CHAPTER 104: HOW DARE YOU [2]

Alaric swirled the brandy in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the chandelier’s light.

Duke Rithvale set his own glass down with a soft click against the table. The sound seemed too loud in the silence that had stretched between them.

"You understood what I meant?"

Alaric lifted his eyes from the brandy. Met the Duke’s gaze straight on. "Yes, Your Grace. I understand it all."

Every word of it. Every threat wrapped in politeness, every condition dressed up as generosity. The Duke had been very clear about what this engagement meant, and more importantly, what it didn’t mean.

The Duke nodded once. Sharp. Final.

"Good." He leaned back in his chair, already dismissing him. "That’s it then. You can go."

A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added. "And don’t you dare use my name at your whims."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Alaric’s fingers tightened on the glass, just slightly, barely noticeable. His eyes narrowed.

The Duke was already looking at some papers on his desk, as if Alaric had already left.

Alaric set the brandy down and stood up. No bow. No farewell. Just turned and walked to the door, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.

Click!

The door clicked shut behind him.

He stood there for a moment, hands in his pockets, letting the conversation replay in his mind.

The Duke had made his position very clear, this engagement was a transaction, nothing more. Alaric was getting Verelia, but he’d be getting her on the Duke’s terms.

"Haa..."

He sighed.

The sound of muffled music drifted from the ballroom. The feast was still going, would probably continue for hours yet.

Tap! Tap!

Then he started walking, not back toward the celebration but toward one of the side exits.

He’d had enough with the nobility for one night.

The corridor stretched ahead, almost empty except for the knights stationed at intervals along the walls.

They straightened as he passed, offering brief bows, professional, respectful, nothing more.

Alaric’s eyes swept over them automatically, an old habit.

I can’t sense any of them.

He said inwardly as he tried to gauge their essence, their strength, but there was nothing. Like trying to see through fog.

Then he dismissed and moved forward, they’re stronger than him.

Walking through the heavy doors at the corridor’s end, he exited the hall.

Night air hit him like cold water. Better. The garden stretched out before him, all silver shadows and swaying branches under the moon.

He closed his eyes, pulled in a deep breath.

Then let it out slowly.

The wind picked up, tugging at his hair, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth.

When he opened his eyes again, the garden seemed almost unreal, too perfect, like something from a painting.

Neat hedgerows creating geometric patterns, fountains casting spray that caught the moonlight, roses that looked black in the darkness.

A stone balustrade ran along the terrace edge. He leaned against it, letting the cold seep through his garments, grounding him.

For the first time all evening, his mind went quiet.

No more calculating nobles. No more forced smiles. No more games within games.

Just the gentle wind and the calm darkness and the distant sound of water.

His shoulders dropped, tension bleeding out into the night.

The marble was smooth under his palms, worn by centuries of other hands seeking the same moment of peace.

Somewhere behind him, the feast continued, laughter and music. But here, for now, he could pretend none of it existed.

Just him and the garden and the blessed silence.

Meanwhile, back in the ballroom...

The circle of nobles pressed closer, their excited whispers mixing with the rustle of expensive fabric, as they leaned forward, eager for spectacle.

At the center of the commotion.

Caleb and Garret were locked in an heated duel.

Caleb had managed to land a few jabs. Barely, his breathing was ragged.

But his pride forced him to stand his ground, though Garret wasn’t even fighting seriously, he was just toying with him, flicking out punches with a smirk, weaving around Caleb’s desperate swings like it was some game.

"Really? That’s it? You’re all talk and no bite."

Another punch came faster but just sloppy. Garrett caught his wrist, twisted, used Caleb’s own momentum to send him stumbling.

"Come on, Duskwood. At least make this interesting."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

"Look at him flail."

"Pathetic."

Coins clinked as bets were placed, voices dripping with mockery.

Caleb spun, throwing a haymaker that actually hit harder. For a moment, hope flickered in his eyes.

Then Garrett’s expression shifted. The amusement was still there, but something colder lurked beneath.

"Alright then."

Thwack!

He stepped in, fists hammering, which connected Caleb in the ribs. The air left his lungs in a wheeze.

The second hit his jaw, snapping his head sideways.

"There we go," someone called out. "Twenty silver on Steelwind!"

"Make it thirty!"

Caleb staggered, blood filling his mouth.

"Way to go Garret."

A roar of approval went up from Garret’s friends as he drove Caleb back.

Caleb tried to get his guard up, but Garrett was already inside it.

A knee to the stomach. An elbow across the temple. Each strike precise, calculated to hurt but not end things too quickly.

Then the marble floor came up fast. Caleb’s palms slapped against it, trying to push himself up, but Garrett’s boot found his ribs.

"Stay down, Duskwood."

But the pride wouldn’t let him. He lurched to his feet, swaying, blood dripping from his nose onto his expensive shirt.

Then he charged.

Stupid. Desperate.

Garrett sidestepped, grabbed his collar, used his momentum to drive him face-first into the floor. The crack echoed through the sudden silence.

Garrett was on him, knee in his back, and rained fists down without pause.

Caleb tried to push back, tried to rise, but Garret’s weight crushed him down.

Every blow wasn’t just pain, it was humiliation, each punch echoing with the nobles’ jeers.

Heat burned behind his eyes, a shame deeper than any wound. To be broken here, before all of them...

Then...

"Stop!"

A voice cut through everything.

Livia burst through the circle, her friends calling after her, trying to hold her back.

"Please, stop!"

She stood beside them, hands grasping at Garret’s arm.

For a moment, he only sneered at her, shaking her grip off like an annoyance.

"Lady Livia. This doesn’t concern—"

"Please." Her voice cracked. Tears ran down her face, but she didn’t care who saw.

"You’ve won. Everyone can see you’ve won. Just... please."

For a moment, Garrett stayed like that. Then, slowly, he released Caleb’s collar and stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.

"Of course, my lady. Since you ask so nicely."

Then Lvia dropped to her knees beside her brother, hands frantic, lifting him up with surprising strength for her slender frame. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she saw blood on his swelling face.

"Caleb... you’re hurt..."

She reached out to touch his jaw, to turn his head and see the damage.

And that was when he saw it.

Her sleeve slipped back and a purple-black bruise had wrapped around her right wrist like a bracelet.

For an instant, Caleb’s battered body went numb.

Everything stopped.

The laughter of the nobles vanished from his awareness. The sting of his own humiliation faded beneath the sight of that mark.

His ears rang, not from the beating but from the realization that struck deeper than fists.

His chest tightened, shame transmuting into something darker, sharper. This wasn’t just about him anymore.

She realized what he was looking at and tried to pull her sleeve down, but it was too late.

"Livia..." The word came out broken.

He’d known something happened.

But seeing it, seeing the proof written on her skin, was different.

He knew he’d failed.

Around them, the crowd began to disperse. Garrett was already walking away, accepting congratulations from his friends.

"Pathetic," someone muttered.

"Both of them," another agreed.

The words barely registered. Caleb sat there on the cold marble, blood dripping from his face, staring at his sister’s bruised wrist.

Every victory he’d ever claimed, every boast he’d ever made, every shred of pride he’d built his identity on, none of it meant anything.

When it mattered, he’d been useless.

"Come on," Livia whispered, trying to help him stand. "Let’s get you cleaned up."

But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

Her tears came harder. She tried to help him stand but he was dead weight.

"Please. Let’s just go."

Eventually, he let her pull him up. Swayed. But her hand steadied him.

Every step to the door broadcast the truth.

Not just that he’d lost.

Not just he’d humiliated in front of everyone.

But that his sister, had to save him from her own attacker.

Had to plead. Had to beg him for his mercy.

The bruises on his skin could heal. But that bruise on her... it tore something open in him.

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Chapter End.

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