The dining table was too large to appear merely as a piece of furniture. Carved from dark wood and polished to reflect the light from the lanterns hanging from the ceiling, it occupied almost the entire center of the hall. Delicate plates, crystal glasses, and perfectly aligned silverware were arranged with almost ceremonial precision, as if each place setting had been prepared long before any conversation began.
Even so, no one was eating.
All eyes were fixed on a single point at the table.
Scáthach.
She remained seated with an upright posture, her hands resting on her lap, her long red hair falling over her shoulders like a silent cascade. Her green eyes were calm, but there was a subtle tension in the air around her, as if the space itself were waiting to see what would happen next.
Around the table, Strax's wives watched.
It wasn't anger.
It was judgment.
