Another day, another council meeting. Their words—marriage, heirs, stability—still circled like crows in Aerion's skull, their wings beating against his temples.
He hated that they lingered. Hated that he cared enough to feel the sting of them at all.
He paced his chambers restlessly, one hand dragging through his hair, the other fiddling with the quill he’d nearly abandoned on the council table before storming out. He should have let it lie there, a symbol of his contempt. Instead he’d pocketed it, as though some part of him couldn’t let the matter rest.
Love? What did they think he was, some wide-eyed boy scribbling sonnets to a milkmaid? He believed in appetite, in laughter, in fire and fleeting pleasure. Not vows. Not permanence. The very idea of binding himself to one person, one body, one life… his skin crawled at the thought.
And yet their words gnawed at him.Securing the line. Prudence. An heir must be made.
As if he were a horse to be bred, a pawn to be paired and paraded.
The more they pushed, the less he wanted it. He could almost taste the bitterness of it on his tongue.
“Marriage,” he muttered, stripping off his doublet with a violent tug. It landed across the back of a chair in a sprawl of blue silk and gold thread. “Marriage, marriage, marriage. As though it were the cure for rot and rust. Perhaps I should marry Lord Branvel’s daughter. I hear she speaks five words a day, all of them dull.”
The handmaidens exchanged nervous glances but said nothing as they moved around him, laying out fresh attire for the evening. Aerion caught his reflection in the mirror: bare-chested, collarbones catching the light, hair tousled from his pacing. He smirked at himself, though the smile wavered.
“Love,” he scoffed aloud, tilting his head at his reflection. “I don’t even believe in it.”
But the silence that followed swallowed the words whole, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if the mask was cracking.
When he emerged an hour later, he was draped in obsidian silk, the robe fitted scandalously close, its low bodice shimmering with dusted gold powder. A sheer midnight cape trailed behind him, embroidered with silver stars. Every detail screamed defiance, daring the council to choke on its prudence.
If they wanted a stud horse, he would give them a peacock instead.
Clyde waited by the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his expression carved from stone. His eyes flicked once over Aerion, but if he had a thought about the finery, or about the fury simmering just beneath it, he did not speak it.
Aerion brushed past him, perfume sharp in the air. “Do try to look impressed, Hound. Tonight, I am irresistible.”
And as they left for the ballroom, Aerion kept his chin high, his smile sharp, while deep inside, the vassals’ words still gnawed like crows, no matter how he tried to laugh them away.
By the time the ball began, Valemont Keep bled candlelight from every arched window, like a jewelled beast glowing from within. Music wound through the halls, lutes and harps and airy flutes, all woven into the din of noble laughter, clinking goblets, and the rustle of silk. In the grand ballroom, spun gold and jewelled brocade twirled beneath chandeliers like fireflies caught in crystal cages.
Aerion Valemont arrived late, as was his habit. He let the delay sharpen anticipation, then descended the stairs one deliberate step at a time.
His silk robes clung like a lover, the bodice dipping scandalously low, revealing collarbones dusted with shimmer and a long, lean chest meant to be looked at.
The room was his stage and every glittering guest, his audience. Smiles bent toward him, whispers followed him, hands itched to reach for him. Aerion basked in it all, eyes glittering with wicked delight.
Everyone watched him.
Everyone but Clyde.
The knight stood sentinel by a column, clad in a black uniform clean and sharp but stripped of any ornament. No jewels, no cape, no flourish; only the stark outline of a man who belonged more to war camps than ballrooms. He didn’t mingle. He didn’t drink. His gaze was a blade, cutting across windows, exits, balconies. Always watching. Never indulging.
Aerion spotted him instantly. Of course he did. And once he had, he made his way straight through the tide of noble dancers, their perfumes and protests swirling around him, until he stood before the one man who did not bend to him.
“I do hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Aerion purred, swirling ruby wine in his glass, “though you seem more likely to turn to salt than dance.”
Clyde said nothing. His eyes kept sweeping the room.
Aerion tilted his head, the shimmer along his collarbones catching the candlelight. “That was a joke,” he said, as if Clyde were too dense to notice.
Still, silence.
“Oh, come now. Not even a twitch?” Aerion took a deliberate step closer. The perfume clinging to him, sandalwood, smoke, and sugared fig, rose in a haze between them, rich as heat. “Is there anything that stirs you? Surely even stone has cracks.”
“I’m not here to be stirred,” Clyde said at last, his voice gravel and iron.
