Page 57 of Oath
Lady Marrisol sat at the centre of it all, a pale jewel draped in violet silk. Her hair gleamed in glossy curls, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. She held her glass of sugared wine delicately between painted nails, as though even lifting it was an act of theatre.
Around her, a small flock of courtiers leaned in—hungry, eager, ready to feed on whatever morsel she dropped.
“I heard,” Marrisol began, her tone light as air, though her eyes glinted, “that Lord Aerion no longer sleeps in his own chambers.”
Fans fluttered. Heads tilted closer.
“Oh?” breathed one young lord, feigning disinterest with a sip of brandy. “And where, pray, does our peacock roost?”
Marrisol’s lips curved. “In the barracks.” She let the word drip, scandal made flesh. “In a knight’s room.”
Gasps circled the salon like ripples on water.
“A knight?” another lady tittered. “Gods preserve us—why lower himself so? Unless…” Her voice trailed, teasing, inviting.
“Unless,” Marrisol echoed sweetly, drawing the word like honey, “he finds the scent of sweat and steel more comforting than silks. They say he carries wine with him, stumbles into the room at night, and collapses onto the cot like a pilgrim seeking relics.”
A hand flew to painted lips. Laughter followed, sharp and knowing.
Baron Faele leaned forward, heavy with jewels, his smile curling cruel. “I do believe our dear Aerion has found himself a hunting dog to keep him warm. Fitting, don’t you think? A peacock trailing after his hound.”
More laughter. Coy, vicious.
“They say he buries his face in the pillow,” Marrisol added, her tone rich with false innocence. “Can you imagine? Lord Valemont, the pride of court, clinging to the stench of a soldier?”
“Oh, I can,” Faele said with relish, raising his goblet. “And I daresay it suits him. Even peacocks must roost somewhere low.”
The circle dissolved into a chorus of giggles and murmurs, the scandal swelling like a tide.
But then—
The doors opened.
And Aerion stepped into the salon.
He wore black velvet cut razor-sharp, his hair pulled sleek, his eyes glittering with cold fire. The room fell silent so suddenly it was as though the storm had stepped inside. Fans stilled. Wine glasses froze halfway to lips.
“Please,” Aerion said, his smile faint, terrible. “Don’t hush on my account. I do so love to hear what rats squeak when they think the hawk’s away.”
Lady Marrisol paled, her fan trembling in her fingers. Baron Faele coughed, wine choking in his throat. The rest scattered like crows from carrion, their laughter dying in their mouths.
Aerion lingered only a heartbeat longer, his gaze cutting sharper than steel, before he moved on—leaving silence in his wake.
That night, he found himself once again in Clyde’s chamber, stretched across the cot, the pillow hugged tight to his chest. The barracks echoed with distant snores and the clink of guards changing shifts. Aerion whispered into the dark, his voice raw with drink and longing:
“Come back to me, Hound.”
The stone walls gave no answer.
But he pretended the silence was a vow.
The sun rose pale and thin over Valemont Keep, its light dripping weakly through the frost-rimed windows of the great hall. Courtiers gathered early, drawn like flies to honey whenever rumor promised spectacle. Word had spread: three suitors, each bold enough to offer their hand to Lord Aerion himself.
The hall buzzed. Perfumed whispers twisted between gilded pillars, lords and ladies murmuring wagers about which man the peacock prince might choose. Some spoke of politics, others of scandal, but all of them leaned forward with greedy eyes.
Aerion arrived late, of course.
He swept into the hall draped in emerald silk that clung to his frame like water, his collarbones shimmering with faint dustings of gold powder. His hair, tied loosely, fell in shining waves over one shoulder. He carried no sword, only a goblet of dark wine, and his smile was the kind that made courtiers hold their breath.
