The servant led the three men down a wide corridor of age-darkened stone and into the audience hall — a cavernous room clearly designed for the reception of important guests, though it had the stale, underused air of a theater between performances.
"Welcome! *Welcome!*"
The moment they descended the final step, a stocky figure in a flamboyantly colored robe sprang from his chair with an energy that belied his years and greeted them in a voice loud enough to fill a space twice this size.
Robert Akitas. The Great Lord of Aquitaine.
He was old. He was infirm. And he was, in every way that mattered, alone.
His youngest daughter — the gifted one, the one everyone had assumed would inherit the lordship — had died in battle years ago. His two remaining sons had vanished not long after. The eastern provinces whispered that both had severed ties with their father following a bitter quarrel over their sister's death, and that neither had spoken to him since.
All that remained to Robert Akitas now were the men who flattered him when they wanted something.
"Thank you for agreeing to receive us," Lennox said. His tone was civil but carried no warmth — the verbal equivalent of a closed door.
"Ha-ha! What are you saying? No need to thank me — no need at all!"
Lord Akitas seemed entirely unbothered by the indifference. He beamed as though greeting a beloved nephew and clasped his hands together.
"You can stay here as long as you wish. As *long* as you wish! So please, don't worry about a thing."
He cast a quick, pointed glance at the vassals lingering near the walls — *Are you watching? Are you seeing who has come to visit me?* — then swept forward and took Lennox by the arm.
"Well then, my dear guest, come with me. I've already arranged refreshments."
What followed was a tour.
Lord Akitas personally led their small procession through nearly every corridor, gallery, and antechamber the palace had to offer. He narrated as they walked — pointing out tapestries, ancestral portraits, and architectural details with the enthusiasm of a man who had been waiting a very long time for someone worth showing them to.
His true audience, of course, was not Lennox. It was the trail of vassals following at a respectful distance, watching their lord walk arm-in-arm with the ruler of the North.
Eventually, they descended to a lower floor and entered a banquet hall.
The room was large and lavishly appointed in a way that suggested wealth rather than taste. The furniture was heavy, ornate, and slightly mismatched. A long table ran the length of the hall, laden with dishes that gleamed under the candlelight — roasted meats, jewel-bright fruits, pastries arranged in ambitious towers. Clearly, no expense had been spared.
The moment the doors opened and the assembled guests caught sight of the party entering — the lord, his vassals, and the tall, dark-haired figure walking between two armed knights — every person in the room rose to their feet. The scrape of chairs echoed off the vaulted ceiling like a small volley of gunfire.
The atmosphere was taut. Nervous. The kind of tension that arises when people realize they are standing in the presence of someone whose reputation precedes them by several miles.
Hardin, whose expression rarely shifted beyond varying degrees of neutral, showed no reaction. Jude, however, let out a low, quiet whistle — and immediately caught his master's eye.
Lord Akitas's intentions were transparent. He wanted to parade his friendship with the Duke of Carlisle before every vassal, ally, and hanger-on in attendance. He wanted them to see him seated beside the most powerful man in the North, speaking to him as an equal, treating him as a guest of honor.
*Unfortunately, that was the only thing the old man had left to boast about.*
Jude felt a flicker of pity. He knew his master. Lennox Carlisle despised being used as a prop in other men's performances. On any ordinary day, the Duke would have made his displeasure known with a single look — the kind that made seasoned generals reconsider their life choices.
But today, to Jude's considerable surprise, Lennox simply sat down beside Lord Akitas without a word.
Jude and Hardin exchanged a glance — the briefest possible acknowledgment of mutual bewilderment — and took their own seats. It was, Jude reflected, possibly the first time in his years of service that he had been rendered genuinely speechless.
*What are you planning?*
The musicians began to play at the lord's signal. Servants glided between the chairs, filling cups with wine the color of dark garnets. The banquet stirred to life around them, cautiously at first, then with growing confidence as the alcohol took hold and the presence of the Duke became, if not comfortable, at least familiar.
A few moments passed in relative ease. Then Lord Akitas, who had been drinking steadily and smiling broadly, placed a paternal hand on Lennox's shoulder.
"Your late father and I knew each other very well, you know," he said warmly. "So please — feel free to think of me as a father."
Lennox knew with absolute certainty that if his father had lived, the man would never have willingly associated with someone like Robert Akitas. But he saw no profit in saying so.
He lifted his cup and drank.
"*Ahem.*"
A deliberate cough from further down the table. A middle-aged man with sharp eyes and a carefully composed expression was trying to catch the lord's attention.
"Oh! Yes, of course." Lord Akitas clapped a hand to his forehead. "Forgive me — there was someone I wanted to introduce to you."
The man who had coughed rose from his chair and stepped forward with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to performing confidence.
"It is a great honor to meet you, Your Grace." He bowed — not too deep, not too shallow. Calculated. "I am Viscount Cayman. Head of the Red Chariot Merchant Guild."
---
Cayman was an ambitious man.
Ambitious enough to spend years cultivating the favor of a great lord he privately considered a senile relic. Ambitious enough to fund that cultivation through enterprises that would see him hanged in any other province of the empire.
The rare creatures captured from the Sacred Forest and sold to fighting arenas. The children of the subraces, drugged and caged and auctioned to collectors who preferred their possessions exotic and silent. All of it generated enormous revenue for the Red Chariot Guild — and a generous portion of that revenue flowed directly into the coffers of Robert Akitas.
The slave trade was illegal under imperial law. But in the East, imperial law was a suggestion, not a commandment. And the Great Lord of Aquitaine — the man nominally responsible for enforcing it — simply looked the other way in exchange for gold.
Cayman had endured all of it — the flattery, the feigned deference, the indignity of bowing to a man he could have bought ten times over — because Lord Akitas was a door. And on the other side of that door stood the aristocratic world Cayman intended to enter.
Today, that door had opened wider than he'd ever imagined.
*The Duke of Carlisle.*
When Robert Akitas had first dropped the name in conversation — casually, as though mentioning the weather — Cayman had not believed him. The Carlisle family had ruled the North for a thousand years. Their current head was the youngest duke in the empire's history and the subject of rumors so extraordinary they sounded like mythology.
Wasn't this a rather impressive guest for a lord whose banner had faded to the color of old moss? If the Emperor himself had come to Aquitaine, Cayman would have been less surprised.
But here he sat. The Duke of Carlisle. In the flesh.
And after several glasses of Lord Akitas's admittedly excellent wine, the initial awe had begun to curdle into something else entirely.
*These are the grandiose rumors everyone whispers about? This is the man they call a legend?*
Cayman studied him from across the table with the careful, appraising eye of a man who had spent his life evaluating merchandise.
The Duke sat with an expression of profound disinterest, as though the banquet, the music, and every person in the room were beneath his notice. He had barely touched his food. He had spoken perhaps a dozen words since sitting down. His posture radiated the kind of casual authority that Cayman associated with men who had never once in their lives been told *no.*
*This boy still has milk on his lips.*
Cayman would have guessed him at twenty-seven. Twenty-eight at the outside. If Cayman had married in his youth, his own son would be this age.
And yet.
He had to admit — grudgingly, irritably — that the young duke's appearance was difficult to dismiss. *Unforgettable* was perhaps the more honest word, though Cayman would have choked before saying it aloud. The face looked as though the Almighty had taken His time with it, lavishing attention on the architecture of the jaw, the line of the nose, the dark hair that fell just so. It was the kind of beauty that belonged on a cathedral ceiling, not a battlefield.
When Cayman had first heard the stories — the legendary feat performed just a few years ago, the battlefield command, the enemies broken and scattered — he had naturally pictured a giant. Someone towering and scarred and brutal. A man whose body was a testament to violence.
What he saw instead was elegance. The confident posture and lean, athletic build spoke of years of disciplined swordsmanship, yes — but the overwhelming impression was one of refinement. Of aristocratic grace so polished it was almost offensive.
And then there were the eyes.
*Red.*
Not brown. Not amber. Red — the deep, arterial crimson of something that should not exist in a human face. They didn't match the beauty at all. They looked, Cayman thought with a faint chill he immediately suppressed, ***terrifying.***
He shook off the feeling and reached for his cup.
*So this is the great Duke of Carlisle.*
But it was the final detail that truly ignited Cayman's contempt.
The Duke carried no sword.
A knight without his blade. The very symbol of his station, his honor, his purpose — absent. Only his two companions were armed: the stern, silent one with the commander's bearing, and the younger one who had whistled when they entered. The Duke himself sat unarmed, as though weaponry were beneath him.
*A pampered young lord who keeps away from the sword because it's too heavy for his pretty hands.*
Cayman had bought his own title of nobility, as had countless other new aristocrats in the East — men who had clawed their way up from nothing through trade, cunning, and sheer ruthlessness. The East was a land where powerful guilds held more sway than the emperor's edicts, and Cayman took fierce pride in having survived — no, *thrived* — in such a place.
He admired the nobility more than anyone. And he hated them more than anyone.
It was the same contradiction he felt toward Lord Akitas. The Akitas family may have once ruled the East with an iron fist, but now they sold knighthoods to anyone who could pay. The blue blood thinned. The iron rusted. In the end, the old aristocracy crumbled before the same forces they had always claimed to be above.
*Money. Power. These are the only things that last.*
And if that was true, then wasn't it better to have built everything from nothing — through one's own strength — rather than inheriting it like a gift?
*This boy is no different.*
The thought settled into Cayman's mind with the warm certainty of conviction, aided considerably by the wine. A noble-born heir with a fortunate pedigree and a handsome face. A young duke who had simply appropriated his subordinates' achievements. Whose well-manicured hands had likely never touched a drop of blood.
Cayman's lip curled into a thin, contemptuous smile.
And then Lennox Carlisle turned his red eyes directly toward him.
The smile died.
It was not a glance. It was not a casual shift of attention. It was the sudden, focused gaze of something that had been aware of him the entire time — watching, measuring, cataloguing — and had only now chosen to let him know it.
Cayman felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. His stomach clenched as though he'd been struck. He fought to keep his expression neutral, but something deep in the animal part of his brain sent a single, screaming message:
***Do not move.***
The moment passed. Lennox looked away.
Cayman exhaled — silently, carefully — and reached for his wine with a hand that was not quite steady.
---
Lord Akitas, by this point well into his cups, leaned over and addressed him with the conspiratorial cheerfulness of the thoroughly drunk.
"Oh, Sir Cayman! As I recall, members of your guild are currently searching for someone here in Aquitaine, aren't they?"
Cayman stiffened. "Oh — yes, that's true. But it's nothing worth troubling yourself over, my lord. Ha-ha."
If the conversation turned to the search for the summoner, it would inevitably lead to questions about *what* she had interfered with — and that trail led straight to the illegally captured werewolf. The last thing Cayman wanted was to discuss his most incriminating enterprise in front of the Duke of the North.
He tried to redirect. A wave of the hand. A dismissive laugh.
But Lord Akitas, whose judgment had dissolved several glasses ago, was oblivious.
"No, no — tell me what's going on! Perhaps I can help! That's what friends are for, isn't it?"
The old lord was performing again — desperate to demonstrate his authority, his generosity, his *usefulness* in front of the young duke. He had no intention of letting the subject drop.
Cayman's jaw tightened. He had no choice.
"It's nothing terrible, my lord," he said, forcing an ingratiating smile. "It's simply that during a recent transport of guild merchandise, a woman appeared and… interfered with the delivery."
Lord Akitas clicked his tongue sympathetically. "How unfortunate! She must be quite extraordinary if she was able to disrupt your operations. Have you caught her yet?"
"Not yet, but you needn't worry, Great Lord. Who would do business with me if I couldn't guarantee the safety of my clients' goods? Anyone who touches what belongs to my patrons pays dearly."
Robert Akitas, buoyed by the flattery and the wine, puffed out his chest.
"No, no — I won't stand for it! If it's your business, then it's *my* business too. Whatever you need — men, resources — you have only to ask!"
"You're too generous, my lord. But truly, it's only a matter of time. She's not an ordinary woman, which makes her easier to track, not harder."
"Not ordinary?" Lord Akitas leaned forward, his watery eyes bright with curiosity. "What do you mean?"
Cayman hesitated.
But he could feel the attention of the room gathering around him — the vassals, the minor lords, the servants frozen mid-pour. Every face turned his way. Every ear tuned to his voice.
Every face *except* the Duke's, who sat with the same bored, distant expression he'd worn all evening.
The inattention stung. And the wine whispered that this was an opportunity.
*Let them see that you are a man of consequence. Let them see that even strange and dangerous things fall within your reach.*
"This woman," Cayman said, straightening in his chair, "uses a rare form of dark sorcery. It's only a matter of time before we find her."
"Dark sorcery?" Lord Akitas's eyebrows climbed. "What kind?"
"She is…" Cayman paused for effect, savoring the room's attention. "According to reports, she is the master of a demon from another world. One that manifests in the form of a butterfly."
"**!**"
The reaction was immediate — and far larger than he'd expected.
Not only did the other guests in the banquet hall stir and murmur, but the Duke's two companions — the ones who had sat in stone-faced silence throughout the entire meal — looked up sharply. The stern commander's eyes narrowed. The younger one's hand stopped halfway to his cup.
Cayman, mistaking the sudden tension for admiration, assumed an air of authority.
"I don't know if you're aware of this, Your Grace," he said, directing his words toward Lennox with a confidence that the wine had made possible, "but identifying a demon contractor in the East isn't particularly difficult. They leave traces. They draw attention. They can't help it."
In truth, Cayman had encountered such individuals exactly twice in his entire life. But that detail seemed unimportant at the moment.
Baron Khilben, who had been seated further down the table waiting for precisely this opportunity, leaned forward eagerly.
"I even have a detailed physical description of the woman, my lord. Her appearance is quite distinctive. Finding her won't take long."
"Exactly!" Cayman spread his hands, warming to his own performance. "Wherever she might be hiding in the eastern territories, she's already practically in my grasp!"
Lord Akitas, delighted by the spectacle, raised his glass in approval. Several vassals followed suit.
And then —
"You said *demon possessor?*"
The temperature in the room dropped.
Not gradually. Not subtly. The air itself seemed to contract, as though the walls had drawn closer and the ceiling had lowered by a foot. The candle flames along the table bent sideways — all of them, in the same direction — and then steadied, burning thin and pale.
The Duke of Carlisle, who had sat in silence through the entire banquet — who had shown no interest in the food, the wine, the music, the lord, or any person in the hall — turned his full attention to Viscount Cayman for the second time that evening.
But this was nothing like the first.
His red eyes were *alive* now. Bright and focused and burning with something that Cayman, in his wine-addled state, could not immediately name.
It was not anger. It was not threat.
It was ***interest.***
And somehow, that was worse.