with a soft clink, his sharp eyes narrowing at Kael.
"You've changed a lot."
A pause thick enough to spread on bread followed.
The Duchess, more gently, added,
"Yes… you used to sit so quietly. Never spoke. Never ate this much either."
Kael smiled politely. "Character development."
Across the table, Veyran kept eating, perfectly composed, the very image of a fantasy protagonist who knew he was being watched.
Without looking up, he said, "Or maybe he hit his head."
The table fell into silence again, the clatter of cutlery fading into tension.
The Duke leaned forward slightly, his voice low but laced with steel.
"So, you're saying you were poisoned… and the poisoning was orchestrated by your second brother?"
Kael didn't flinch. He met his father's gaze directly—sharp, unblinking. The boldness of it made even Veyran pause mid-bite. Selene behind him tensed.
"I'm not saying anything like that," Kael said smoothly.
"It's all just rumors. Scandals. Nothing more. I'm only repeating what Lana said before her… 'suicide'. She claimed it was all part of the second brother's plan...."
The Duke's brow furrowed.
"But if it leads to the same result, Kael… your life was in danger. And if you truly were poisoned…"
He paused, voice dipping into a dangerous calm.
"To obtain a toxin subtle enough to fool our house physicians? That narrows the suspect list. Fewer people could afford such a thing. Even fewer would dare to use it under this roof."
Veyran finally set his fork down. "If this is true," he said thoughtfully, "then someone's playing a much bigger game than we thought."
The Duchess looked visibly paler. "Why would he… your own brother…"