And Aerion hated that everyone could see it but him.
The chamber filled with the drone of voices, nobles leaning over ledgers and petitions, but Aerion knew where the talk would turn before it began. He sprawled into his father’s chair, a purple splash against dark wood, one arm draped over the carved rest, his goblet held carelessly between two fingers.
Lord Branvel cleared his throat, the same heavy sound as three days past. Aerion felt it like a pebble dropped in still water, the ripples inevitable.
“My lord,” Branvel began, voice rumbling with solemn weight. “Valemont requires stability. The Archduke’s health—”
“Yes, yes, he’s half-dead,” Aerion interrupted lightly, swirling the wine in his goblet. “He’s been half-dead for years. Remarkable how long he’s managed it.”
A few nervous titters broke across the table, quickly stifled.
Lord Darrick pressed on. “You are his heir, my lord. The council would be remiss if it did not remind you that heirs must secure the line.”
There it was.
Aerion tilted his head, letting the light catch on the jewels at his ears, a languid smile curving his lips. “Ah, marriage again. You do harp on the theme, my lords. One might think you intend to wed me yourselves, should I fail to select some simpering dove.”
A few lords flushed scarlet. Others looked away.
“The ball,” Branvel said firmly, “would have been an opportunity. Yet you squandered it. You danced little and courted less.”
“I drank the wine,” Aerion countered. “And mocked the fiddlers. Precisely as I promised.”
A ripple of restrained laughter. Branvel’s frown deepened.
“An heir must be made,” he said again, like a prayer to a deaf god. “If not now, then soon.”
Aerion let the words hang. He leaned forward, setting his goblet down with a click that rang against the wood. His eyes sharpened, smile twisting into something crueller.
“Do you know what happens to geese, my lords?” he asked softly. “They are fattened. Caged. Paraded. And then they are eaten.”
The chamber hushed. Even the scratching of quills ceased.
“I am no goose,” Aerion said, voice soft as velvet, sharp as a knife beneath it. “And I will not be fattened for your feasts. If Valemont requires stability, then let us levy wine and gold, not my bed.”
Gasps fluttered around the room, some scandalized, some amused.
All the while, Clyde stood at the wall. Silent. Watching.
Aerion could feel his gaze like a weight between his shoulders. He wanted to twist, to lash, to see whether those grey eyes judged him or not. But he did not turn.
Instead, he flicked his fingers in dismissal. “Now—unless you wish to lecture me further on the virtues of livestock breeding, let us turn to matters that actually matter.”
The nobles bent their heads again, muttering, scribbling, unwilling to push further for now.
But Aerion sat back in his chair, heart thrumming too fast, the ghost of storm-grey eyes still pressing against him.
It wasn’t the lords’ disapproval that rattled him. It was knowing Clyde had heard every word.
The council finally dispersed, parchment gathered, chairs scraping across stone as lords bowed and muttered farewells. Their whispers trailed after them like smoke, some sharp with disapproval, others amused at Aerion’s insolence.
Aerion let them go with a languid wave of his hand, his smile fixed until the doors shut. Then it vanished; sharp, brittle, gone in an instant.
He rose too quickly, his goblet still half-full, and spilled wine across the table. He didn’t bother wiping it. His eyes were already fixed on Clyde, who stood as he always did: silent, steady, one hand braced against the hilt of his sword.
“You,” Aerion said, voice slicing the quiet.
Clyde straightened slightly but didn’t answer.
