The meal had finished, but the air in the dining hall remained heavy—charged with something unsaid.
Noel set his utensils down deliberately and drew in a slow breath. His heart wasn't racing. His mind was clear. Now or never.
He lifted his gaze to Lord Caeron.
"Lord Caeron," he began, voice calm but carrying weight, "I would like to tell you something."
The noble lord, who had just been lifting his glass, set it down slowly. His dark eyes sharpened, fixing on Noel. His tone was cool, expectant.
"Say it."
Noel straightened his back, no hint of fear in his voice.
"I know how to create a cure for the illness affecting your wife… and your people."
The silence that followed was immediate—crushing.
Caeron's eyes narrowed to slits. The atmosphere around him shifted like a storm brewing beneath still waters. Power radiated from him—not magical, but pure force of will. Even the servants, who had been quietly clearing plates, stopped and instinctively withdrew from the room.
