The young man walked with steady steps, though a displeased smile still lingered on his face, one he couldn’t completely hide. If it weren’t for his father’s strict orders to maintain decorum and avoid causing a scene, he would’ve already ended that insolent servant right then and there. Disgraceful. To him, there was nothing more disgusting than a commoner who didn’t know their place.

He was Darien Blackthorn, the pride of House Blackthorn, one of the old names that once stood equal to House Rathsture in the past. Darien had been raised to believe that his blood was purer, his honor higher, and therefore… his words should never be challenged.

And now? A filthy servant had dared to meet his gaze without flinching. The world truly was descending into barbarity.

Along a cobbled path still slick with morning dew, Darien came to a sudden stop.

Someone was approaching from the opposite direction.

Her steps were graceful, her posture calm, and her face… breathtakingly beautiful.

Lyanna Rathsture.

Darien quickly adjusted his expression. His sneer turned into a courteous, measured smile. He gave a slight bow, adhering to etiquette.

“Good morning, Lady Lyanna,” he said smoothly. “It seems the morning mist is no match for your beauty.”

Lyanna, who had spotted him from a distance, held her breath briefly before replying.

She knew exactly who Darien was. The son of Count Blackthorn, whose mouth was sharper than his mind. But since he was a guest of the household, she responded politely, though her expression remained unmoved.

“Good morning, Young Lord Darien,” she replied flatly. “I hope you enjoy your time in our estate.”

Darien smiled wider upon hearing her voice. His eyes quickly traced her honey-brown hair, the pale smoothness of her skin, and the way she carried herself with effortless confidence.

“I was heading to the garden,” he said casually. “Perhaps… you’d join me for tea? Just for a while.”

Lyanna turned her head slightly. Her gaze remained polite, but cold.

“Apologies. I have lessons with Madame Halberd this morning. I’d rather not be late.”

She gave a small bow and turned, continuing her walk without haste.

But before she could get too far, Darien’s voice came again from behind.

“Lady Lyanna… you shouldn’t be so cold to me. After all, we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other from now on, won’t we?”

Lyanna nearly stopped, but didn’t. She fought the urge to turn and say something, choosing instead to walk on.

Her face remained blank, as if she hadn’t heard a word.

Because if she answered… she might actually throw up on the spot.

Darien stood there for a moment, watching her retreating figure with a thin, dangerous smile of ambition.

“One day…” he muttered under his breath, barely audible, “you’ll submit too.”

He resumed walking, this time with a clear destination.

At the end of the curved stone corridor stood a large wooden door, guarded by a single soldier in a silver uniform. The man stood tall and unmoving as Darien approached.

“My name is Darien Blackthorn,” Darien said firmly, with the commanding tone of a noble used to giving orders. “I wish to speak with my father, Daxon Blackthorn, and Marquess Rathsture, who are currently inside.”

The guard gave a small nod. He turned, knocked twice on the door with his gloved knuckles, then called out:

“Young Lord Darien Blackthorn requests entry, my Lord!”

A few seconds of silence passed before a voice answered from within—deep, calm, and unmistakably granting permission.

“Let him in.”

With swift but courteous movement, the guard opened the door. Darien stepped inside without hesitation.

The room was wide and quiet, its walls of stone adorned with high windows and long curtains. A long table of dark wood stood in the center. At the far end, Aiden Rathsture sat upright, dressed in a somber-colored coat bearing his family crest on the chest. Opposite him sat Daxon Blackthorn, Darien’s father, whose sharp gaze immediately shifted toward his son.

“Darien,” Daxon said with a thin smile. “Perfect timing. Sit. You’ve arrived at an important moment.”

Without a word, Darien took the empty chair beside his father, leaning forward slightly to catch the flow of conversation.

Daxon continued, now speaking in a more formal tone laced with personal pride.

“Lord Rathsture, allow me to introduce my son… Darien. He has awakened his abilities and will soon reach the level of a Marked Soul. His training has been exceptional, and his potential… even greater than mine at his age.”

Aiden turned his gaze to Darien, offering a brief nod. “Congratulations, young Lord Blackthorn. That is no small feat.”

Daxon grinned, reclining slightly in his chair. “With such potential, I believe… he would be a fine match for your daughter, Lyanna. After all, if I’m not mistaken, she’s at the age where such matters should be considered.”

Aiden paused for a moment. His expression remained unchanged, but there was a subtle frost in his tone when he replied.

“That is Lyanna’s decision,” he said calmly. “As her father, it’s not my role to command. But to guide, and to trust her.”

That response made Daxon’s smile falter slightly, replaced by a short laugh that wasn’t quite warm.

“Since when do noble daughters get to choose in matters like this?” he asked, his tone dripping with thinly veiled condescension. “We are the heads of our families, Marquess. We decide. Our children… follow.”

Darien said nothing. But from the corner of his eye, he closely watched Aiden’s reactions, searching for any crack or sign he could exploit later.

Daxon met Aiden’s stare with his usual calm. But there was a new weight in his voice now—something firmer, unyielding.

“Times are changing, Marquess. The families that survive… are not the ones that cling the hardest, but the ones that adapt.”

Silence briefly settled over the room.

Daxon leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers interlaced atop the table, his gaze fixed intently on Aiden with a seemingly composed but calculating smile.

“Lord Rathsture,” he began again, voice lower and firmer now, “you and I both know the capital’s situation is… unstable. Ever since the Mad Queen vanished or… as many suspect, was killed in one of Mordune’s traps. The balance of power has begun to shift.”

Aiden said nothing, merely swirling his teacup slowly in one hand. Daxon went on, his tone wrapped in concern but lined with subtle menace.

“And as a family known to be loyal to the Queen’s faction, you and House Rathsture are in a precarious position. Those who resent the Queen… are beginning to circle. They’re digging. Looking for any excuse to bring you down.”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes serious.

“That’s why, Lord Rathsture… let me offer you a hand. As someone from the Nobles’ Faction, I can give you protection. And a marriage between our children would solidify that alliance. You know full well, if Lyanna becomes part of House Blackthorn, no one would dare touch you without touching us.”

Aiden raised an eyebrow slowly, taking a sip from his cup without a word. Inside, he could barely suppress a laugh.

The Mad Queen… dead? he thought. If only this man knew the very woman he insulted is here, under this very roof… he’d swallow every word and wet himself in fear.

But Aiden’s face remained still, nearly expressionless.

He understood well that the current government was divided into three major factions: the Queen’s Faction, the Nobles’ Faction, and the Neutral Faction. The Nobles’ Faction, from which Daxon hailed, had long been filled with greedy men too cowardly to live in the shadow of the Queen. Even when she ruled, they had only ever bowed in silence. And now, with rumors of her disappearance spreading, the rats were emerging from their holes, preaching with polished smiles like this one.

“Your offer… is intriguing,” Aiden said finally, setting his cup down with quiet deliberation. “You offer protection in exchange for a simple favor. But…”

He looked Daxon straight in the eye, and for the first time, a thin, unfamiliar smile curled on his lips.

“Aren’t you a bit too confident, Count, calling yourself ‘protection’?”

Daxon frowned, clearly displeased with the tone.

Aiden leaned back, folding his arms across his chest.

“And as for Lyanna…” he exhaled quietly. “She’s not just a political asset. I know that’s not a common view among your faction… but she’s not a chess piece I move at will.”

A pause fell. Daxon’s eyes narrowed slightly, barely hiding his annoyance.

Aiden, meanwhile, thought carefully. How to send this man away without making him bark? If he rejected too harshly, the other nobles would scent blood. But if he was too soft… Daxon would return again and again like a fly drawn to rot.

Meanwhile, Darien remained silent, his gaze flitting between his father and Aiden. He hadn’t spoken, but his pride was beginning to itch.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep