CHLORENDIA DOWNHILL
Dinner in our house was always an event. Not the kind with warmth or conversation, but the kind where silence stretched tight, every clink of silverware amplified, and the air so thick with tension you could choke on it. Tonight was no different.
I sat at the long dining table, staring down at my plate. The food looked immaculate, as always. The roast at glistened under the chandelier’s light, the vegetables arranged with an artist’s precision, and the wine in my goblet was the deepest shade of red. But I could barely taste any of it.
My father sat at the head of the table, as he always did, his posture as perfect as the spine of a sword. His cane rested against the edge of his chair, a silent reminder of the man he used to be and the limitations he refused to acknowledge.
The clicking of knives and forks echoed in the dining room, filling the void where conversation should have been. I focused on cutting my at into precise pieces, though my appetite was nonexistent.
"Are you done playing warrior?" His voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and direct.
I paused, my knife halfway through a piece of at. "Excuse ?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
He set his fork down, his movents deliberate, and looked at with those cold, calculating eyes. "Your antics in the training yard. I hope you’ve gotten it out of your system."
I clenched my fork tighter, the tal cool against my palm. "It’s not an antic, Father. It’s training. A skill I’ve chosen to hone."
"A skill," he repeated, his tone dripping with disdain. "And what exactly do you plan to do with this skill, Chlorendia? Impress the court? Defend the pack against an enemy? You’re delusional if you think anyone would take you seriously in such a role."
The words stung, but I refused to show it. Instead, I set down my knife and fork with deliberate care, folding my hands in my lap. "Perhaps I do it because no one else will defend . You’ve made that clear."
His jaw tightened, a flicker of anger passing through his eyes. "Mind you words," he said, his voice low and dangerously calm.
"I will surely do that father, when you stop underestimating ," I shot back, my own anger bubbling to the surface.
For a mont, we simply stared at each other, the air between us crackling with unspoken words. I could feel the tension radiating off him, his authority demanding submission. But I wasn’t a pup anymore, and I refused to bow so easily.
"You think the world owes you sothing," he said finally, his tone colder than ever. "You think your defiance makes you strong. But strength isn’t about swinging a sword or spouting clever words. Strength is knowing your place and fulfilling your duty."
I felt a sharp pang in my chest, a mix of anger and sadness I couldn’t quite suppress. "And what is my place, Father?" I asked, my voice quieter now but no less firm. "To be silent? To be invisible? To be matched to whoever you deem fit and pretend I don’t exist outside of that role?"
His hand gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. "Your place is to serve this family, this pack. Not to indulge in childish fantasies of power."
I wanted to scream at him, to tell him he was wrong, that I was more than just a pawn in his gas. But instead, I picked up my goblet and took a slow sip of wine, letting the bitter taste anchor .
"You’ve made your expectations clear, Father," I said finally, setting the goblet down with a soft clink. "But I’ll choose my own path. Whether you approve or not."
The silence that followed was deafening, the tension in the room almost unbearable. My father’s gaze burned into , but I held my ground, refusing to look away.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.
The rest of the al passed in strained silence, the only sounds the occasional clink of silverware and the distant murmurs of servants in the hall. I pushed the food around my plate, unable to eat another bite.
When my father finally rose from his seat, signaling the end of the al, I let out a quiet breath of relief. He picked up his cane and turned to leave, but paused at the doorway, glancing back at . "There will be an upcoming tournant," he said, his voice calm but laced with authority. "I’ve decided you will be in charge of arranging it."
For a mont, I just blinked at him. I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. ? In charge? This wasn’t like him. He had never entrusted with anything so important.
"Are you serious?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His sharp gaze cut through , and I imdiately regretted my tone. "Do you think I make jokes, Chlorendia?" he asked, his voice as cold as the draft that always seed to haunt the dining hall.
"No, Father," I said quickly, straightening in my seat. My heart was pounding, a mix of shock and excitent coursing through . "I won’t disappoint you."
He nodded once, a curt acknowledgnt of my words. "See that you don’t," he said, turning toward the door. But just as he reached the threshold, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. "This is not a ga, Chlorendia. A poorly executed tournant could embarrass this family. Do not mistake this for a favor. It’s a responsibility, one you’ll either rise to et or fall under the weight of. Prove wrong about you."
And then he was gone, leaving sitting there in stunned silence.
I barely registered the quiet footsteps of the servants as they began clearing the table. My mind was spinning. This was... unprecedented. My father had never trusted with sothing like this before. A tournant wasn’t just an event; it was a spectacle, a statent of power and prestige. The entire pack—and likely neighboring ones—would be watching. It was a test, I realized.
For a mont, I allowed myself to feel the spark of excitent that had been building since his announcent. A test was better than nothing. It ant he was willing to see what I could do, even if only to confirm his low opinion of .
I would prove him wrong.
I pushed back my chair and stood, my steps purposeful as I left the dining hall. The corridors of the manor were dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the stone walls. My thoughts were racing ahead of , ideas forming and dissolving as quickly as they ca that I barely noticed the hurried footsteps coming from the opposite direction. By the ti I did, it was too late.
"Oof!" A maid, carrying an armful of folded linens, collided into . The impact wasn’t hard enough to send either of us tumbling, but the linens slipped from her grasp, landing in a crumpled pile at my feet.
"Oh no! I’m so sorry, my lady!" she stamred, imdiately dropping to her knees to retrieve the fallen fabric. Her hands trembled as she worked, and she kept her head bowed, not daring to et my gaze.
I stood there, staring at her. Normally, an incident like this would have drawn a sharp scolding from . After all, the servants were supposed to be careful, especially when moving about the main hallways. But tonight, I couldn’t bring myself to muster any anger.
"It’s fine," I said, stepping around the ss without a second glance.
The maid froze, her hands clutching the last of the linens. She looked up at , her wide eyes filled with disbelief.
"Thank you, my lady," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
I didn’t respond, already walking away. There wasn’t anything special about what happened but I could feel the maid’s lingering gaze on my back as I continued toward my bedchamber.
By the ti I reached my door, my thoughts had returned to the tournant. I pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside, the familiar scent of lavender filling my senses.
I closed the door behind and leaned against it for a mont, letting out a slow breath. For all the coldness my father usually showed , tonight had been a turning point.
Walking to the desk, I lit the candle and sat down, pulling out a blank sheet of parchnt. My hand hovered over the surface, unsure where to begin. The tournant was going to be massive, and every detail would need to be perfect.
I tapped the quill against the edge of the desk, my mind racing. How many competitors would there be? What kind of challenges would they face? Who would oversee the events? And, perhaps most importantly, how would I ensure that everything ran smoothly?
I began scribbling notes, my handwriting quick and ssy as ideas poured out of . The logistics alone were overwhelming, but I welcod the challenge. This was my chance to show everyone—my father, the pack, even myself—that I wasn’t just the "weak little female" he often seed to see as.
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