CHAPTER 30: CHAPTER 30: VICTORY

"Aaaaa!!"

"Lisa!!" Flora bellowed.

The scream tore through the chamber like broken glass. All heads snapped, the silence after it sharp enough to slice. Lisa’s hand shook violently, crimson juice bleeding across the pristine silk of the duke’s daughter’s dress. The sharp scent of grapes, sweet and heavy, clashed with the cold perfume of polished marble and waxed oak.

Lisa’s eyes widened, face paling to ash. Her breath stuttered. For a heartbeat she was frozen, caught between denial and horror. The sin she had committed hovered before her—one mistake that could collapse everything. Everything she ever worked for.

"I’m... I’m sorry," she stammered, voice trembling on the edge of breaking. Her tone carried the brittle edge of a bird with clipped wings.

Frantically, she seized a towel, rubbing at the spreading stain as if her frantic hands could erase reality. The sound of cloth against silk was a desperate whisper, a prayer without an answer.

"Haaa... my dress is ruined," the red-haired noble’s voice came, slow and measured. Her words held a weight of judgment far heavier than the mess itself.

Lisa scrubbed harder, fingers trembling so violently she nearly tore the fabric. She dared not meet her lady’s eyes, dared not lift her head. Shame weighed on her back like a stone.

But Flora did not spare her. Rage flared in her gaze, burning into Lisa’s bent shoulders. It was not just anger for the spilled drink—it was betrayal of perfection, the breaking of order in a house where flaws were unforgivable.

"Flora... it’s okay, it’s okay," the duke’s daughter soothed softly, her voice an unexpected mercy. "I’ll just change. No need to worry, Lisa."

Her tone carried no scorn, only calm dismissal, yet the calmness itself stung more than fury. It was pity.

Lisa’s breath shuddered. Tears pricked, threatening to fall, but she forced them back with the strength of one who had learned long ago that tears made punishments worse.

"Come on, let’s go to your room," the girl continued, offering her hand.

Flora sighed, fury restrained into steel silence, and took her lady’s hand. Together, they left, their steps echoing like twin verdicts against Lisa.

Aiden, watching, caught something else—a smile tugging at the duke’s daughter’s lips, faint but deliberate. A knowing smile. She had seen. She had understood. The accident was no accident at all.

And she had chosen silence.

.

.

Gerald descended upon Lisa with the inevitability of storm clouds. His scolding cracked like thunder, each word digging into her marrow. She cried—silent at first, then breaking, sobs muffled against her hands. Her tears hit the polished floor, tiny echoes of her humiliation.

Aiden did not intervene. He could not afford to. But he listened, filing away each fragment of emotion in the air, like a thief memorizing cracks in the vault.

’Haaa...’ He sighed inwardly, but his breath caught.

There—beneath the stench of wine, beneath the trembling air of shame—he smelled it.

Iron.

The scent slithered into his senses, sharp and metallic. His incubus bloodline responded instantly, dragging his awareness into razor clarity. Blood. Somewhere close. Fresh.

His eyes flicked to the edge of the hall. His heart gave a small, dangerous kick.

"What happened?"

The voice cut through everything. Deep, commanding.

Augustus, the lord of the house, stepped into the chamber. His very presence filled the space like a tide flooding low ground. His boots struck the marble with heavy inevitability, and even the air seemed to shift, bending under his gravity.

"Nothing, dear," Catherine answered smoothly, her tone like warm honey poured over iron. She patted the seat beside her. "Just some spilled juice. Come, I’ve kept your seat warm." Her lips curved, soft and dangerously sweet.

The children had already been ushered away. Now Catherine’s voice dropped into velvet intimacy, her words meant for his ears alone.

"Ahem."

The red-haired duchess broke the moment, her tone cool. "I think I shall rest now. We’ll discuss important matters tomorrow, cousin. For tonight, tend to your wife." She gave Catherine a small nod—woman to woman, predator to predator.

Catherine’s smile answered in kind, both acknowledgment and challenge.

"Here, my lady," Akidna murmured, stepping forward to guide the duchess away.

But Augustus did not move to the sofa.

He turned.

He walked—slow, steady—toward Aiden. Each step was deliberate, weight pressing heavier against the butler’s chest. The metallic scent thickened. The closer Augustus came, the sharper it grew, until it coiled into certainty.

Blood.

Pat.

His hand landed on Aiden’s shoulder. The touch was heavy, not merely physical—it was ownership, judgment, the press of a mountain against fragile ribs.

Aiden tilted his head up, and met golden eyes.

And then he saw it.

A drop of red at the lord’s neck. Another trailing at the curve of his ear.

’...what the fuck happened?’

The realization tore at his composure, but he buried it instantly beneath the mask.

Augustus smiled. A slow, knowing smile.

"What happened to you was indeed unfair," he said, voice resonant. "But don’t worry. This is my house. And justice shall always prevail here. Justice to the one I thought I trusted and believed."

His gaze dropped slightly as he voiced the last words.

Aiden’s heart tightened. ’...Justice? To Gail? What?’

Memory flickered. Gail’s sneer, his hostility, his looming shadow. And now—gone.

The blood. The silence. The lord’s words.

’Did he punish him...?’

But the chaos never touched his face. He let only a shard of sorrow show, folded with gratitude. He let his body bend to one knee, posture perfectly measured.

"I am honoured," Aiden said softly, voice carrying just enough tremor to seem sincere. "I thought I was weak here, my lord. But now I know I am not. I am under your shade. Under your protection. And I have seen tonight, first hand, that justice was served."

Each word was a careful blade, sharpened to pierce Augustus’s pride.

And it worked.

The lord’s mood, still shadowed by blood, lifted. His lips curved, satisfaction stirring in his chest.

"Stand, Aiden." His voice carried weight, but warmth, too. "You have potential. Serve me with all your heart, and this shade will never leave you."

Aiden rose, bowing with perfect grace. "Yes, my lord."

"...Gerald."

The lord’s voice turned softer as he wrapped Catherine in his arms, lifting her effortlessly. She gave a surprised gasp, clinging to him, her hair spilling down like molten bronze.

"Yes, master?" Gerald stepped forward instantly, ever the loyal hound.

"...Teach Aiden your ways," Augustus said. "I see potential in him. Shape him. I want him like you, within the month."

Aiden’s breath caught.

His blood surged with exhilaration. He clenched his fist just slightly, nails digging into his palm to ground himself. He had tried subtlety—the reservoir water tainted with his blood, the vintage wine he had prepared, all useless against nobles with mana-rich blood and ember-strong souls.

But words. Smiles. The performance of loyalty.

It had worked.

The lord was charmed.

"Thank you, my lord." Aiden bowed deep again, hiding the flicker of triumph in his eyes.

Augustus nodded, carrying Catherine as though she weighed nothing. She leaned close, whispering into his ear.

"Ohh..." he chuckled. "You want to go to the balcony, at the corner of the mansion...? When did you become so naughty?" His hunger deepened, voice thick.

And with that, they vanished down the corridor, desire carrying them.

Relief swept the room like a tide. Shoulders loosened. Breaths escaped.

The night’s storm had passed.

For now.

"I knew it." Gerald’s voice was firm, almost proud. "I knew you could make an impression." His hand landed heavy on Aiden’s shoulder.

"...Thanks to you, old man," Aiden replied, offering a thin smile. "I don’t know why you trust me so much. But with all the pressure you put on me, I had to give you results."

Pat.

Another slap to his back, almost fatherly.

"That pressure is nothing," Gerald said. "As our lord ordered, I will train you. The ways of a high butler. You’ll serve alongside me, Akidna, Sansa, and..." His eyes flicked toward Lisa, curled in the corner, still sobbing. "...hopefully, Lisa."

Aiden’s gaze lingered on her. Her broken form, her red-rimmed eyes. He felt a small pulse of guilt—but circumstance was merciless.

"...Now take this." Gerald pressed a set of keys into his hand. "Rest. Tomorrow, we begin."

Aiden’s fingers closed around the iron, gripping hard, as if he were seizing fate itself.

The cold bite of the metal dug into his palm. The weight was small, but it felt heavy as a chain and bright as a crown.

In the corner, Lisa’s sobs went on, soft and ragged.

Aiden closed his eyes. For a heartbeat, he heard not sobs, but chains rattling—an echo of his own beginnings.

He opened his hands, keys, similar to that of akidna’s. Keys to a room, a room not for servents but a working butler. He gripped it in victory. But, this was not enough.

"Step by bloody step..."