The conversation around them had gone quiet.

Nearby nobles were pretending not to listen while hanging on every word.

“That matter was resolved years ago,” Morgana said, but Jaenor could hear the tension in her voice now.

“We have suffered enough, and my house has paid enough.”

“Did they?” Lord Barda raised an eyebrow.

“I seem to recall they were quite a pair back then. Your father was a brute who spilled innocent blood, and your brother, the great warrior, as he so proclaimed himself, was revealed to be nothing more than a woman in armor playing at being a man. Quite the scandal. It dominated court gossip for months.”

Morgana flinched at his words; her face showed a mix of emotions.

Jaenor’s hands clenched into fists.

“The accusations against my father were fabricated by political rivals,” Morgana said, her voice tight. “Whatever they did, they did it for the realm and lived for the welfare of the humans to their last breath.”

“Neither deserved what was done to them.”

“Perhaps.” Lord Barda shrugged.

“And I wonder what the witch council thinks about it.”

Morgana remained silent. Jaenor could see how she was controlling herself. All the nobles were looking at them, and Jaenor looked at them, at how they were so eager to see what’s about to happen.

It’s amusing to watch someone get insulted, and people love to poke their heads into the business of others. He knew that clearly.

“But the stain remains, doesn’t it? Which is why it’s so surprising to see you here, among your betters, pretending you belong. One would think you’d have more sense than to put yourself in positions where such history can be… discussed.”

Barda wasn’t giving up.

“One would think you’d have more honor than to attack a woman over her family’s misfortunes,” Jaenor said quietly.

All eyes turned to him.

Morgana’s hand shot out and gripped his arm, a clear warning.

“Oh, the toy speaks,” Caelum said with delight.

“And defends his mistress. How touching. Tell me, boy, does she pay you by the hour or by the service?”

The laughter from Caelum’s friends was ugly.

“Maybe you should find more respectable employment,” one of them added. “I hear the stables are hiring. You’d fit right in with the other beasts of burden.”

“Yes,” Lord Barda agreed, warming to the theme.

“After all, what else is someone like you good for? You’ve no title, no lands, no reputation. You’re nothing but a pretty face keeping a disgraced woman’s bed warm. And given her family’s history—traitors and deviants—one has to wonder what sort of perversions she engages in behind closed doors.”

“Stop,” Morgana said, her voice carrying command.

“This conversation is over.”

“Is it?” Lord Barda smiled.

“I was just getting started. You see, I think it’s time someone told you the truth, Morgana. You’re not welcome in respectable society. Your family’s disgrace follows you like a shadow. The best thing you could do is retire to some distant estate, find yourself some ignorant man willing to overlook your stained reputation, and live out your days in obscurity. Or, failing that, become some lord’s concubine. At least then you’d be honest about what you are.”

“And what she is,” Caelum added, “is a woman from a family of traitors and freaks. Her father was a ruthless mutt. Her brother was neither a man nor a woman—probably sleeping with half the knights in the realm while he was at it. Is it any wonder Morgana ended up with a boy toy instead of a proper husband? She’s damaged goods, tainted by association.”

The words hung in the air like poison.

Jaenor felt something snap inside him.

It was like a dam breaking; all the control he’d been maintaining, all the careful restraint Morgana had drilled into him, just… gone.

His wine glass hit the floor and shattered.

He had been holding himself back, pretending to act as she wished it. But he didn’t care anymore, not when they were speaking such nonsense about his dead father and grandfather.

Knowing after what they did for him, Jaenor couldn’t let low-level, pea-sized-brain bastards tarnish their names.

“Jaenor, no,” Morgana said urgently, but he was already moving.

He covered the distance to Lord Barda in three strides.

The older man had just enough time to look surprised before Jaenor’s fist connected with his jaw. The crack of impact was loud in the suddenly silent ballroom. Barda staggered backward, blood spraying from his split lip.

Caelum’s friends moved to intercede, but Jaenor was faster. He grabbed the nearest one—a soft-faced youth with more money than sense—and drove his knee into the man’s stomach. As he folded forward, Jaenor brought his elbow down on the back of his neck. The youth dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

The second friend drew a decorative sword from his belt but clearly had no idea how to use it. Jaenor sidestepped his wild swing, seized his wrist, and twisted. Bones ground together, and the sword clattered to the floor.

Jaenor swept the man’s legs out from under him and left him groaning on the marble.

Barda saw how he beat them like they were nothing. He had done his part to provoke Jaenor and he wanted to leave.

Barda was trying to retreat, one hand pressed to his bleeding mouth, but Jaenor caught him by the front of his expensive coat and slammed him against the nearest pillar.

“You want to talk about my aunt?” Jaenor’s voice was low, deadly calm despite the fury burning in his chest.

“You want to insult her family? Her honor?”

He slapped him hard on his face, his cheek turning bright red in an instant.

His aura suddenly changed, and the origin energy flared up around him like a volcano. Morgana’s eyes widened, startled that he was showing himself.

“Guards!” Barda managed to croak.

“Someone call the guards!”

But no one moved.

The entire ballroom had frozen, hundreds of nobles standing transfixed by the violence unfolding before them.

Right then Roland realized what he had said.

He looked at him and muttered, “Aunt?”

The others were startled by the sudden outburst of power that no one registered what he said.

Jaenor pulled Barda forward and slammed him against the pillar again, hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Her father was a good man destroyed by those insecure women. Her brother was stronger than ten of you put together. And Morgana has more honor in her smallest finger than you have in your entire worthless body.”

He slapped him on the face, again and again. His cheeks were swollen to the point that it made his face disfigured.

He released Barda, letting him slide down the pillar, and turned to find Caelum backing away, his earlier bravado evaporated.

“You,” Jaenor said, pointing at him.

“You started this. You’ve been trying to provoke me since we arrived. So here’s your chance. Draw your sword. Let’s settle this right now.”

Caelum’s hand went to his weapon, then hesitated. His eyes darted to the watching crowd, calculating, weighing options.

“That’s what I thought,” Jaenor said with contempt.

“All talk, no spine. Typical.”

Caelum’s face went purple with rage, but instead of attacking, he turned and pushed through the crowd toward the exit. His remaining friends scrambled after him, leaving their wounded behind.

He watched Caelum leave. He didn’t go after him; he was burning with rage. He could see everybody staring at him in fear.

Jaenor stood in the center of the ballroom, his chest heaving, knuckles bleeding, surrounded by shocked nobility. They are terrified and whispering among themselves, watching the scene unfold before them.

He could feel Morgana’s presence behind him and could sense her disapproval and concern, but he didn’t care.

They had endured enough; they call them here and insult them with words and actions and don’t even care about how they feel.

“Anyone else?” He called out, his voice carrying to every corner of the vast room.

“Anyone else want to insult the woman who’s shown me nothing but kindness and respect? Anyone else want to call my family traitors and freaks?”

Silence.

Though confusion was evident on their faces.

MY?

“No? Then let me tell you all something.”

Jaenor turned slowly, making eye contact with as many people as he could.

“My name is Jaenor Arkwright. I am the last heir of the Arkwright bloodline, a house that was ancient when half of yours were still peasants scratching in the dirt. My family held lands from the Southern Reaches to the Grey Mountains. We commanded armies. Those witch council shivered at the name of Arkwright.”

He paused, letting that sink in.

Around the ballroom, faces showed shock, disbelief, completely blown away.

The Arkwrights were a legendary powerhouse who lived like the lions of the empire. After the death of all males in the family, the house had declined and its name was lost in the history of the empire.

People have forgotten the name Arkwright and the weight it holds.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep