The next hour was an exercise in social torture as far as Jaenor was concerned. He was paraded through introduction after introduction, each noble more insufferable than the last. Their names blurred together—Lord This, Lady That, Sir Someone Else—but their attitudes were consistent: barely concealed contempt mixed with fascination.

It was during the third such introduction that the first direct barb landed.

“So this is Morgana’s… companion,” said Lord Hextor, a portly man in his fifties with a florid face and small, mean eyes. He looked Jaenor up and down as if examining a horse of questionable breeding.

“Tell me, boy, what exactly do you… assist with?”

The emphasis was deliberate, and the small crowd that had gathered around them tittered. Jaenor met the man’s gaze steadily and said nothing.

“Cat got your tongue?” Hextor pressed, emboldened by the audience.

“Or perhaps Lady Morgana prefers her companions seen and not heard?”

More laughter, louder now.

Morgana’s expression never changed, but Jaenor felt the temperature around them drop several degrees. “Lord Hextor, I see your wit has aged about as well as your waistline. Which is to say, poorly.”

The laughter shifted direction immediately, now targeting Hextor, whose face went from florid to purple. But before he could sputter a response, another voice cut through the crowd.

“Now, now, let’s not be unkind. The boy is simply overwhelmed, I’m sure.”

The speaker was a young man, perhaps twenty-five, with the kind of aristocratic handsomeness that came from generations of selective cultivation. His hair was golden, his features were sharp and regular, and his clothing was expensive enough to feed a village for a month.

He moved through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who’d never been denied anything in his life.

Lord Caelum, Jaenor recalled from Morgana’s briefing. Heir to one of the wealthiest houses in the realm, notorious swordsman, and perpetual thorn in the side of anyone he considered beneath him—which was nearly everyone.

“After all,” Caelum continued, stopping directly in front of Jaenor, “it must be quite intimidating for a… what was it? Stablehand? Merchant’s son? to find himself suddenly among actual nobility.” His smile was sharp as a blade.

“Tell me, Morgana, where did you find this one? I’m always curious about your… procurement methods.”

The insult was so blatant, so calculated, that even some of the hostile nobles looked uncomfortable. But Caelum simply stood there, radiating smug superiority, waiting for a reaction.

Jaenor looked at him.

Really looked at him, his grey eyes moving from Caelum’s perfectly coiffed hair down to his expensive boots and back up again. The scrutiny was thorough, almost clinical, and when Jaenor’s gaze finally returned to Caelum’s face, there was the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.

“I find him adequate,” Morgana said coldly, her voice cutting through the tension.

“Which is more than I can say for most of the fops preening about this hall. At least he knows when silence is preferable to idiocy.”

“Adequate,” Caelum repeated, as if tasting the word.

“Damning with faint praise, surely. But then, I suppose, when one’s standards are… flexible… adequate becomes acceptable.”

He leaned closer to Jaenor, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that half the hall could hear. “Tell me, boy, does she at least pay you well?”

“Or are her cunt juices enough for your payment?”

The crowd held its collective breath.

This had gone beyond the bounds of acceptable insult, even for the often-cruel world of noble society. Morgana’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on her gown, and Jaenor could feel power beginning to gather around her like a building storm.

But before she could respond, Jaenor spoke.

“Your boots,” he said quietly, his voice flat and conversational.

“They’re new. Expensive. Probably commissioned from some famous ones.”

Caelum blinked, thrown completely off balance by the non sequitur. “What?”

“But they don’t fit quite right,” Jaenor continued, his gaze dropping back to Caelum’s feet.

“Half a size too small, I’d guess. You’re probably developing blisters. Which means either your pride wouldn’t let you admit the bootmaker got the measurements wrong, or…” he looked back up, meeting Caelum’s eyes, “your feet are swelling. Possibly from gout.”

The color drained from Caelum’s face.

Around them, the crowd had gone absolutely silent.

Morgana’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly—the closest she ever came to an actual smile of genuine amusement.

“How dare you—” Caelum began, his voice shaking with rage.

“Gout,” Jaenor continued in that same flat tone, as if cataloging observations about the weather, “tends to strike those who overindulge in rich foods and wine. Particularly those with hereditary predisposition. You might want to have a physician examine you. Early treatment can slow the progression.”

He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Of course, that would require admitting weakness, which I suspect you’d rather die than do. So by all means, continue as you are. I’m sure it will work out well.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Then, from somewhere in the crowd, someone snorted—a quickly suppressed laugh that sparked others. Within seconds, the entire group was fighting to contain their amusement, and Caelum stood frozen, his face cycling through shades of red and white as he struggled to find a response that wouldn’t make things worse.

He failed.

“You… you peasant,” he managed finally, his voice tight. “I’ll have you thrown out of this castle. I’ll have you flogged for your insolence!”

“No,” said a new voice, carrying absolute authority.

“You won’t.”

Baron Roland had approached during the confrontation, and now he stood with his arms crossed, his expression carefully neutral.

“Lord Caelum, you’ve been drinking since midday and have insulted not only my guest but also her companion in my own hall. I suggest you retire to your quarters to… compose yourself.”

It was a command wrapped in polite suggestion, and everyone present knew it. Caelum looked between Roland, Morgana, and Jaenor, his jaw working as he tried to salvage some dignity from the situation.

“This isn’t over,” he said finally, directing the comment at Jaenor.

Then he turned and stalked from the hall, his expensive new boots clicking against the stone floor with each step.

The crowd dispersed rapidly after that, conversations resuming but now with a new topic: the mysterious young man who’d just humiliated one of the realm’s most dangerous nobles with nothing more than careful observation and brutal honesty.

Baron Roland turned to Morgana, his expression unreadable. “Your… boy has an interesting way with words.”

“He has an interesting way with observations,” Morgana corrected.

“A useful skill, wouldn’t you say?”

“Potentially. Also potentially dangerous.” Roland’s gaze shifted to Jaenor.

“Young man, you’ve made an enemy today. Caelum doesn’t forget insults, and he’s killed three men in duels over matters less serious than what just occurred.”

Jaenor met his gaze steadily.

“He insulted My Lady. That seemed more serious.”

For a moment, Roland simply stared at him.

Then he laughed, a genuine bark of amusement. “Well then. Perhaps there’s more to you than pretty eyes and silence after all.”

He clapped Jaenor on the shoulder. “Try not to get killed before the ball actually begins, eh? It would reflect poorly on my hospitality.”

As the baron moved away to attend to other matters, Morgana leaned close to Jaenor, her voice pitched for his ears alone.

“That was either brilliantly calculated or phenomenally stupid.”

“Maybe both,” Jaenor replied quietly.

“His boots really were too small, though.”

“I don’t doubt it. Your eye for detail has always been unnervingly sharp.”

She paused.

“But now Caelum will be watching you, and he has friends. Wealthy, influential friends who won’t appreciate a nobody humiliating one of their own.”

“Good. Let them watch. Maybe they’ll learn something.”

Morgana shook her head, though that faint amusement still lingered in her eyes. “You really are impossible. Come, let’s find our quarters before you start a war in the great hall.”

As they walked, Jaenor was acutely aware of the eyes following them—some hostile, some curious, others calculating. The ball hadn’t even begun, and already he’d painted a target on his back.

But as he’d caught glimpses of several noble ladies watching him with newfound interest after the confrontation, their gazes lingering longer than propriety allowed, he decided it might not be entirely unpleasant.

This was going to be an interesting few days.

Jaenor’s gaze swept the hall, lingering on the nobles as they prattled and preened. He couldn’t abide them running their mouths — not when she was his family. No matter the differences, no matter the old grudges, no one outside would dare insult her.

A heat of irritation curled in his chest, the urge to strike, to punch a few of these pompous fools, simmering pleasantly.

Yet something else caught his eye — Baron and his wife were staring at his aunt as though she were a feast laid bare, and the other men in the hall didn’t even bother hiding their lust.

A dry chuckle escaped him.

How odd, he thought, judging them with a roguish grin, when he himself had no shortage of… appetites. Married women, mature women, women with the sharpness and fire to match their beauty — he had never been shy about admitting his tastes.

Still, the difference was clear: he could want, he could lust, but he would never allow anyone to dare disrespect his family.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep