The Villainess Wants To Retire Chapter 160: The Feast

The first course arrived with the kind of choreographed precision that suggested the servers had been drilling for this mont since dawn.

Crystal platters materialized on tables throughout the hall, each one bearing whole roasted fish, golden-skinned and glistening, their flesh still steaming from the ovens. The kitchen had rubbed them with butter infused with winter herbs and garlic, then packed their cavities with sliced lemons and fresh greenery before roasting them until the skin crisped to perfection and the at beneath turned flaky and tender.

Each fish was scored diagonally across its body, the cuts revealing succulent white flesh seasoned with pepper and salt and sothing that slled faintly of smoke and spice. They were presented on beds of roasted root vegetables, golden and caralized, and garnished with more fresh herbs and lemon wedges arranged like small suns around each platter.

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‎The sll alone was enough to make mouths water. Rich. Savory. Accompanying the fish were crystallized fruits that caught the light like edible jewels, and ice-wine served in goblets so cold they frosted at the touch, the liquid inside shimring with an almost supernatural clarity. Even Eris was impressed.

It was beautiful. Elegant. A display of Nevareth’s refined tastes and careful cultivation of aesthetic perfection.

And it was the calm before the absolute storm.

Vetra lifted her goblet with the kind of grace that ca from decades of practice, her movents economical and controlled. She took a small sip, set the glass down with barely a sound, and then turned her attention to the woman seated across the table from her, one position removed by the Emperor’s intervening presence.

Her smile was perfect. Practiced. The kind that had fooled courtiers and enemies alike for years.

"Lady Eris," she began, her voice carrying just enough to be heard by those at nearby tables without seeming like she was performing for an audience. "I must complint your dress. How... vibrant. One so rarely sees such bold color choices in winter." A delicate pause, tid with surgical precision. "It must be a Solmire tradition?"

The words were pleasant. Polite. Perfectly courteous on the surface.

But everyone seated within hearing distance understood the translation perfectly well:

You look garish. You don’t belong here. You clash with everything we are.

Duke Konstantin, three tables over, paused mid-bite to watch. This was going to be good.

Eris, for her part, didn’t so much as blink. She picked up her own wine goblet, the cold barely registering against her perpetually warm fingers, and took a slow, deliberate sip before responding.

"Bold choices suit bold won, Your Grace," she said, her tone equally pleasant, equally asured. The smile that curved her lips was small, almost demure. "Though I suppose so prefer... safer aesthetics."

She let her eyes drift aningfully over Vetra’s silver and white ensemble, beautiful, yes, but also utterly predictable. The colors of ice and snow and absolute conformity to expectation.

Translation: You’re boring. You play it safe because you’re scared to stand out. Scared to be challenged.

The silence that followed was the kind that made servants freeze mid-pour and lesser nobles suddenly find their plates absolutely fascinating.

Lady Isolde Ravencrest’s knuckles went white where they gripped her fork. Marquess Theron looked like he was about to be physically ill. And Aldric, poor Aldric, let his head drop into his hands with the defeated air of a man who’d known this was coming but had hoped against hope that perhaps, just perhaps, both won would choose civility.

Vetra’s smile didn’t falter. Didn’t even flicker. If anything, it sharpened.

"I do hope," she continued smoothly, pivoting as though Eris hadn’t just insulted her entire aesthetic philosophy, "that the cold wasn’t too harsh on your... constitution. Fire-blessed often find our climate challenging. So much ice. So much stillness. It can be quite overwhelming for those accustod to heat."

Her tone was all maternal concern. All gentle worry about a guest’s comfort.

Translation: You’re weak. This place will break you. Your fire will gutter and die in our cold.

Several nobles shifted in their seats. This was the Regent Empress they knew, the one who could flay soone alive with kindness, who could make concern sound like a death sentence.

General Aldrik, who’d been steadily working through his second goblet of wine, stopped mid-sip. He’d fought in campaigns that had shaped Nevareth’s borders, had seen n die in ways that would haunt lesser souls, but even he found himself holding his breath to hear how the Fire Queen would respond.

Eris set down her goblet with a soft clink of crystal against marble. When she looked up, her eyes, those unsettling gold-touched eyes that seed to burn with their own light, t Vetra’s with absolute steadiness.

"The cold has been refreshing, actually," she said, her voice carrying that sa pleasant, conversational tone that sohow made every word land like a blade. "A welco change from heat that... lingers too long in places it’s no longer wanted."

She smiled. Small. Sweet. Absolutely venomous.

Translation: You’ve overstayed your welco. Your ti is done. It’s ti for you to leave.

Duke Konstantin leaned forward slightly, his rchant’s mind already calculating the odds, already assessing which side of this battle would be more profitable to support. This woman, this foreign bride with her red dress and her burning eyes, wasn’t cowering. Wasn’t backing down. Wasn’t doing any of the things a sensible person would do when faced with the woman who’d effectively ruled Nevareth for years.

She was challenging her.

High Priestess Serah, ancient and sharp-eyed, felt a smile tug at her lips for the first ti all evening. Oh, this was going to be interesting.

Vetra took another small sip of wine, her composure unshaken, her expression still perfectly pleasant. When she spoke again, her voice held the kind of gentle interest one might use when discussing history or art or other safely distant topics.

"Your father was quite the figure in Solmire’s history, was he not?" She tilted her head slightly, the picture of polite curiosity. "Such a... passionate leader. His thods were certainly... morable."

The Implication hung in the perfud air like a noose waiting to tighten.

Translation: Your father was a monster. A tyrant. A man whose cruelty beca legend. And you, his daughter, his creation, are probably exactly the sa.

It was a calculated strike. A reminder to everyone present that Eris Igniva ca from darkness, had been shaped by violence, carried the blood of a man who’d made even his allies nervous.

For just a mont, brief, barely perceptible, sothing flickered across Eris’s face. Not anger. Not sha. Sothing deeper. Older. The kind of shadow that ca from living with ghosts that refused to rest.

But then it was gone, smoothed away beneath that sa pleasant mask.