The betrothal announcement sent a wave of stunned silence across the crowd, followed by a torrent of hushed, frantic whispers.

  Lucon felt it in the Flow—a sudden spike of collective shock, curiosity, and a fair amount of scandalized delight.

  He smiled pleasantly.

  His father, Auric, was staring at him. The Flow around him was a turbulent storm of disbelief, outrage, and a desperate, fraying attempt to maintain self-control.

  Moments ago, there were far more worrying emotions exuding from him. There had been a clear and negative intent aimed at Lucon.

  Lucon had felt that shift. A tightening. Resolve and slight regret swirling. It was something unfavorable. Something aiming to take from him.

  So he intervened. This public betrothal announcement was the perfect shield.

  Lucon still had many things to do and couldn’t allow anyone—even his own father—to interfere.

  All eyes swiveled from him to the Serbal family. He followed their gaze to Lord Deydor Serbal, head of House Serbal. The man was like tough oak of scarred muscle and military bearing, donning an eyepatch, his single good eye wide with shock. From the other side of the courtyard, his daughters had their emotions written on their faces.

  Lyris had balled her hands into tiny, trembling fists, shaking with a fury that stirred her Mana into glowing. Klara…her energy in the Flow was a vortex of horror and unpreparedness. This was not the reaction of a happy bride-to-be.

  Right on cue, Lord Deydor stepped forward as duty called—but stopped when both his daughters didn’t follow. Mid-step, he cast each of them a stern, meaningful look.

  With visible reluctance, Lyris and Klara fell into step behind him, a small, grim procession approaching center stage.

  The three of them stood beside Lucon and a rigid Auric. Lucon beamed as if the best thing were happening. No one else mirrored it. Awkward silence closed in around them.

  Finally, Auric broke it. A mask of paternal pride grew over his face, a smile so convincing Lucon almost believed it himself.

  "It is true," Auric announced, his voice carrying feigned warmth. "House Edelyn and House Serbal are soon to be linked through this joyous union!"

  He gestured, and Claude, ever the dutiful son, approached on cue, plastering a pleasant, vacant expression on his face.

  Auric continued the charade, "Our deepest apologies that Lady Mabel is…predisposed and cannot share this moment."

  Now it was Deydor's turn. The Knight Commander dug deep, visibly struggling, but forced a smile too. It sat on his face like a dead fish. He placed his heavy hands on his daughters' shoulders and gave a firm, warning squeeze. Both girls flinched, then forced their own strained, unconvincing smiles.

  Deydor's single eye flicked to Auric with an unspoken question: What is this?

  Auric's eyes darted almost imperceptibly toward Lucon: His doing.

  Deydor's gaze then shifted to Lucon, who was still smiling beatifically. His wariness spread through the Flow, a mix of confusion, suspicion, and a soldier's instinctive distrust of the unpredictable.

  The clapping, when it came, was weary and thin. It was as if everyone were auditioning for a play about nobles at a party that no one wanted to attend. Some stares were fixed on Lucon with unease. A few with outright fear.

  His reaction earlier—standing, speaking, smiling with half his face gone—had frightened them.

  Right, he reminded himself. While he saw no logical need to acknowledge pain, they needed that performance. They needed the scream, the grimace, the vulnerability. Its absence unnerved them, marking him as alien.

  He made a mental note. For the sake of putting others at ease, it seemed he would have to learn to pretend to be hurt.

  The obligatory congratulations that followed were hollow, some rushed. No one had the energy for ceremony anymore. The hosts were battered, the guests were shell-shocked, and the entire courtyard moved with the jerky, lifeless motions of puppets on strings, desperate to escape the stage.

  Lucon found it fascinating. He watched the predictable patterns of their actions, the way societal programming overrode individual shock. He had pulled the strings, and they had all danced to his whim.

  When the exodus finally began, Niles Visciro detached himself from the flow of departing nobles and approached Lucon, his hand extended, a perfectly crafted smile on his face.

  "Young Lord Lucon, congratulations on your betrothal. A brilliant match. Formidable, even," Niles said, his voice oozing sincerity.

  But in the Flow, Lucon saw the truth. The man was a layered wad of duplicity. Every word, every gesture, held hidden meaning and falsehood.

  Lucon shook the merchant’s pudgy hand. “Speaking of formidable…We’ve had a growing bandit issue in the region. A group calling themselves the Blood Wraiths.”

  Niles’s emotions spiked in the Flow—instinctive alarm like a struck gong—before he smothered it almost instantly.

  The smile never left his face. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard the name. Nasty lot. They operate in that troublesome stretch between Teleris and your lands, don’t they? Organized, ruthless.”

  "It's a shame," Lucon mused, watching him closely. "Such a skilled, organized group. It's too bad they can't be convinced to be of use to someone. That kind of manpower could come in handy for certain...enterprises."

  He let the words hang, a hook baited with implication. They work for your guild alliance, Niles.

  Impressively, Niles's emotions didn't so much as flicker this time. The man was a master of composure.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Such groups are hard to control," he said with a dismissive wave. "Ultimately, they are unreliable. A liability. But do send us word if you need help in dealing with them."

  They then exchanged farewells. Niles left flanked by his entourage. Lucon watched the merchant’s guards and searched in the Flow for one of their Aura Hearts to match the fake bandit Vice Leader. No luck. Helto wasn’t among them.

  As Niles walked away, he stole a single, quick glance back over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Lucon's for a fraction of a second before he disappeared into the night.

  Yes, Lucon thought. A clever man. You will be troublesome.

  When the last of the guests vanished down the torchlit drive, only the remnants of House Serbal and Julie remained under the ruined lanterns. The silence barely lasted a heartbeat.

  Lyris whirled on him, her face flushed with indignation. "You scoundrel—!"

  "You will not act so belligerently on House Edelyn territory," Lucon stated, his voice flat and absolute. Pull her strings. Defiance cannot be tolerated. Not when all was unstable.

  Lyris opened her mouth to shout again, but her father's wide hand landed on her shoulder. Deydor gave a stoic shake of his head, his one eye warning her into silence. Frustrated, she looked to Claude and Klara for support, but they remained quiet, trapped in their own turmoil.

  Auric’s brow furrowed. In the Flow, it was apparent he himself had many things he wanted to say to Lucon.

  “House Serbal have been friends to this house for longer than you have been alive, son,” Auric said evenly. It was obvious he wanted Lucon to be punished in some way as soon as possible, even by way of Lyris’s immature rage.

  “Should I let her speak to me in any way then, father?” Lucon asked. It wasn’t like he felt indignation. After so many drinks, he barely felt anything but the Flow now. But every choice needed to further his goals.

  Lyris piped up again. “Then I should be able to tell you to your face that you’re a bast—”

  Her father stopped her again.

  The one-eyed soldier looked to Auric and said, “House Serbal values our friendship with House Edelyn but most of all respects them.”

  Auric was dismissive. “There’s no need to be like that, old friend. Speak freely.”

  Deydor nodded once but gave a stern look to Lyris, a silent message telling her to keep quiet.

  Julie, ever the defender, stepped forward. "As the daughter of Lord Heril Othborro, I should have at least the right to—"

  "You should ask your father first if you have the power to speak here without permission," Lucon interrupted, his gaze cool and assessing. "House Othborro holds sway in the south. You are in the west."

  Pull her strings as well.

  The calculation was visible in Julie's eyes. She was certainly weighing her family's influence against the authority House Edelyn. Reluctantly, she fell silent and withdrew, the political reality outweighing her personal outrage.

  With that settled, Lucon turned to Klara. “I’m sure you want to talk.”

  Klara’s emotions bled into the Flow, showing fury, unwillingness and resentment. In the end, she allowed herself to be led way.

  ***

  Klara walked stiffly, her boots crunching on the gravel path leading into the garden maze. The beauty of the flowers were a stark contrast to the turmoil inside her. Every emotion was a raw, open wound. The humiliation of Claude’s pity, the public shattering of her pride as the 'Red Storm', and now this—being publicly leashed to the most infamous wastrel in the kingdom.

  She glanced back. Lucon followed a few paces behind, utterly nonchalant, having procured a fresh bottle and relit his long pipe. The ember glowed like a demon’s eye in the dark.

  He really is everything they say he is, isn’t he? she thought with forlorn. And now everyone knew he was her betrothed.

  Klara didn’t feel ready to confront him. Too much of her vitality had been spent using her war blessing [Love for War] and she felt frail.

  Lucon broke the silence. “Speak your mind, Klara. We’re away from prying ears.”

  His words, his tone and lazy posture, suddenly reignited her strength. The dam broke.

  “Fine! You want me to speak? Then listen.” Emotion strained her voice. “I never wanted this! I told you—I told you the day our fathers arranged it—that I would not go through with the betrothal!”

  She paused, her chest heaving. The next part caught in her throat, the truth too painful to voice. The plan was to join the Hero’s Party. To become so indispensable, so powerful, that no one, not even her own father, could force her into a marriage.

  But that dream would only ever be a dream.

  Claude, a boy years her junior, had to hold back enough power to orchestrate a draw. That meant he should have won. When he reached her age, the gap between them would be a chasm. She would never be considered for the Hero’s party. The dream of taking the Demon King’s head herself, was dead. The realization made her dizzy, the world tilting on its axis.

  That was when Lucon spoke, his voice halting her spiraling despair.

  “We will proceed with the plan.”

  Klara stared, bewildered. “What…what plan?”

  “Your plan,” he said, tapping ash from his pipe. “We will get you into the Hero’s Party. And then we will be done with this betrothal.”

  She stared at him, speechless. Her anger fizzled, confusion taking its place.

  “We will find a way to grow your strength,” he continued, speaking easily as if discussing crop rotation. “To ensure you earn a spot in Claude’s party.”

  A fragrance sweeter than the surrounding flowers filled the air as Lucon refilled his long pipe with an herb Klara didn’t recognize. A wastrel’s choice of pipe leaf was a mystery to someone like her—she had spent her life avoiding people who partook in such vices.

  But there was no way Klara could step past his confidence. Her curiosity momentarily overrode anything else. “You…you speak as if it’s already decided. That Claude will be the Named Hero.”

  Years of knowing them had taught her the Edelyn brothers were brothers in name alone, but now Lucon spoke of Claude with more faith than Claude did in himself.

  Lucon relit his pipe. “It is fate. He has all the necessary pieces. He has my father’s heart—a Hero’s heart. As you saw yourself, his power is also great. No, it is legendary. Just like the old tales of the first Hero. Claude was meant to be Named.”

  “And what do you get out of all this?” Klara asked. The Lucon she knew only worked for his own gain.

  Lucon drank from his bottle, his eyes drifting to servants cleaning up the celebration’s aftermath.

  “House Edelyn is saved.” He said simply. He gestured with the bottle to the working servants, a number too few for a manor this size. “I’m sure you’re aware of our dwindling state. We need the status of being the noble house of the Named Hero.”

  The Prince of Ruin only worked for his own self-interest. Klara was certain of it. She wanted to hear the truth.

  “Your power is also great, Lucon,” Klara probed. “It seems you’ve been hiding yourself quite well. You defeating Rhavak easily…shows even you have what it takes to join the Hero’s party, possibly become Named yourself.”

  She couldn’t stand it. Lucon Edelyn, the Prince of Ruin, more powerful than herself.

  Lucon wiped his mouth and revealed a grin when his hand came down.

  “I’m rather weak, Klara,” he admitted.

  Klara exclaimed, “But Rhavak—”

  “It must mean he is even weaker, doesn’t it?”

  Klara fell silent. Why bother with such a narrative? Degrading his own win by calling Rhavak weak. She couldn’t see the purpose of such a tactic.

  “You’re not the same Lucon,” she said with certainty. The young man before her was far too intelligent to be the wastrel she knew.

  Lucon’s blue eyes held her for a moment. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Before, it was obvious. Whether he was speaking, moving, or caught staring at her backside when he thought she wasn’t looking—Lucon was never a difficult puzzle to solve.

  Now, he might as well be shrouded in fog.

  “We will proceed with the plan,” Lucon reiterated, then made a promise. “This will be the last day I embarrass my betrothed. I will not ruin your reputation. I will act in ways that strengthen it.”

  He approached her, smoke following him like a fluttering cape. Klara shrunk away as he leaned closer.

  “But you will have to do the same for me,” he said. “My father is being a nuisance. Our betrothal will be one of noble propriety and elegance, so much so that he thinks his wastrel son has become upstanding and forthright—just like his second born.”

  His gaze bore into her. “I need this to happen, understand?”

  Klara’s eyes fell to the ground. “…As long as you know this betrothal isn’t going to last.”

  “Young Lord, where are you? Let us drink!”

  They saw a young man with spectacles the kind a clerk would wear, searching the grounds with bottle in hand.

  “It seems I am needed,” Lucon grinned. He looked back at her one final time. “Remember, we’re happily betrothed. We will lift one another enough that we climb out of the pits we wish to leave. When we make it to the surface, we will be free to do what we want.”

  Klara nodded despite herself.

  Lucon turned to leave. “Good.”