Upon it sat porcelain cups so thin they looked sculpted from frost itself, delicate enough that one might think a sigh could shatter them. Dark liquid shimmered within each cup, steam rising in elegant curls that twisted and dissolved into the cold air. When she reached them, she lowered the tray with ceremonial care, placing one cup beside Duke and another beside Bruce.
She adjusted each saucer so the handles aligned in identical directions, angles measured, distances exact. Her fingers did not tremble. Her breathing did not change. Her expression did not exist.
Service here was not hospitality. It was ritual.
Isolde watched the entire motion.
