The conversation splintered then, shifting quickly—too quickly—to safer topics: embroidery, poetry, so trivial rumor about the royal falconer. But the atmosphere never quite recovered.
Eva sat back, smirking faintly, but even she didn’t dare prod further.
Florence reached beneath the table and gently squeezed Salviana’s hand, a silent gesture of comfort. Salviana returned it with a faint smile, grateful yet composed.
Jean stood a step behind her lady, gaze cold as marble. She’d known Salviana long enough to recognize when her poise was armor—when the stillness ant she was breaking inside.
The room was all chatter again, but Salviana heard none of it. Her thoughts drifted—to Alaric, to the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, to how hard he fought to protect her from this world that thrived on cruelty.
Yes, he was called a beast. A monster.
But if only they knew—he was the gentlest soul she’d ever known.
Her fingers trembled slightly against her cup, but she steadied them. She would not let them see her unease.
Because beasts... beasts didn’t always have claws.
Sotis they smiled like princesses.
And Salviana was done being their prey.
After a few monts of light chatter—fake laughter, forced smiles, and delicate clinking of spoons—Eva decided to speak again.
And this ti, Salviana felt the shift before the woman even opened her mouth.
The room went quieter, as if every woman at the table sensed Eva’s claws extending.
"Oh, and Princess Salviana?"
Her voice was soft—too soft—the kind one used when preparing to plunge a knife between ribs.
Salviana blinked, gathering threads of patience, then turned her head with a slow grace. "Yes, Lady Eva?"
Eva’s lips curled into a practiced, elegant smile. She tilted her chin just enough to command the room’s attention.
And noticing that Salviana’s eyes were on her, she continued,
"You probably didn’t know this, but Alaric was one of my most cherished visitors. He would always—"
"Do not call him by his na either."
The words slipped past Salviana’s lips calm as snow, cold as steel.
Calm, but lethal.
The entire table stilled. Even the servant pouring tea froze mid-pour.
Eva blinked, then laughed delicately, fingertips brushing her own cheek as if she were embarrassed on Salviana’s behalf.
"I know people don’t call him by his na," she said lightly, "but I believe with how intimate we have gotten, I can call him by it."
Intimate?
The word stabbed sothing in Salviana’s chest, a sharp curl of heat and nausea.
Alaric—her husband—wouldn’t even let out his shaft in the sa room as her, always turning away, always saying, "Not yet, Salviana. I want you safe in every way before anything else."
Yet this woman...
This woman said intimate like it was a mory she savored.
Salviana forced her face not to twist, not to show the wound ripping open inside her.
She would not bleed for these won.
She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and turned fully to Eva.
"I am his wife," she said, her voice so soft and icy that even the walls seed to listen. "And I say I never want to hear his na pass those scandalous lips of yours."
A few of the girls gasped. Jennifer bit her knuckle, delighted. Jolene’s eyes danced.
Eva, of course, only smiled—slowly.
The kind of smile a cat gives a bird whose wings have already begun to break.
"Oh, darling," Eva murmured, tilting her head like she was pitying a child, "these lips are hardly scandalous. He loves what they do for him."
Then she winked.
"But I will try to forget those tis, now that he is married."
Salviana’s stomach dropped. Air disappeared. Her throat constricted so violently it felt like invisible fingers were wrapped around it.
Her heartbeat hamred against her ribs, loud enough she was certain the whole table heard.
Her vision shimred—once, twice—as she fought the urge to blink away the panic.
A tightness swelled in her chest, like she might crack open if she didn’t leave.
Because if she stayed—
If she stayed for one more word—
She would either scream... or cry... or claw the woman’s face open.
Both were unforgivable.
"My lady..." Jean’s voice entered like a quiet anchor, stepping just behind Salviana’s chair. "We should not pay her any heed. She is speaking falsehoods simply to provoke you."
Eva scoffed lightly. "Falsehoods? Oh, Lady Goliath, please. You look far too stern to understand what passion looks like. Alaric—"
"Enough."
The single word snapped from Salviana before she could stop it.
It wasn’t loud—but it cut through the room like a blade.
Her fingers trembled under the table.
Her breathing was too shallow.
She felt heat rising behind her eyes—no, no, no—she would not cry here—not here—not in front of her.
She pushed her chair back slowly, with composure that cost her every remaining thread of strength.
"Lady Eva," she said, voice trembling only at the edges, "I see now why the court calls you charming. But I also see why your fiancé left you for another woman, and why your previous suitors abandoned you without explanation."
Eva’s smile thinned.
Salviana continued, "You confuse being provocative with being desired. They are not the sa."
A stunned silence.
Even Eva’s mask cracked. Just a flicker—but enough.
Jean stepped forward protectively.
"Your Highness," she whispered, "would you like to retire to your chambers?"
Salviana nodded once, barely.
"If you’ll excuse ," she said, voice soft, strained, breaking just at the edges, "I would prefer to never be invited to any of these gatherings if soone as uncultured as this– would be here." her fingers pointed directly at Eva the royal prostitute when she said ’this’ because the woman was rather audacious for a clothed harlot.
Salviana didn’t wait for permission. She didn’t wait for anyone to speak.
She simply turned and walked away—gracefully, quietly—while every woman in that room watched in stunned silence as the Seventh Princess finally broke with Jean right after her.
Was everything Eva said true?
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