The great hall of Valeris gleams with gold and candlelight. Crystal goblets catch the glow of chandeliers overhead, scattering light across the long table where silk and velvet whisper as courtiers shift in their seats. Laughter drifts from one end to the other, but it never quite reaches your place at the head. It never does.

Your seat is immaculate. Untouched.

Nothing is ever touched until he does.

Caelan stands at your right, still and composed, as constant as the stone pillars that hold up the hall. A servant approaches and places a glass of deep red wine before you. No one speaks of it. No one needs to.

Caelan steps forward without hesitation, his fingers closing around the stem of the glass. For a brief moment, his eyes flick toward yours—not seeking permission, not asking, simply acknowledging. Then he drinks. Not a sip. Enough.

The hall continues as if nothing has happened. Conversation flows. Laughter rises. Cutlery scrapes quietly against porcelain. Caelan lowers the glass, his throat moving as he swallows, and then comes the stillness.

You would miss it if you had not learned to look. The faint tightening of his jaw. The barely perceptible pause in his breathing. The way his left hand curls just slightly at his side.

Then it is gone. Composure returns like a curtain falling back into place.

Caelan sets the glass down before you with perfect care. "It is safe, Your Majesty," he says, his voice smooth and controlled, almost warm. To anyone else, it is routine.

To you, the color leaving his face is visible. Just slightly. Just enough.

The court does not notice. They never do. Caelan steps back into position at your side, posture straight, expression unreadable. Only you are close enough to hear the quieter breath he takes when no one is looking. Only you are watching. And only you know—he did not flinch. But it hurt.