After I was dressed, they led me to the dining room. I didn't know how to walk like a prince. But Gabel didn't correct my steps. He walked behind me, not too close, not too far, like a shadow that knew when to give space. Tilly walked to my right, her hands folded in front of her.
Lillian stayed quiet at my left, occasionally adjusting the soft braid that circled my head when a strand slipped out of place. I didn't ask if I was allowed to hold someone's hand. I didn't ask what I should say when I entered the dining hall. I just walked. Quietly. Carefully. Like I had done everything else until now.
The halls smelled different from the orphanage. Less like soap. More like wood polish and herbs and something freshly baked. A little sweet. A little warm. Like a promise you could smell before you believed it.
When we arrived, the doors were already open. The dining room was large—but not as large as I had imagined a nobleman's would be. The walls were white and blue, the ceiling curved in soft arcs with silver beams. Light filtered down from tall windows, painting faint squares on the long table that stretched through the middle of the room.
There was only one place set. Just one. At the end of the table. Not in the middle. Not between two large candelabras. Not on a raised seat. Just a soft cushioned chair pulled back slightly, as if it had been waiting for me.
Caelum stood nearby. He didn't say anything when he saw me. He just smiled and waited as the servants guided me forward. I approached the table slowly. The chair looked taller than it was, or maybe I just felt smaller than usual. Gabel stepped forward and helped pull it back, then gently supported my elbow as I sat.
I was used to hard benches. Wooden stools. Cold stone when the benches were too full. The cushion under me now made no sound when I sat. The seat didn't tilt. The back didn't creak. The table was just the right height.
Lillian stepped forward and laid a napkin across my lap. She smoothed it gently, then stepped back without a word. Tilly moved to the side and adjusted the water glass so it was within easy reach of my hand.
Everything was clean. Too clean. The plate in front of me was white porcelain with a faint silver rim. The fork was polished and heavier than I expected. The knife was long, curved with a floral engraving. The glass had a stem like those the priests used at the Church during winter communion.
I stared at it for a long moment. Then the food was brought in. Not by many servants. Just two. One carried a silver tray and placed the plate gently in front of me. The other poured water into my glass without spilling a single drop. The meal wasn't large—just a neatly cut piece of roasted meat, a row of steamed vegetables, a buttered roll, and a spoonful of soft mashed carrots.
It wasn't a feast. But it was more than I was used to. And the smell made something in my stomach twist—not with hunger, but with nervousness. Like my body didn't know if it was allowed to eat this kind of food. If I was about to be told it was a mistake. That the real plate was for someone else.
Caelum sat across from me. He didn't pick up his own utensils. He just watched. Gently. Patiently. Waiting. So I began to eat. I tried to use the knife first, but it was heavy. Too heavy. The handle slipped slightly in my fingers, and when I finally pressed it against the meat, it didn't cut easily. The fork slid. The slice was too thick. I tried to correct it. My hand tilted, and the knife clanged softly against the plate.
No one said anything. No one sighed. No one looked disappointed. But my cheeks still burned. I tried again. This time, the meat slipped from my fork before I could bring it to my mouth. It landed on my tunic. Right in the center of my chest. Grease marked the soft cream fabric.
I froze. I didn't breathe. My fingers curled around the edge of the table. I felt the silence like a wave rising in my throat. And then the carrot. Too soft. I pressed my fork down to catch a piece and it mashed instead, spreading across the plate in a warm smear.
I stared at it. And I waited. Waited for someone to scold me. To take the plate away. To tell me I wasn't supposed to be here. But no one did. Instead, Caelum leaned slightly forward and asked—"Would you like me to help?"
His voice wasn't sharp. Not amused. Not impatient. Just soft. Soft in a way that made my throat tighten. I looked up. He was already reaching for his fork and knife. "Not because I think you can't," he added, gently. "But because sometimes it's nice… to be taken care of."
I didn't nod. But I didn't shake my head either. And that was enough. He reached across the table and took my plate. Then he cut the meat into smaller, neater pieces—each one the right size, shaped like they were meant to be held by small fingers. He scooped some of the carrots to the side, away from the mess. Adjusted the vegetables so they didn't slide. Then placed the plate back in front of me.
"Would you like me to feed you?"
The question hit harder than I expected. Not because it made me feel small. But because it didn't. He didn't say it like I was helpless. He said it like I was allowed to rest. To be cared for. To not have to perform. To just… be. I looked down at the napkin in my lap. It was still folded, still clean. But my tunic wasn't.
I whispered, "I made a mess."
The room didn't shift. No one stiffened. No one exhaled sharply. The servants, still nearby, stepped forward. Tilly held a small damp cloth. Lillian brought a fresh napkin.
"It's all right," Gabel said, gently taking my plate again to make more space. "Accidents happen."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I… I didn't mean to—"
"There's nothing to be sorry for," Lillian said, her voice almost a whisper. "It's our pleasure."
Tilly dabbed the stain on my tunic. Not roughly. Just a light press. Her expression didn't change. She didn't look annoyed. She didn't even look surprised. She just worked carefully, moving in small circles.
"You're doing well," she added.
Her voice didn't lie. It didn't try to comfort me with words that didn't mean anything. It just… told the truth. Caelum smiled, still seated across from me.
"You're allowed to learn things slowly," he said.
And then—
"Would you like to try again, or shall I?"
I looked at the spoon beside my plate. Then at my fork. Then at my lap. Then, quietly—"I… I'll try again."
He nodded. No approval. No disappointment. Just… a nod. I picked up the fork, and this time, I didn't press so hard. The carrot didn't mash. The piece of meat held still. I lifted it slowly—shakily, but without dropping it—and placed it in my mouth.
It tasted warm. A little sweet. Not like anything from the orphanage. Not like the bitter broth or dry crusts. It tasted like it had been made for someone. And I didn't have to finish the plate. No one made me.
When I stopped after a few more bites, Gabel removed the plate. Tilly wiped my mouth with a soft cloth. Lillian brought warm water to rinse my fingers. I didn't have to say I was full. They already knew. And no one told me to eat more. No one called me ungrateful.
Caelum remained seated until I was finished. Then he rose, came to my side, and placed his hand gently on my head.
"Let's take the day slowly," he said. "There's no rush."
I didn't say thank you. But I think… Maybe they all heard it anyway.