The girls giggled. “For your sweetheart, my lord?”
Aerion’s lips curved into a smile that was too sharp to be tender. He turned, looked past the crowd, past the fluttering garlands and glowing lanterns, straight to Clyde.
Clyde stood as always, one pace back, face carved from stone. His hood shadowed his eyes, but Aerion could feel the weight of his stare, heavy as a hand.
Slowly, deliberately, Aerion held the ribbon out. “Not for a sweetheart. For a dog.”
“You must love your dog to buy it such a ribbon,” the woman laughed, the meaning of his words missing her entirely.
Aerion ignored it. He stepped back to Clyde’s side, his gaze raking over him as though assessing livestock at market. A smirk tugged at his mouth as he brushed aside the edge of Clyde’s cloak, looped the ribbon once around his wrist, and tied it in a neat bow, tugging it snug.
“There,” Aerion drawled, voice dripping disdain. “A leash for my dog.”
The silk cut a streak of scarlet across Clyde’s skin.
Clyde’s jaw tightened. He did not move. Did not flinch. Only inclined his head, as though to say: if you call me dog, then I will be dog.
Aerion’s smile softened just a fraction, though his words did not. “Good,” he said, releasing the knot with a flick so the silk trailed loose again. “At least you make a handsome beast.”
He tossed a coin to the merchant’s daughters, tucked the ribbon into Clyde’s palm, and swept off into the crowd with his cloak flaring behind him.
Clyde’s gaze dropped, just once, to the ribbon still warm in his palm. Deep red silk, thin as breath, ridiculous against the rough calluses of his hand. His expression didn’t shift, no betrayal of the insult. Only silence, heavy as iron.
Lanterns flared overhead, strung in bright garlands across the square. Firelight spilled down in flickers, catching on Aerion’s hair until it glowed like gilt. For a moment, Clyde’s gaze lingered there, fixed and heavy with something he’d never speak aloud.
But Aerion never turned to see it.
The fiddlers struck up a new tune, quick and brash. Laughter burst like sparks around them as dancers flooded the square again. Aerion laughed with them—sharp, bright, cruel. His voice carried above the music, mocking and alive.
Clyde followed, as ever, one pace behind.
Chapter three
The Silent Hound
The council chamber smelled of old parchment and sweat, though its walls were draped with brocade and its windows rimmed in gold. The long oak table stretched from one end to the other, crowded with noblemen and stewards elbowing one another for space, their rings clicking against wood as they gestured too broadly, too often.
Aerion sprawled in his father’s chair as though he had been born to it, one leg thrown over the armrest, a quill twirling in his fingers. His gaze was fixed on the painted ceiling, studying cherubs as though they alone deserved his attention.
“Taxes must be raised,” droned the steward of the eastern fief. “If we are to keep the roads secure, the people must—”
“The people must bleed, must they?” Aerion interrupted, the quill snapping from his fingers and rolling across the table. He sat forward suddenly, fingers steepled, eyes gleaming. “Or perhaps the nobility should trim its feasts and tighten its belts. Your lands see more wine than wheat, Lord Halford, yet you would pluck the bread from farmers’ mouths?”
The room stilled. Lord Halford flushed scarlet.
Aerion’s lips curled, sharp as a blade. “I propose we levy the wine trade, not the plow. If you drink half as much as you boast, the coffers will be overflowing by winter.”
A ripple of nervous laughter passed around the table. Quills scratched as men jotted hurried notes. No one dared contradict him.
Clyde stood at the wall behind him, arms crossed, face impassive. He watched Aerion dismantle lords with a flick of his tongue, his words wrapped in disdain but sharpened with precision. Clyde saw the mind beneath the mockery, the calculation hidden in every barb. He said nothing. He always said nothing.
The tension in the chamber lingered after Lord Halford sank into silence, his jaw working uselessly as if chewing on a retort he dared not voice. The other nobles shifted, eyes averted.
It was Lord Branvel, a grey-bearded vassal with fingers heavy in gold, who cleared his throat next. “A sharp tongue, my lord, but even sharper would be a wedding band. Your father grows weaker by the day. Valemont needs stability, and stability requires heirs.”
A murmur of agreement stirred the chamber, chairs creaking as men leaned in, eager now that someone else had broached the subject.
Aerion leaned back in his chair, stretching like a cat across silk cushions, boredom painted across his face. “Ah, yes. Marriage. The universal cure to all ills. Harvests failing? Marry. Bandits raiding? Marry. The moon turns red? Gods forbid, marry. You’d have me bedding a bride every fortnight just to keep the weather fair.”
