Gideon
We gathered in the private dining room after I’d had a shower, the steam still clinging to my skin as if it refused to let go of the day’s tension. Long buffet tables lined one wall, chafing dishes gleaming softly beneath the lights. When their lids were lifted, waves of warmth and rich scent spilled into the room—roasted meats, spiced vegetables, fresh bread. Normally, it would’ve made my stomach growl. Tonight, it just felt like background noise to the weight pressing down on all of us.
We moved through the line quietly, each of us loading our plates more out of habit than appetite. Cutlery clinked, chairs scraped softly against the floor. When we finally sat, the low murmur of conversation faded on its own, as if the room sensed what was coming.
Dad didn’t waste time. “First,”
