Damien sat at the grand dining table, his posture relaxed, his fingers curled loosely around the handle of a porcelain teacup. The rich aroma of black tea curled in the air, its warmth spreading through his fingertips as he took a slow, deliberate sip.
The silence stretched.
The servants moved about the dining hall with quiet efficiency, laying out the morning's meal, but Damien knew their thoughts.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
Not this early. Not in this state.
The old Damien would have been dragging himself out of bed at an unreasonable hour, groggy, disheveled, barely conscious as he demanded food with the entitlement of a man who had never once been denied.
But today?
Today, he was here first. Sitting. Waiting. Composed.
And then—
The doors opened.
The moment they did, Damien could feel it.
The air shifted.
Even without looking, he knew who it was.
