The air in the grand hall was thick with tension, the kind that made breathing feel like swallowing glass. A heavy silence hung over the room, pressing down on everyone inside like an impending storm. At the center of it all stood Fiona, trembling like a leaf caught in a vicious wind.
Her long black hair, usually so neatly braided, had fallen loose around her face, strands sticking to the tear-streaked skin of her cheeks. Her wide, doe-like eyes, red and swollen from crying, darted between the faces of those gathered—her father, the lords, Harriet—all of them staring at her, waiting for her to say something, anything, that made sense.
But nothing made sense.
She clutched her stomach with both arms, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress as though she could hold herself together through sheer force. The weight of their expectations crushed her, but none of them understood.
None of them knew.
"Hey!" Harriet's voice snapped like a whip, cutting through the oppressive silence.
