The soft sound of cutlery echoed through the vast dining hall. The table was large, covered with an overwhelming spread of food. It was almost shocking, considering that not even a single soul could finish such a feast.
Yet it had been prepared.
At the far side of the hall, away from where Oriana sat, a row of cooks stood silently, dressed in the same uniform, their heads lowered in quiet anticipation.
Oriana's hand moved as she reached for the velvet cake, carefully styled with grapes arranged around it. The moment she cut a piece and took it, one of the cooks stepped forward.
He bowed.
Then quietly left.
That was how it had always been.
That was how the king had made it.
Every dish on the table was prepared by a particular cook—one dish each. Once the queen chose a dish and tasted it, the cook who had prepared it would bow and leave, knowing their food had been accepted and that they would return to cook for the next meal.
The rest remained standing in their rows. If your food was chosen, you left with honor.
But if it was not…
You left the palace.
Oriana had never liked the idea. But that had been the rule. A rule made by the king. And she could not change it before. But now… she could.
Couldn't she?
She moved the fork to her lips as she ate. No longer wearing the deep red lipstick, her natural pink lips were visible. Her red hair was styled perfectly, adorned with delicate pins, and she now wore a green gown that flared gracefully downward. The corset fit tightly around her waist, the dress matching her emerald eyes perfectly.
She lifted the glass of water and slowly took a sip. As she did, one of the cooks stepped forward, bowed, and quietly left.
Oriana's lips tilted upward slightly.
That had been the smartest choice from that cook, knowing that water was unavoidable.
But her silence was soon interrupted. The large doors suddenly opened.
Oriana's calm expression disappeared as she turned sharply toward the noise that had disturbed the hall. A maid rushed in, her head lowered, her shoulders trembling slightly. The queen did not particularly like to be disturbed while having her meals.
It could ruin her appetite entirely.
"L… lady… Your Grace…" the maid stuttered, almost tripping over her own feet. "Priest Hugh and Detective John… they've arrived."
Oriana's expression stayed serene. They had come for the investigation into her brother's death—yet, in the court of whispers and suspicion, she had already been painted the villain, marked as the murderer, suggested to be hanged—even though she had heard it last night, which had only confirmed her suspicion. She knew that was what they believed. All because she had been the last to see him alive.
"Let them in," she said, her voice calm, almost glacial. "Let us dine together." Her hand waved lazily, an unspoken coldness hanging in the air. The maid bowed quickly, disappearing down the hall.
Oriana poked at the grapes with her fork; juice spilled onto the polished table, staining the cloth. She lifted one to her lips, but the sweetness had fled, now the flavor seemed hollow, tasteless, as if her own senses were warning her of the storm to come.
Not long after, the door opened, and two men entered. One wore a long white garment, bald, appearing in his late forties. The other seemed in his mid-thirties, brown hair swept neatly backward, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt tinged slightly brown—the faint milkiness betraying its age.
"Blessed be this house," the priest intoned as they approached the table, bowing gently to Oriana before taking their seats.
Oriana did not spare them a glance. Her eyes remained fixed on the steak, which she cut with precise focus, lifting a perfectly square piece to her lips, studying it as though analyzing its flavor rather than simply tasting it.
The priest and detective exchanged a glance, silently waiting for at least a word. But Oriana said nothing. Silence stretched between them, heavy and deliberate.
Finally, they moved, picking up their cutlery, mouths watering. It was not every day that someone was invited to dine with the queen. Perhaps now was the time to make the most of it, eating to their heart's content—but with careful attention to etiquette, for they would follow her lead: whenever she paused, they would pause. After all, they had come for the queen, not the meal.
Oriana's voice broke the silence, soft yet cutting.
"If I recall correctly, neither of you came for the burial of my late brother last night—and now entering the hall with no condolences… it seems that the saying 'the older a man gets, the more foolish he becomes' is not a myth but reality." Her words were calm, almost gentle, but each syllable struck like bricks.
Regret washed over their faces. They had forgotten the simplest courtesy, distracted by the mouthwatering scent of the food.
A drop of sweat trickled down the bald man's forehead as he spoke.
"Apologies, Your… Grace. We had intended to offer our condolences after your meal, knowing how much you value table manners." He spoke quickly, eyes darting for reassurance.
Detective John nodded in agreement, quickly chewing the food in his mouth as the queen's gaze rested on the priest—though he knew the priest's excuses might either save them or doom them further.
Oriana's gaze shifted to the detective, her tone sharpening. "How do you plan to investigate, arriving today when all the evidence has already been wiped?"
The question came suddenly, catching him off guard. He had expected her to address the priest, not him. His fork loosened in his fingers as he opened his mouth to answer, unsettled by the unexpected shift in her attention.
Oriana observed keenly. Something was happening beyond her knowledge—something abnormal. Why come now, after the room had already been cleared? That was when the detective decided to come; he had claimed that he was feeling unwell when they had sent for him yesterday.
Something was off…really off.
"Well…" The man's words faltered as the massive dining hall doors opened. Another news had arrived.
Hopefully, it was not worse.