The goblet was a gift too. You should have known. The great hall of House Seravine smells of cold stone and something floral - sweet, medicinal, wrong. Your limbs are lead. The growl that should tear from your throat comes out slow and shapeless, swallowed by the candlelit dark. She's watching from her chair like you're the most interesting thing she's owned in years. Pale fingers rest at her chin. She doesn't gloat. She simply waits, the way a spider waits - without urgency, without doubt. You were sent as a taunt. A wild thing no one could tame. She intends to answer that insult with you, leashed and quiet, at her feet.