Chapter one
The Peacock's Cage
The morning light spilled over the high balconies of Valemont Keep, turning marble halls to ivory and silk to fire. In the eastern wing, where the scent of rose oil and spiced wine never truly faded, Lord Aerion Valemont reclined on a velvet chaise, bare-chested, one leg dangling lazily as two handmaidens fawned over his golden hair.
“I said waves, not curls, Merina. I’m not some prize mare,” he drawled, voice as smooth and biting as citrus wine. He tapped a jewelled finger against the silver mirror lifted before him.“There. Now I look exactly like the disappointment they want to seduce.”
He rose without modesty, stretching like a cat before shrugging into a loose linen shirt. The handmaidens stepped back as he selected a doublet dyed a deep sapphire to match his eyes. Golden clasps shaped like thorns hugged his chest, and gold glittered at his wrists. Jewels weighed down his fingers—blue, red, black—a peacock adorned in mourning.
The great hall echoed beneath his heeled boots as he made his daily descent into court: one hip tilted, chin lifted, lips twitching with mischief. As always, his entrance made men sneer and women whisper. As always, Aerion gave them nothing but a smile that meant everything and nothing.
“Good morning, Lord Chamberlain,” he said, brushing past a stiff-faced old man buried in parchment. “Is my dear father still dying, or has he found the strength to scowl again?”
“My lord,” the chamberlain intoned with forced civility, “the Archduke’s health remains unchanged. I am told Sir Clyde arrives today.”
Aerion stopped mid-stride. “Sir who?”
“The knight assigned to your personal protection, per the king’s orders.”
Aerion scoffed. “Another leashed brute. How thrilling.”
The chamberlain bowed and retreated, leaving Aerion to roll his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling.
Meanwhile, beyond the gilded gates of Valemont, hooves clattered against stone as Sir Clyde of Blackholt rode beneath the capital’s arch. His horse was lathered with sweat and dusted white with salt from long roads and harsher seas, its breathsteaming in the morning chill. The knight’s armour bore the wear of travel—no polish, no fanfare—just scratches and dents that told stories no one asked to hear.
A hood shadowed his face, though the guards at the gate parted for him without hesitation. They had all heard the name.
Clyde swung down from the saddle without help, movements clipped and efficient. He adjusted the broad sword strapped across his back, checked the dagger at his hip, and left the reins with a stableboy too frightened to meet his eyes.
Inside the keep, the corridors stilled as he passed. Servants ducked behind tapestries, hands full of linens or baskets of bread. A steward with a scroll tucked under his arm pressed himself flat against the wall. Even the dogs that haunted the kitchens slunk out of sight, tails between their legs.
A child peered from behind a column, wide-eyed, and whispered to a nursemaid: “That’s the Hound.”
The name clung to him like a curse, though Clyde gave no sign of hearing it. He ignored them all, boots striking hard against the marble as he strode toward the great hall with the quiet assurance of a man used to being obeyed—or feared.
At the doors, the chamberlain bowed stiffly. “Sir Clyde. His lordship awaits you.”
Clyde only nodded, pushing through as the iron-bound oak swung wide.
The hall hushed. His boots struck the polished stone, each step echoing in the vaulted space. servants turned, heads angling to watch the figure who strode with soldier’s certainty toward the dais. He moved without flourish, without hesitation, until he came to stand before the sapphire-clad lord who lounged across a velvet chaise.
Then, without pause, Clyde dropped to one knee, gauntleted fist braced against the floor. His voice carried low, iron-wrapped: “My lord Valemont. By my sword, my shield, and my life, I am sworn to your service.”
Aerion did not immediately answer. He lounged like a painting, one arm draped across the back of the chaise, a goblet of honeyed wine balanced with languid precision in his hand. His legs were crossed as though the angle itself had been calculated, an artist’s signature of carelessness. Sunlight spilled in from the high windows, catching on the rings at his fingers, the gilded thread of his doublet, the molten fall of his golden hair.
He didn’t look up when the door had first groaned open. Now, he tipped the goblet, watching amber light ripple across its surface.
“You’re late,” he said, as if time itself were his servant.
Clyde remained silent. He stayed at the threshold of conversation as firmly as he had the door, still as stone, his shadow cutting across the marble floor. The silence thickened, taut as a bowstring. Aerion let it stretch, savouring the defiance of it.
At last, with a theatrical sigh, he lifted his eyes.
And paused.
The man before him was not what rumour had promised. No greybeard dragged from retirement, no brute stitched together by scars and ale. Clyde was younger than Aerion’s steward—perhaps early thirties—but the years of war had carved him into something older: lines scored at the corners of his eyes, shadows gouged beneath his cheekbones. His jaw was clean-shaven, his expression unreadable. Like a statue left to weather in the rain.
Aerion’s lips curved, glass-bright and cutting. “Gods, you’re younger than my steward. And you look as though you eat rocks for breakfast.”
