The queen's declaration left the hall in absolute silence.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
No one breathed too loudly.
Shawn finished off the wine left in his goblet. Then he set it down, looked at Iris, and pointed at her with his index finger.
"You're so dramatic," he declared, in a casual, easy tone.
The kind of tone you use with a friend who just said something ridiculous in a normal conversation.
Several people at the table held their breath.
The man in the green robe, Aris, dropped his gaze to his empty plate with an expression that suggested he was reconsidering several of his life choices.
Two noblewomen exchanged a quick glance that said:
'Now. Now she kills her.'
Iris looked at Shawn and let out a sigh.
Long.
Slow.
"As you can see..." said Iris, turning to the table with complete composure, "my personal physician is a somewhat peculiar individual."
A pause.
"But I expect you to treat her exactly as you treat me."
Shawn laughed when he heard that and got up from his chair. He walked toward where Iris was seated, with steps that weren't entirely straight but weren't a complete disaster either, and stopped in front of her.
Shawn put one hand on the table.
"Do you have a crown around here for a great king like me?" he asked, looking Iris directly in the eyes with a wide grin.
The hall reacted.
"Shameless!"
The voice came from the middle of the table.
Two young girls with white hair, delicate features, and red eyes were staring at Shawn with an indignation they made no effort to hide.
"How dare she speak to Her Majesty like that?" said one of them, her voice trembling between rage and disbelief.
"She has absolutely no respect," added the other, shaking her head.
Several men at the table watched Shawn with expressions of open disapproval.
Furrowed brows. Tight jaws.
The kind of looks that in another context would have come with much stronger words.
But no one else spoke.
Because Iris was laughing.
It started as a short burst, as if she were processing what she'd just heard, and then it became something longer and more genuine.
Iris stood up from her chair.
She rose to her feet in front of Shawn.
Iris was shorter. She had to look up to meet his eyes, which she did without any difficulty.
"Did I hear that right?" asked Iris, with a smile that still carried traces of the laugh. "You want to be a king?"
"You made the offer," replied Shawn, with a logic that only made sense to someone with that much wine in them. "You said to treat me the same as you. So by that logic I'd have to be a king."
Iris looked at him in silence.
"Although I should mention," Shawn continued, raising a finger, "that I'm not a big fan of the red you wear in your dresses. Or in the outfits I saw in that room."
Iris took a step toward him.
"And what color do you like then?" she asked, with genuine curiosity.
"Blue," said Shawn, nodding with conviction. "Blue could be a good color."
"If I make you king," said Iris, moving a little closer, "what would your first order be?"
Shawn thought about it.
For exactly two seconds.
Then he lifted his empty goblet and made a wide gesture with his hands, spreading them apart to indicate a larger size.
"I'd make the goblets wider," he said, with complete seriousness. "So more wine fits in them."
Iris looked at him.
Then she laughed.
It was a long laugh.
'She's drunk,' thought Iris, looking at Shawn's eyes, which had that particular glint that people get when alcohol has taken the wheel. 'Completely drunk.'
But even so, Iris opened her arms and hugged Shawn.
In front of everyone.
In front of every noble, every maid, every knight, and every musician in that hall.
With one hand on his back, Iris brought Shawn's head down until both their cheeks were touching.
And then she felt it.
That calm.
The same one she had felt when she slept beside him.
That sensation of something inside her body — something that had been tense and broken and misfiring for months — relaxing.
As if the mental discomfort that had become a normal part of her existence suddenly dropped by half.
Iris closed her eyes for a moment.
'What is this?' she thought, feeling the tension in her muscles dissolve. 'What does this girl have?'
The moment lasted three seconds.
Then it was interrupted.
"Your Majesty!"
The two white-haired girls had risen from their seats and were walking toward them with quick steps.
"Are you alright, Your Majesty?" asked the first, with an expression of concern that was partly genuine and partly theatrical.
"Do you want us to punish that girl?" asked the second, narrowing her eyes at Shawn.
Iris opened her eyes.
The calm vanished.
Iris's expression changed.
It wasn't a dramatic shift. It wasn't a big gesture. It was simply that something in her eyes hardened in a way that brought the temperature of the room down several degrees.
Iris looked at the two girls.
She studied them for a second.
Vampires. White hair. Young. Features that suggested noble lineage but not first tier.
"Whose daughters are you?" asked Iris, in a flat tone.
The two girls looked at each other.
"We are daughters of Lady Vellmont, Your Majesty," answered the first, with a quick bow.
Iris processed the name.
'Vellmont,' she repeated mentally.
Nothing.
It didn't ring a bell.
It wasn't a name she recognized from her inner circle, nor from the records of the major families, nor from any relevant corner of her memory.
"I am going to overlook your disrespect toward my special guest," said Iris, in a voice that didn't rise in volume once. "This time."
The two girls nodded with relief.
"But if you address her that way again," Iris continued, "I will have both your hands cut off."
The girls stopped nodding.
"In such a way," Iris added, "that it will take days for you to grow them back with your regeneration."
The color drained from both vampires' faces.
They looked at Iris.
Iris looked at them.
She was not smiling.
She was not joking.
"Our sincerest apologies, Your Majesty," said the first, with a deep bow and a voice that trembled.
"It will not happen again," added the second, making the same bow.
Both returned to their seats without another word.
The rest of the table got the message.
The looks of disapproval toward Shawn vanished immediately.
Every person who had been glaring at him suddenly found something very interesting in their plate, in the wall, in the ceiling, in any direction that wasn't Shawn's.
Iris turned back to Shawn.
And then she felt a weight.
A weight that hadn't been there before.
Shawn had leaned against her.
Completely.
Eyes closed.
Breathing slow.
Shawn was asleep.
Iris looked down.
Shawn's head was resting against her shoulder, hair falling across his face, wearing an expression that carried none of the tension he normally walked around with.
Iris smiled.
'What a sleepyhead,' she thought.
With one simple movement, Iris slipped one arm under Shawn's knees and another behind his back, and lifted him up.
Iris was carrying Shawn like a princess.
In front of everyone.
"I am withdrawing from the banquet to attend to my physician," announced Iris, with Shawn in her arms as if he weighed nothing. "I will speak with each of you privately at another time."
No one said a word.
No one could.
Because what was happening had no precedent.
The banquet protocol was clear.
After the opening speech, the queen ate alongside her closest staff. The state of the kingdom was discussed. Decisions were made. Plans were laid.
All of that had been left unfinished because of a drunk physician.
Iris walked toward the exit with Shawn in her arms, passing in front of the entire table without stopping.
The guards opened the doors.
Iris walked out.
The doors closed.
And the hall erupted.
"Is that physician really going to be king?"
"Did the queen fall in love with her?"
"How is it possible that that girl cured Her Majesty?"
"Does anyone know where she came from?"
"Did you see how she was eating? With her hands?"
"And the wine? How many goblets did she have?"
"I counted six."
"I counted nine."
Conversations multiplied across the entire table.
Nobles talking with nobles.
Maids whispering with maids.
Knights exchanging glances that said more than any words could.
Isolde wasn't talking. She was sitting in her place, back straight and hands on the table, her untouched goblet of wine sitting in front of her.
Listening.
To every word.
Every conversation.
Every theory.
In silence.