The Grand Hall of Oakhaven was a cathedral of vanity.
Crystal chandeliers, each holding a thousand trapped fire-sprites, hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting a light so bright it banished shadows from even the deepest corners. The floor was a mosaic of polished marble, slick enough to skate on. The air was thick with the cloying scent of roasted pheasant, expensive wine, and the desperate perfume of people trying to outrank one another.
Kael Ravenshade adjusted the collar of his new silk suit. It was midnight blue, tailored to hide the leanness of his frame, with silver buttons that gleamed under the magical lights.
He hated it.
It felt like a costume. A layer of skin that didn't belong to him.
"Stand tall, Kael," Rowan whispered, nudging him gently. "Shoulders back. Smile. Everyone is watching."
Kael looked around the room. His father was right. Eyes were darting toward them from behind feathered fans and wine glasses. The return of the Ravenshade heir was the gossip of the season. They were looking for cracks. They were looking to see if the boy who slept for seven years was drooling, or crippled, or mad.
Kael gave them what they wanted. He leaned heavily on his silver-handled cane. He let his mouth hang slightly open, just a fraction, giving him an air of vacuous exhaustion. He blinked slowly.
Let them see a broken toy, Kael thought. It makes them careless.
"Lord Rowan!" a voice boomed, cutting through the polite murmur of the crowd like a cleaver through bone.
Rowan flinched. Kael felt his father's posture stiffen instantly.
A man was approaching them. He was a mountain of a human being, encased in a suit of crimson velvet that strained against his bulk. His face was round and flushed, glistening with a sheen of sweat and grease. He wore rings on every finger, the gems clashing garishly.
Count Verrick.
Kael's files—the ones Finn kept locked in the secure cabinet—described Verrick as a "Merchant Lord." He owned the textile mills in the Industrial Sector. He owned the shipping contracts for the river. And, more importantly, he owned a significant portion of Rowan's debt.
"Count Verrick," Rowan said, bowing his head slightly. It was a submissive gesture. Too submissive. "A pleasure to see you."
Verrick didn't bow back. He stopped three feet away, invading their personal space with the smell of strong brandy and onions.
"The pleasure is mine, Rowan. Truly," Verrick grinned, revealing gold-capped teeth. "I didn't think you'd show your face tonight. Not after the... unfortunate numbers from the last quarter."
Rowan's smile faltered. "The estate is stabilizing, Verrick. We are restructuring."
"Restructuring?" Verrick let out a wet, barking laugh. He slapped Rowan on the shoulder, hard enough to make the older man stumble. "Is that what we call 'begging for extensions' these days? You're a poet, Rowan. Always have been."
Verrick's beady eyes slid past Rowan and landed on Kael.
The predator looked at the prey.
"And this must be the Sleeping Beauty," Verrick sneered. "Kael, isn't it? I remember you when you were a brat. Thirteen, running around with a wooden sword, thinking you were a hero."
Kael looked at Verrick. He didn't speak. He maintained the mask.
Verrick stepped closer, looming over Kael. "Look at you now. Skin and bones. A stiff breeze would snap you in half."
"He is recovering remarkably well," Rowan interjected, stepping between them like a shield made of paper. "The doctors say his constitution is strong."
"Strong?" Verrick scoffed. He poked Kael in the chest with a fat, ring-adorned finger. It was painful, digging into Kael's bruised ribs from his secret training. "He looks like a corpse that forgot to rot. Tell me, boy, can you even hold a spoon? Or does Daddy have to feed you?"
Kael wobbled intentionally, gripping his cane. "I manage, My Lord," he rasped, keeping his voice weak.
Verrick turned back to Rowan, dismissing Kael as a non-threat.
"Listen to me, Rowan," Verrick said, dropping the volume of his voice to a conspiratorial growl. "Stop delaying. Sell me the Southern Orchards. The Ravenshade name is finished. It's a husk. You're clinging to a legacy that died seven years ago. Liquidate the land, pay off your debts to me, and retire to the countryside with your cripple. It's the only mercy you'll get."
Rowan's face went pale. The Southern Orchards were the last profitable asset the family had. They were Zara's inheritance.
"I... I cannot do that, Verrick," Rowan stammered. "The Orchards are ancestral land. I promised my wife—"
"Your wife is dead!" Verrick snapped. "And your son is half-dead. And you? You're a ghost haunting your own house. Do you think Magnus protects you because he likes you? He pities you, Rowan. We all do. We pity the Ravenshade ruin."
Verrick leaned in, his face inches from Rowan's.
"Sell the land. Or I will bury you in litigation so deep you'll be begging to live in the slums with the rats."
Rowan trembled. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was paralyzed by the bully, beaten down by years of guilt and fear.
Kael watched his father shrink. He saw the humiliation in Rowan's eyes.
Enough.
The War God woke up.
Kael took a half-step forward. He moved his cane just an inch to the right, planting it firmly on the marble.
"Count Verrick," Kael said.
The voice wasn't the raspy whisper of the invalid. It was clear. It was resonant. It cut through the noise of the gala like a razor wire.
Verrick turned, annoyed. "What is it, boy? Speak up if you have something to—"
Verrick stopped.
Kael lifted his chin. He opened his eyes fully, letting the heavy eyelids of the "sleepy invalid" vanish.
He looked directly into Verrick's pupils.
In the spiritual realm of Eryndor, intent was a physical force. A master swordsman could cut a leaf just by looking at it. A tyrant could make a room kneel with a thought.
Kael didn't use mana. He didn't use a spell. He used Killing Intent.
He projected a single, vivid image into the space between them.
He visualized Verrick dead.
He visualized grabbing Verrick's throat with his bare hand. He visualized squeezing until the windpipe collapsed like a wet straw. He visualized the spray of arterial blood painting the white marble floor red. He visualized the light leaving Verrick's eyes.
It wasn't a threat. It was a promise. It was the absolute, undeniable certainty of a predator looking at meat.
For a split second, the air around them seemed to freeze. The sounds of the party—the music, the laughter, the clinking glass—muted into a dull roar. The temperature dropped ten degrees.
Verrick felt it.
His heart missed a beat. Then it hammered a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs. A cold sweat broke out on his neck instantly. His breath caught in his throat.
He looked at the boy.
The boy wasn't there anymore.
Standing in front of him was a monster. A shadowy colossus. The gray eyes were not human; they were two voids, two abysses that promised nothing but eternal darkness.
Verrick's instincts, buried under layers of fat and greed, screamed at him: RUN. DEATH IS HERE.
Verrick stumbled back. His heel caught on the marble. He gasped, clutching his chest, his face turning from flushed red to sheet white. His vision swam. He felt the phantom sensation of fingers crushing his throat. He couldn't breathe.
"W-what..." Verrick choked out, his eyes bulging. "You..."
Rowan looked at Verrick, confused. He hadn't felt it. The intent was a surgical strike, directed only at the target.
"Count Verrick?" Rowan asked, reaching out. "Are you ill?"
Verrick slapped Rowan's hand away, staring at Kael with pure terror. He was shaking. The glass of wine in his hand spilled, staining his crimson suit darker, like blood.
"Get away!" Verrick wheezed, backing up until he bumped into a waiter. "Demon... look at his eyes..."
Kael held the stare for one more second. Just to make sure the stain on the soul was permanent.
Then, he blinked.
The pressure vanished. The temperature returned to normal. The abyss closed.
Kael slumped his shoulders again. He let his mouth hang open slightly. He leaned heavily on the cane, looking confused and innocent.
"Oh dear," Kael said, his voice returning to the weak rasp. "Did I startle you, My Lord? I think... I think I had a muscle spasm. My face does that sometimes. The nerves, you know."
Kael offered a shaky, apologetic smile.
"I tried to smile, but it came out wrong," he mumbled. "I am so clumsy."
Verrick stared at him. He looked at the fragile boy leaning on the stick. He looked around the room. The music was playing. People were laughing. No one else had seen the monster.
Was he going mad? Had the brandy gone to his head?
But his heart was still racing. His shirt was soaked in cold sweat.
"You..." Verrick whispered, pointing a shaking finger. "You are not..."
"Count Verrick, you are spilling your wine," Rowan said gently, concerned. "Perhaps you should sit down? The heat in here is intense."
Verrick looked at Rowan's oblivious face. Then he looked back at Kael.
Kael blinked slowly, looking at the floor like a scolded child.
Verrick swallowed hard. The terror lingered, a cold shard of ice in his gut. He didn't know what had just happened, but his survival instinct was screaming at him to get away from the Ravenshade heir.
"I... I must go," Verrick stammered. "The air. Yes. I need air."
He didn't swagger away. He scuttled. The massive man retreated through the crowd, bumping into guests, looking back over his shoulder as if he expected a knife in the back.
Rowan watched him go, bewildered.
"That was strange," Rowan murmured. "I have never seen Verrick lose his composure like that. He looked... terrified."
Rowan turned to Kael, fussing over his collar. "Are you alright, son? He didn't hurt you with that poking, did he?"
Kael looked at the retreating back of the fat merchant. He felt the Gray Core humming in satisfaction.
"I am fine, Father," Kael said softly. "I think he just remembered he left something on the stove."
"A muscle spasm," Rowan chuckled, shaking his head. "You really must ask the doctor about that. But... thank the Light he left. I don't think I could have stood another minute of his threats."
"He won't bother you about the orchards again tonight," Kael said.
"No. I suppose not." Rowan sighed, picking up a glass of champagne. "But he will be back. Men like Verrick are like wolves. They smell blood."
Kael gripped the silver head of his cane.
Wolves? Kael thought, a dark amusement curling in his mind. No, Father. Verrick is a pig. And pigs get slaughtered when they wander into the tiger's den.
"Let him come back," Kael whispered, too low for Rowan to hear.
"What was that?"
"I said, can we get some cake?" Kael smiled his bright, innocent, invalid smile. "I hear the chocolate gateau is imported."
Rowan laughed, the tension leaving his shoulders. "Of course, Kael. Of course. Let's get you some cake."
As they walked toward the dessert table, Kael glanced one last time at the grand doors where Verrick had fled.
He had made a mistake. A small one. He had shown his teeth.
Verrick was scared now, which was good. But fear could turn into desperation. Verrick would try to strike back, harder and faster, to prove to himself that he wasn't crazy.
Good, Kael thought, his limp heavy and exaggerated as he walked through the glittering crowd. Force his hand. Make him attack. When he attacks, I can defend. And when I defend...
He visualized the mana blade cutting the candle wick.
...I won't leave a trace.