They did not respond. Perhaps they heard me. Perhaps they did not care.
Suddenly, Draven slammed his palm against the table. The bowl rattled. I flinched.
“You know what?” he snarled. “You are nothing compared to her.”
Without warning, he grabbed my bowl and hurled it against the stone wall.
The clay shattered. Warm broth splashed down the surface like blood.
I stared at the mess.
Alden did nothing.
Neither of them stopped it.
“Useless,” Draven muttered, shaking his head. “You are completely useless.”
The words hung heavy in the air, sinking deep.
They left the hearth room again, their footsteps fading down the stone passageway.
I remained standing, staring at the broken bowl, at the food wasted, at the mess they did not bother to clean.
And strangely, I did not cry.
Not this time. Not anymore.
Because I had already passed that point.
By dawn, most of my travel packs were prepared. Leather bags stood against the stone wall beside my bed, tied and marked with runes. Garments, parchments and crystal records I had not yet burned. I folded the final tunics with slow care, not from affection, but because there was a strange calm in working quietly.