He doesn't die.
Yet.
Riven, to his own evident shock, is still breathing. He looks at his hands, as if expecting them to start dissolving at any moment. When they don't, he exhales long and slow, the kind of exhale one gives when they realize they've somehow survived the impossible.
[Disappointing.]
My parents, of course, do not look impressed. Verania sighs into her wine, while Sylvithra watches Riven like she's mentally filing away ways to rectify this failure.
"Interesting," my mother murmurs.
Riven, still pale, manages a weak smile. "I—uh—thank you?"
Sylvithra hums. "We'll refine the formula next time."
He makes a sound that is probably not meant to escape a dignified guest at a royal banquet.
[I almost feel bad for him.]
Almost.
The next stage of the evening arrives with the subtlety of an army invasion.
The cake.
Or, more accurately, the monstrosity that someone dared to call a cake.
