The clinking of goblets and the low hum of conversation grated on my ears as I sat rigid in my chair, back straight as a blade. My father, King Edric, wore his usual composed mask, a bearded face of cold command, silver circlet catching the candlelight with every measured nod. My mother, Queen Amara, carried her smile like a polished dagger, sweetness hiding the calculation behind her ice-blue eyes.

They spoke in measured tones with the royal couple across from us, trying to charm them — words about alliances, peace, children, legacy. All while I sat in suffocating silence.

I did not want this.

My fingers curled around the polished silver goblet, knuckles whitening. The scent of roasted boar and rich spiced wine turned my stomach. At twenty-seven, I had fought on more battlefields than I could count, crushed entire rebellions, and yet here I was, a pawn on my parents' dinner table.

"Lucien," my mother prodded gently, voice dripping honey. "Perhaps you would offer a word to our esteemed guests?"

I raised my eyes, dark as onyx and just as unyielding, to the other side of the table. My face was carved from stone, jaw tense, expression unreadable.

"No," I answered simply, voice low, unshaken.