"And I meant what I said. About knowing you better than anyone. About trust."
"I know," Jaenor said quietly.
They stayed like that for several heartbeats, the position intimate in ways that transcended the performance for Matilda’s benefit. Then Rena shifted back to her own seat.
Across the tavern, Taeryn had witnessed the entire exchange. He raised his cup in a salute to Rena, grinning wickedly, before returning his attention to the blonde woman who seemed perfectly content with his company.
Baren had dozed off slightly, his head resting against the wall, his wife’s memory temporarily giving him peace rather than pain.
And Jaenor sat with Rena, both of them nursing their drinks and processing what had just happened.
"That’s going to be all over the duchy by morning," Rena observed.
"Probably," Jaenor agreed.
"People will have opinions about the lord’s romantic entanglements."
"Definitely."
"Do you care?" Rena asked.
Jaenor considered that, then smiled.
"Not even a little bit. Let them talk. We know what matters."
Rena returned the smile, warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with wine.
They stayed at the tavern for another hour, drinking and talking and enjoying the simple pleasure of being young people in a tavern rather than soldiers preparing for war. Taeryn came back with his clothes all ruffled. The woman kept her head down as she disappeared in the crowd of the tavern.
Taeryn grinned as he made his way to the table.
Jaenor patted his shoulder, smiling at him.
-
The night air was cool as Jaenor, Rena, and Baren made their way back through Drakenten’s quiet streets toward the Arkwright estate. The alcohol had settled into a pleasant warmth, dulling the edges of reality without impairing function. Behind them, the lights of the tavern still glowed, and somewhere in the town, Taeryn was enjoying his good fortune.
The estate gates were open when they arrived, torches burning in their sconces to light the way. Guards nodded respectfully as they passed—word had clearly spread that the young lord was out drinking with his companions, and they’d been instructed not to make a fuss about his return.
But as they crossed the main courtyard, approaching the house’s entrance, Jaenor noticed something unusual.
Light spilled from the formal receiving room on the ground floor—a room that should have been dark at this hour. And through the windows, he could see figures moving inside.
"We have visitors," he observed quietly.
Taeryn’s hand moved instinctively toward his spear, warrior instincts overriding the alcohol in his system. Rena tensed as well, positioning herself slightly ahead of Jaenor in a protective stance that was probably unnecessary but deeply ingrained.
"At this hour?" she said.
"That’s either very good news or very bad news."
"Let’s find out which," Jaenor said, heading toward the entrance.
They entered the house through the main doors, boots echoing on polished stone floors. A servant appeared immediately—one of the older staff who’d been with the household for decades.
"My lord," the servant said, bowing quickly.
"You have guests. They arrived perhaps an hour ago and insisted on waiting for your return. Lady Morgana is with them in the Blue Receiving Room."
"Who are they?" Jaenor asked.
"Lord Roland Beaumont and his wife, Lady Viviannah."
Jaenor felt surprise ripple through him.
The Beaumonts.
The last time he’d seen them had been at that disastrous ball several months ago—the night he’d publicly declared himself as the Arkwright heir in their barony house. The night everything had started to unravel, he went after that young man, whom he killed in the forest.
What were they doing here?
"Thank you," Jaenor said to the servant.
"Please have refreshments sent to my friend’s room."
He turned to others and said, "You go and rest. We will talk in the morning."
"We can come," Rena said.
"They are drunk and half asleep. I will take care of this. You go ahead and rest."
Rena nodded, and others did too, and they left.
Jaenor turned to the servant and said, "And let Lady Emma know we have guests, in case she wishes to be present."
"Already done, my lord. Lady Emma is in her chambers but asked to be informed when you returned."
Efficient as always. Jaenor nodded his approval and headed toward the Blue Receiving Room.
The room was well-lit when they entered, with a fire crackling in the hearth and lamps providing additional illumination. It was decorated in comfortable elegance—blue and silver fabrics, polished wood furniture, and paintings of Arkwright ancestors on the walls.
And seated near the fire were three people.
Morgana sat in one of the high-backed chairs, looking tired but alert. She’d changed from her earlier casual clothes into more formal robes, clearly having been roused from rest when the Beaumonts arrived.
Across from her sat Roland and Viviannah Beaumont.
Lord Roland looked much as Jaenor remembered. He wore traveling clothes of good quality, though they showed signs of hard riding. His expression was complex—nervousness mixed with determination.
Lady Viviannah sat beside her husband. She was still beautiful, but it was beauty strained by stress and worry. Her clothing was similarly practical, and her hands fidgeted slightly with the fabric of her dress.
Both stood immediately when Jaenor entered, and their expressions showed genuine shock.
"Lord Jaenor," Roland said, his voice catching slightly.
"You’ve... you’ve changed."
He had, of course.
The transformation at Ki’thara had altered him in subtle but noticeable ways. His eyes held colors they hadn’t before. His presence was more substantial, as if he occupied more space than his physical form should allow. Even his movements were different, more graceful and precise.
"Roland. Lady Viviannah."
Jaenor moved into the room, gesturing for them to sit.
"This is unexpected."
"Since the disaster at our estate," Viviannah said quietly, finally finding her voice.
"Those nobles behaved rudely, and we... we did nothing to help."
She looked down at her hands, shame coloring her features.
"We’ve come to apologize. For our cowardice that night. For not standing with you when we should have. For letting fear dictate our actions."