The Last Living Legacy

The servants deliberately avoided Lady Elowen's end of the banquet table.

She watched them circle past her empty goblet, their eyes sliding away like water off stone. The massive oak table stretched before her, laden with roasted boar and honey-glazed roots, yet she might as well have been invisible.

Her gown—pressed but threadbare, mended but unfashionable—marked her as clearly as a brand.

"Pass the wine," she called to a passing servant.

The boy's steps faltered. He glanced toward the head of the table where her husband Lord Alaric of House Denvyr held court, then back to her. "My lady, I—"

"The wine," Elowen repeated.

Reluctantly, the servant filled her goblet, but his hands shook as wine splashed onto the white tablecloth, staining it red.

"Clumsy fool," young Lady Tressa's voice carried from across the table, full of mockery and quiet cruelty. "Look what you've done to Lady Elowen's... charming gown."

Laughter rippled around them and Lady Isolde, Tressa's mother, raised her fan to hide her smirk. "Perhaps the stain will improve it."

Elowen lifted her goblet and took a deliberate sip, but said nothing.

Toward the head of the table, where Lord Alaric Denvyr—her husband in name, never in affection—sat with the ease of a man who had never known hunger, nor shame.

Laughter curled from his lips like smoke, charming the lords around him with tales of border skirmishes and blood-soaked victories. His goblet caught the light. His smile caught everything else.

Once, that smile had been hers.

Or so she’d believed.

They’d married in the spring, when the wildflowers bloomed too early and the ink on her dowry hadn’t yet dried. She had worn a gown borrowed from a merchant’s widow.

He hadn’t even removed his riding gloves at the altar yet he’d called her beautiful that day. Looked at her like she was a solution.

“You’ll do,” he’d said after the vows, low enough that no one else would hear. “For now.”

Since then, she'd become furniture in his grand design—present when convenient, invisible when not. Alaric wielded indifference like a master swordsman, cutting her down with every avoided glance.

"Ladies, surely we can find more pleasant topics than fashion." Lord Veymar leaned forward, pulling Elowen out of her thoughts back to cruel reality. "Tell me, Lady Elowen, how do you find married life? Fulfilling?"

The question hung in the air like smoke and every conversation within earshot died.

Elowen met his gaze directly. "Marriage teaches one many lessons, Lord Veymar. Patience, for instance. And the value of... low expectations."

A collective intake of breath swept the nearby guests.

"Ah, but surely Lord Alaric exceeds even modest expectations," Veymar pressed, his eyes glittering with malicious delight. "Such a... devoted husband."

She looked at her husband at the hall's head, his laughter had grown louder, more animated. Alaric regaled his companions with tales of border raids and conquered territories, his hands gesturing grandly as wine sloshed in his goblet.

"Devoted to many things," Elowen replied smoothly. "His lands, his ambitions, his—"

"...his future!" Alaric's voice boomed across the hall.

The entire room fell silent. Conversations died mid-sentence. Dancers froze. Even the musicians' instruments faltered into discord before stopping altogether.

Lord Alaric Denvyr stood at the head of the table, his goblet raised high. He commanded attention as easily as breathing, and tonight, his smile held the sharp edge of a blade.

"My lords and ladies," he began, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "Tonight, we celebrate more than good wine and fine company. Tonight, we celebrate the future of House Denvyr."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd and Elowen's fingers tightened on her goblet's stem.

"As you know, the security of noble bloodlines requires... strategic alliances." Alaric's gaze swept the room, lingering on faces both eager and apprehensive. "Which is why I am honored to announce my betrothal to Lady Alisyn of Veymar."

The words hit like thunderclaps.

Gasps echoed from every table. A woman's wine glass shattered against stone. Someone let out a strangled laugh.

"To my second bride," Alaric continued, his voice smooth as silk over steel, "and to the union that will strengthen both our houses and secure the realm's eastern borders!"

Every eye in the hall turned to Elowen. She sat motionless, her face a mask of porcelain composure.

"But my lord," his mother, Lady Isolde called out, her voice dripping with false concern, "you already have a wife."

"Indeed." Alaric's smile never wavered as his gaze finally found Elowen across the sea of stunned faces. "Lady Elowen understands the necessities of statecraft. Don't you, my dear?"

The hall held its breath. A hundred pairs of eyes watched, waiting for her response. Waiting for her to break.

Instead, Elowen rose.

Her chair scraped against the stone with deliberate slowness. She set her goblet down with careful precision, the crystal ringing like a bell in the silence.

She stepped away from the table, her spine straight as a sword blade. Her worn slippers whispered against marble as she began the long walk toward the hall's great doors.

"Where are you going?" Alaric called after her, his commanding tone cracking slightly.

The silence that followed was deafening.