The hall below shimmered like a sea of jewels spilled across marble. Music swelled, violins and flutes weaving their bright deception, while chandeliers dripped golden fire over noble heads. Perfume and sweat mingled with roasted meats, a sweetness turned faintly sour, the kind of excess that clung to the skin long after the feast was over.
Above it all, leaning against the stone balustrade of the gallery, Aiden held his silence. His chest still smoldered from the memory of Lilith’s claws, her laughter woven into the marrow of his bones. He had wanted distance—from the saintess, from prophecy, from everything. But distance was an illusion. The world had a way of drawing him into its snare.
"Why is it," came the voice at his back, "that you are not tainted?"
Aiden froze.
The voice was smooth, heavy, like velvet dragged across a blade. He turned, golden eyes catching the gleam of torchlight—and found himself staring into the pale, sharp gaze of the Duke.
The man was bald, his skull gleaming like polished ivory beneath the chandeliers. His frame radiated quiet strength, not the muscle of a warrior but the contained violence of a predator who did not need to strike often to remind the world of his power.
And beneath it, suffusing every breath, every glance, lay the unmistakable stench of corruption. The Duke did not hide it. The Devourer’s mark bled from him like smoke from a furnace.
Aiden said nothing. His throat felt as though invisible fingers had closed around it.
The Duke tilted his head, studying him. "I asked you a question."
Still, silence. Words would betray him. Words always did.
The Duke’s lips curved faintly, a sigh escaping as he stepped forward. He moved to Aiden’s side, shoulder to shoulder, and leaned against the same balustrade.
Together they looked down upon the hall of nobles swirling beneath.
"It is a fine spot you’ve chosen," the Duke murmured. His voice had softened, almost companionable, as though they were equals admiring art. "From here, one can see everything. The angles of power. The flaws in masks. The desperation painted in every smile. Sublime, is it not?"
Aiden’s fingers curled against the stone. He forced himself to exhale slowly, to let his heartbeat fall in line with the rhythm of the violins. "Yes," he said at last, voice thin, carefully measured. "The view is... sublime."
The Duke chuckled, deep in his throat. "So calm. So agreeable." His pale eyes slid toward him, sharp as knives. "Do you think that will keep you safe?"
Aiden’s mouth dried. Every instinct screamed to retreat, yet his body was bound by stillness.
He could feel the weight of the man’s mana pressing against him—the raw pressure of lineage, of ancient blood and ancient contracts.
The famed telekinesis of the Merlin fief lingered in the air like an invisible blade, ready to snap his bones with a thought.
If the Duke so much as sniffed displeasure, Aiden could be ended where he stood.
The Duke breathed deeply, inhaling the perfume-laden air. Then, casually, as though remarking on the weather: "I sense something inside you. A hunger. A stench that should be ... not normal."
The words slid like ice down Aiden’s spine.
He said nothing. His lips pressed together, the weight of silence his only shield.
The Duke’s smile grew thin. "No answer?"
He placed a heavy hand on Aiden’s shoulder. The touch was firm, then firmer still, until Aiden could feel his bones protest beneath it.
"Tell me," the Duke said, his tone deceptively soft, "how does it feel to be a knight?"
The question was ordinary on its surface. But beneath, Aiden heard the snarl of accusation.
He forced his mouth to move. "It is... my honor." He tried for a smile, humble, meek, the kind of expression a lesser noble might wear before a predator.
But the muscles in his face betrayed him, the smile trembling, stretched too thin.
The Duke’s laughter was sudden, sharp. "Augustus was right," he said, almost to himself. "This knight wields words more deftly than the sword."
Then his grip on Aiden’s shoulder tightened until fire lanced down his arm. Aiden grit his teeth.
"Do not act," the Duke whispered. "Your words may fool the viscount. They do not fool me. I saw your eyes before I came. Looking down on them all, as if you were not one of them. As if you stood above."
His breath brushed Aiden’s ear. "I like that."
Aiden swallowed, throat working painfully. His whole body trembled under the pressure, a silent war between pride and survival.
Lilith’s absence left him exposed, hollow, raw. He could feel the emptiness gnawing, and the Duke was circling it, scenting it.
"Be more honest with me," the Duke murmured, his hand pressing harder still.
Aiden’s vision blurred at the edges. Panic coiled, hot and bitter, but so too did something colder—resolve. He knew one truth: bluff or die.
He forced himself to nod. "I could... be more honest." His voice was hoarse, barely audible. Then, carefully, "But not here. Not with so many ears."
The Duke’s eyes gleamed.
"Ah," he breathed. "Prudent."
He clapped his hands once.
The sound was crisp, sharp as a blade’s edge.
And then—silence.
The air shifted. Aiden blinked, realizing with horror that the faint presences he had dismissed—shadows in corners, the subtle pressure of watching eyes—were gone. Vanished.
He had not even known they were there. Guards. Assassins. Witnesses. All erased with a single gesture.
The Duke smiled, spreading his hands to indicate the empty gallery. "There. Privacy."
Aiden’s mouth went dry. He had asked for a room. Instead, he had been stripped of escape.
The Duke leaned in once more, voice a whisper of steel. "Now. Speak."
Aiden’s mind raced. He could not tell the truth—not fully. But lies had weight, and too heavy a lie could crush him. He needed balance. A thread of truth to anchor the deception.
"I..." He drew a breath, steadying. "I am the same as you."
The words hung in the air, stark, echoing, laden with a hundred interpretations.
The Duke’s gaze sharpened. "The same?"
Aiden nodded, heart hammering. "The beckoning." His tone was steady now, the lie folded into truth. "It calls to me... as it calls to you."
The Duke’s hand stilled on his shoulder. For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then—slowly—the Duke’s lips curled. Not in mockery, not in derision, but in something far more dangerous. Interest.
The conversation might have ended there. But the Duke was not a man who accepted answers without peeling them open.
"Tell me," he said, voice dropping, almost intimate. "What does it whisper to you, this beckoning? What do you crave?"
Aiden’s chest clenched.
He met the Duke’s gaze, steady despite the war in his veins. "It whispers... sinful hunger."
The Duke’s smile widened. "Ah. Then you do understand."
His hand finally released Aiden’s shoulder. The sudden absence of pressure made him stagger, though he caught himself before falling. He flexed his fingers, blood returning in painful tingles.
The Duke turned back toward the hall below, his eyes sweeping over the oblivious nobles. "They do not hear it. Not yet. But soon they will. Hunger spreads. Hunger consumes. And those who resist..." His mouth twitched. "Break."
Aiden swallowed hard, forcing himself to mirror the gesture, leaning on the balustrade as if he too surveyed the world with cold superiority.
Inside, his heart thundered.
Had he convinced him? Or had he only painted a larger target on his back?
The Duke breathed deep, a satisfied sound, and his gaze lingered on the swirling crowd below. "Yes," he murmured. "You may yet prove... useful."
The words sank into Aiden like a brand. Like a labelled mark. A mark on him.