Chapter Text
The party in the Palazzo Davinos was suffocating.
Music drifted through its gilded halls, mingling with the murmur of polite conversation and the clink of crystal glasses. The air smelled of expensive perfume and spiced wine, and Julien found it all unbearable.
He was standing alone in the darkest corner of the reception hall, as far from Lady Royce and her newly returned husband as he could manage.
The sight was strange enough to draw attention.
Usually, the knight never strayed far from her side. Over the years, everyone had grown accustomed to seeing him trailing after her like a silent shadow, ever present and fiercely devoted. Now, nobles and servants alike were stealing glances in his direction, their curiosity barely concealed.
He could also hear the whispers around him.
Poor thing, he always did worship her.
I suppose the husband's return has put him back in his place.
Jealousy is an ugly look on anyone.
But Julien ignored them easily. Instead, he studied the room, his gaze lingering on the new Lord Tachonis.
A few weeks earlier, House Tachonis had been wiped from Aramán in a single night, and every last member of the deranged bloodline had been butchered.
No one knew who—or what—had been powerful enough to commit such a slaughter. Some claimed the family had finally lost control of the undead army they had been secretly raising and that their own creations had turned upon their masters.
Others, bolder, speaking in hushed tones and only after making certain they could not be overheard, whispered of an estranged son returning to exact his vengeance.
But those stories were invariably met with scorn, since the idea that the only Tachonis born without sorcerous talent could have annihilated his entire family was laughable.
At the same time, thanks to Halandil Fang, House Tachonis's machinations with House Halovar had been dragged into the light, igniting outrage among the other Sundered Houses and fury in the streets all around the country.
To appease everyone, the Photarch had been placed under arrest and House Halovar, eager to distance itself from the scandal, had moved quickly. So Wickander Halovar had been elevated as the new Lord Halovar, inheriting a house whose name had become synonymous with treachery.
As for House Tachonis, fate seemed to possess a cruel sense of humor. The discarded son—the one cast aside for his lack of sorcerous talent—was now its sole surviving member and, by right, Lord Tachonis.
The rest of his family were probably rolling in their graves, assuming, of course, that they had stayed in them.
In the weeks that followed, the young Lord Tachonis had done the unthinkable and secured the favor of House Royce. He had advocated for the return and pardon of Lady Royce's husband and, together with Professor Muray Mag'Nesson, had devised a ritual said to reopen the long-sealed gates to the realm of the Faeries.
Though a great deal of House Royce's magic had been siphoned away to fuel the ritual, it had restored a measure of the family's former influence and returned them to the political stage.
And with the schemes of Houses Tachonis and Halovar finally brought to light, Thjazi fucking Fang had, of course, seized the opportunity to slither back into Lady Royce's good graces.
Julien's life had been a living hell ever since.
The orc had not missed a single opportunity to goad and mock him, always under the guise of humor. His faerie pet had been no better, going so far as to stab him with her little needle simply because she was bored.
Of course, neither Lady Royce nor Julien's father had done anything to discourage them. They were both far too happy to have them back.
Lord Davinos had even gone so far as to tell Julien that he should take example from the orc's courage and determination, for he had been right to stand against Houses Tachonis and Halovar.
Never mind the hypocrisy of it—condemning Julien for the very same resolve he now praised in another, and doing so without the slightest trace of shame.
Because years ago, Julien had done exactly that when he had decided to bring the bastard down.
The truth kept pressing in, unavoidable, ugly in its simplicity, and it was that Julien had lost. He could dress it up however he wanted, but it did not change what people saw now. Lady Royce did not need him, and his father despised him.
So in the end, the traitor was the winner of their little war.
Which was why Julien had planned to return to the Barrowguard by the end of the week. There, at least, he would be welcome—and appreciated. Still, the thought of being driven from his own home by Thjazi Fang left a bitter taste in his mouth.
The only reason he had not left sooner was Occtis Tachonis.
Because the younger man could play the meek scholar as much as he liked in front of the others, but the knight could see through it. There was steel beneath the softness, something coiled and controlled in those green eyes whenever they met Julien’s own.
And they met more often than they should. Often enough that it could not be coincidence, and yet never long enough to be called a stare. Just brief intersections across crowded rooms, like blades glancing off one another in passing. Julien would look away first, every time—though he could never quite decide if it was choice or instinct.
Even when he wasn’t looking at him, Julien felt it anyway. Something that lingered too long after it should have faded, like the echo of a spell that refused to fully dissipate. It should have been unsettling, but instead, it made it difficult to think in straight lines.
Occtis Tachonis was a very dangerous man, and Julien was not the only one who had noticed.
Lady Royce’s smile never quite reached her eyes when the young lord was near, as if she were measuring him rather than welcoming him. Even Taisha Lloy, who had once treated him with an easy, maternal warmth, now kept her distance—subtle, careful, deliberate.
Speaking of Lloy, the only small consolation Julien could find in all of this was that the Fang brothers were now at odds. Apparently, the bastard had suffered a serious falling-out with his brother, and the two of them were no longer on speaking terms.
From what Julien had gathered, it had something to do with the way the former criminal had treated his brother’s curator. That alone had been enough to put Halandil Fang and Bolaire Lathalia among his current list of favorite people.
Well—Julien had never truly had anything against Halandil. And, if he was being honest, it was always wise to remain in the good graces of the person who happened to supply the best drugs one could reasonably acquire in civilized society.
Besides, the two of them had proven surprisingly tolerable company on the rare occasions they had ended up retreating to the same hidden corner of a celebration as Julien. Not friends, exactly, but they managed to share an understanding of how to disappear when things around them became too much.
This time, however, Halandil’s girls were present as well—an addition requested by Lady Royce herself, who had insisted on seeing her nieces.
Speaking of Lady Royce, she was engaged in an animated discussion with her husband and Thimble. Whatever the subject was, the three of them seemed to be in complete disagreement.
The pixie looked positively delighted, no doubt encouraging her friend to do something spectacularly foolish, while his wife was clearly trying to stop him from making a mistake.
Nothing unusual there, but still, Julien found himself wondering what it was this time. Fortunately, he had his answer a moment later.
The bastard glanced toward the far side of the ballroom, where his brother stood with Bolaire, Halandil's daughters gathered around them, and there was longing in his eyes.
Julien could not help but smirk behind the rim of his glass. Served him right.
What he had not anticipated was that the orc had apparently drunk a little too much, enough to make him even bolder than usual. Ignoring his wife's increasingly desperate attempts to stop him—and encouraged by Thimble's barely concealed excitement—he started toward the group with determined strides.
That would not do. Julien would not let him harass the only people at these miserable gatherings whose company he could still tolerate. And if someone had to make a scene? Well, Julien was rather experienced at that by now.
As he approached, the knight saw Halandil getting nervous at the sight of his brother coming their way. Beside him, Bolaire placed a calming hand on his arm, but the curator's posture left little doubt—he was ready to step in and defend the family at his side at a moment's notice.
With feigned nonchalance, Julien stepped into Thjazi's path. "Fang," he said lightly, lifting his glass. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Get out of the way, pup." the orc growled. And really, wasn't that a little ironic?
Still, Julien couldn't help but grit his teeth at the nickname, though he bit back the retort that sprang to mind. This wasn't about him.
"Sorry," he replied pleasantly. "Can't do that."
Thjazi looked very much like he was about to remove him from his path by force when someone crashed into his side, nearly sending both of them sprawling to the floor. Only the orc's quick reflexes prevented it.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, Thjazi!" An obviously tipsy Occtis Tachonis looked up at them with wide, apologetic eyes, a drink in one hand and a half-eaten appetizer in the other. "I think Lord Davinos was looking for you," he said, words slightly slurred. "You should probably not keep him waiting."
It was not a suggestion.
Julien could hear it beneath the soft, drunken drawl, sharp as a knife hidden beneath velvet. And, judging by the way the orc's expression darkened, Thjazi heard it too—even through the haze of drink.
"Of course. See you later, Occtis." And without another glance at Julien, Thjazi turned and headed toward General Davinos.
After exchanging a brief nod with Halandil and Bolaire, Julien turned to return to his corner, and that was when he met the young Tachonis's gaze. But there was no trace left of the tipsy scholar who had just happened to stumble into Fang. Those green eyes were fixed on him with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
"Did you need something, Lord Tachonis?" Julien asked, suddenly uneasy.
For a long moment, the other man simply looked at him. Then, in a voice so soft Julien almost thought he had imagined it, he said, "They don't deserve you."
It took Julien a heartbeat to understand the words. And when he did, anger flared hot and immediate. "What did you just say?" he snarled, keeping his voice low enough not to draw attention.
Rather than recoil, the young lord stepped closer, crossing into Julien's personal space. "They don't deserve you," he repeated quietly. "And you don't deserve the way they treat you."
Well, to hell with discretion. The whelp had no idea what he was talking about. "I don't know who you think you are, but—"
"Before you make a scene," the wizard interrupted gently, "why don't we continue this discussion somewhere else?"
He leaned in. Not enough to touch, not quite, but close enough that Julien could feel the warmth of his breath against the shell of his ear. "In your bedroom, for example?"
Then he drew back. Not far, just enough to leave the space between them charged with something Julien could not quite name. And for the first time, the knigh was close enough to study the younger man properly.
Soft, unruly hair, sharp cheekbones, and porcelain skin that looked far too delicate. In other words, he was as gorgeous as he was dangerous. And that, more than anything, should have made Julien refuse. Instead, he heard himself say, "Of course, Lord Tachonis."
A beat passed.
"Please, follow me."