The castle of Marhaevn rose from the fog like an ancient wound upon the mountain, its towers clawing at the sky while banners hung limp in the mist.

The night was heavy with the scent of iron and rain, the kind of air that hummed faintly against the skin and promised a storm.

Inside, behind thick stone and torchlit corridors, noble voices murmured over wine and scandal. Among them, unseen for now, lay the secret that bound Jaenor and Morgana Arkwright together like the thorns of a hidden vine.

In the chamber assigned to him—small by noble standards, but rich with tapestries and polished brass—Jaenor sat alone, drumming his fingers against the armrest.

His aunt, Morgana, had told him to wait, to remain unseen until she returned from her meeting with Baron Roland.

That had been hours ago.

The fire had burned down to embers. Shadows lay long across the walls.

He could still smell her perfume—amber and lilac, faint but sharp, clinging to his clothes and the pillow where she had last reclined. Every faint trace of her was maddeningly intimate, like a ghost pressing soft fingers along his throat.

To the castle, to the baron, to every simpering lord and lady—they were not kin.

They were mistress and paramour.

Morgana had spun that lie herself, and Jaenor had agreed to play the part.

She had introduced him with that glacial poise, smiling faintly as she told the court he was her toyboy, her companion, her delight. It was meant to conceal his identity, to keep eyes from guessing the truth: that he was the heir to the most powerful family, the Arkwright descendant that nobody was aware of.

He had not expected the deception to burn like this.

Every time her gaze lingered too long, every time she touched his shoulder in public, every laugh at a jest that made the nobles blush—it all felt too real. He had told himself it was acting.

But the longer it went on, the more his body forgot the lie.

Jaenor rose, restlessness snapping in his limbs.

He was young, yes—eighteen summers and change—but not foolish.

He could feel when something was wrong.

Morgana should have been back long ago.

The silence pressed at him until he could bear it no longer.

The castle's air was thick, still, and slightly perfumed from the incense that the servants burned at dusk. His pulse thudded in his ears like a drum.

He fastened his cloak, its silver pin catching the faint glow of the hearth, and stepped into the corridor.

CRRKKK

The sound of the door creaking echoed down the hall, swallowed quickly by the gloom.

The passage stretched ahead, empty but for the soft hiss of torches. The castle was alive with its own subtle noises: the echo of laughter from distant halls, the creak of old beams, and the low hum of voices somewhere below.

He moved like a shadow, following instinct more than reason. The flagstones were cold beneath his boots, slick with condensation from the damp night air. His reflection shimmered briefly in a polished suit of armor before vanishing as he passed.

Until a sharp voice halted him.

"Hold there, boy."

Three men blocked the hall—a trio of guards, armor dull with use.

At their head stood Herve, the captain of Baron Roland's household guard, a man as broad as he was cruel, his face cut by an old scar that made his smirk seem permanent.

"Well, well," Herve drawled, crossing his arms.

"If it isn't the Lady Morgana's pet. Out wandering the halls already? I thought she kept you chained to her bed."

Laughter rippled from the two behind him.

Jaenor's expression did not change.

He looked at them as though considering the weather.

"I needed air," he said quietly.

"Some of us tire of guarding doorways."

Herve's grin faltered. "You've got a tongue on you for a kept boy."

Jaenor's voice lowered. "And you've got a brain like a chamber pot, Captain. Shall we compare further?"

The first blow came without warning—a clumsy swing toward Jaenor's ribs. Herve was angered as he was insulted before his men and wanted to teach Jaenor a lesson; he acted quickly, moving towards Jaenor.

But Jaenor sidestepped, seized the man's wrist, and twisted.

Jaenor looked at the captain with indifference.

Bone cracked.

AHhhh

The guard cried out, the sound sharp in the narrow space.

Before Herve could react, Jaenor's boot connected with the second man's knee, sending him sprawling. The third lunged; Jaenor ducked, driving his elbow into the man's stomach with brutal force.

THUD!

The corridor rang with the muffled thud of flesh meeting stone.

Herve drew his dagger—but Jaenor was already moving. He caught the captain's wrist mid-swing, slammed it against the wall, and pressed forward until Herve's breath hitched.

The torchlight threw wild, shuddering shadows around them, and Jaenor's face was carved in gold and fury.

"Tell your baron to teach his dogs manners," Jaenor murmured.

"Next time, I won't stop with the wrist."

He shoved him aside and continued on, the torchlight flickering off his cloak as he vanished around the corner.

Behind him, Herve groaned and spat blood onto the stones.

Killing them would have been easy, but Morgana would shout at him if he did that, so he just stopped with the thrashing.

The castle's halls twisted like veins, each corridor leading deeper into its heart.

It was in one of these side passages that Jaenor heard the voices—low, rough, and male. He would have just walked by, but something caught his attention.

The name of his aunt, he heard them say.

He moved closer, keeping to the shadows until he could see.

Baron Roland stood there in a small hall, goblet in hand, speaking to a lesser lord with the casual cruelty of men who have never feared consequence. The candlelight gleamed off his rings, heavy gold things that marked him as a man of indulgence rather than valor.

"Did you see her today when she came? No matter how many times I see her, she still stirs my pants."

"She struts about like a goddess," the baron was saying, his voice thick with drink.

"Eyes like sapphires, skin like snow—she knows the effect she has. And that boy she keeps by her side… Gods, what I wouldn't give to see her break when I take him from her."

The other man chuckled. "Careful, Roland. She's a dangerous one. You saw what she did at the feast. The power in that voice alone could stop a room."

"Ah hah, and that's what makes it sweeter."

The baron's grin was all teeth.

"I'll make her yield, one way or another. No woman walks my halls untamed."

"I'm getting riled by just imagining what it would be like between her legs, those soft cheeks…"

Jaenor's blood went cold.

That fucking bastard!

Hearing him talk about his aunt like that made him want to snap his head. He had his doubts about his obsession with her, but to think he was lusting after her like a dog, he was disgusted.

He wanted to strike, to tear that grin from the man's face; his grip on the wall made the wall crack, his Origin energy thrumming to come out of him, ready to rampage upon his command.

Then came a sound like silk dragging over stone.

Now what?

Laughter, soft and sultry.

Lady Viviannah—Roland's wife—entered the corridor with two other noblewomen, their gowns glittering like spilled wine. They spoke in lazy tones, their bracelets chiming, and the air filled with the scent of roses and musk.

"…that boy," one of them was saying, "the one she keeps. Gods, he's beautiful. What could she possibly want with someone so young?"

Viviannah's lips curved, eyes glinting like wet steel.

"Oh, youth has its charms. Morgana has exquisite taste. You've seen how he looks at her? Like a starving wolf denied meat. I can't say I wouldn't take a bite myself."

Then she added, "But I would like to have a bite for myself before the young man. Such a delicate flower she is, oh dear Morgana."

There was a dazed expression on her face as she said that. Her face cheeks turned deep red; those women who were beside her were giggling.

Great, what a crazy lust-filled couple.

Laughter followed.

Jaenor stood still, half-hidden behind the archway.

To hear the baron speak so crudely of Morgana was one thing—but to hear his wife lust for her as well?

It twisted something inside him, a mix of anger and curiosity he didn't want to name. He didn't understand their fascination with Morgana; both of them were lusting after her. It's confirmed now. He didn't want to ask them why. He just wanted to get out of here, but there was something in him that was starting to change.

His feelings towards his aunt.

Emma had been encouraging him to have her, to become one with her. But he hadn't given any thought to it. Now, standing among these people, something is definitely changing.

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