Leonel shifted closer to the edge of the gathering, the wine untouched in his hand, and waited for the first real blow to come.
The ballroom's pulse thudded against his skin — music, laughter, the shuffle of silk and polished boots. Nobles in pressed coats and gleaming jewelry weaved carefully around each other, like wolves scenting for weakness behind pretty masks.
Leonel moved with them, nodding when politeness demanded, but never long enough to invite conversation.
The greetings he offered were returned in stiff, clipped tones. Smiles slid over faces like oil over water—thin, surface-deep, already retreating by the time his gaze passed.
Old allies of House Varnhart, men and women who once bowed at his father's word, found urgent reasons to turn away. Some adjusted gloves that didn't need adjusting. Others sipped from empty goblets. Anything to avoid the stink of failure they believed clung to his skin.
He didn't chase them.
Didn't offer more than a glance.
Let them run.
Let them pretend.
The hall was thick with spiced wine and colder ambitions. Trays glided past on the arms of liveried servants, each bearing goblets filled to the brim with blood-red drink.
Leonel accepted one when it was offered, cradling it low. The heat of the spiced brew curled upward into his nose, rich and cloying. His throat tightened at the scent alone.
He didn't drink.
Not tonight.
He kept circling.
Each conversation he caught in passing wove a little more of the old noose around his name — Varnhart's disgrace, whispered in newer, sharper words.
"Used to be something once," a matron said behind a feathered fan.
"Hard to believe he's still breathing," another voice replied.
Leonel's jaw tightened, but his stride didn't falter.
They thought he was still the boy who stumbled out of taverns and banquet halls alike, wine-sick and laughing too loud. They thought time had broken him clean through.
They hadn't looked closely enough.
He let the crowd press him closer to the western alcove, where a wide marble column split the hall into deeper pockets of conversation.
It was there the first blow landed.
A familiar voice — bright with mockery, sharpened with privilege — rose above the low tide of noble gossip.
"The great Varnhart whelp," Callen Drex said, his voice carrying easily despite the swell of music. "I heard he finally sobered up. Shame, really. He was more entertaining drunk. Maybe he'll dance for coin before the night's over—like the rest of his house."
The laugh that followed was lazy, self-satisfied.
Not just from Callen.
Two others at his side echoed it—soft, sharp, perfectly timed. Parasites who fed off whatever scraps the Drex family tossed their way.
Leonel's hand tightened around the goblet until the stem pressed painfully against his skin.
He didn't lift his head.
Didn't react.
Not yet.
The Drex family.
The name tasted like ash even now, years after the last contracts had been broken, the last alliances cut.
Callen leaned casually against the marble pillar, swirling his goblet as though the entire hall was his private stage. His hair was artfully mussed, his coat cut from imported velvet stitched with silver thread. Everything about him said success, ease, unearned safety.
Leonel stayed half-shielded behind a passing servant, letting his presence bleed into the background noise.
Words carried better when the speaker thought no one was truly listening.
"I mean, what did we expect?" Callen continued, tapping his goblet against the pillar in idle rhythm. "Varnhart blood always ran thin. Money just kept the rot from showing."
Another chuckle from his companions.
Leonel's knuckles whitened against the glass.
It would be so easy to step forward now. To let the weight in his chest break free, spill out through fists or fury.
But not here.
Not yet.
He needed more than a scene.
He needed a memory.
Leonel loosened his grip just enough to avoid shattering the goblet.
One of Callen's friends — a lean, rat-faced boy whose name Leonel didn't bother to recall — leaned in conspiratorially.
"I heard he's trying to peddle ink now," he said, voice dripping with exaggerated pity. "Magic pens for gutter mages. How the mighty have fallen."
The trio burst into another round of laughter, rich with cruelty.
Leonel tilted his head slightly, letting his gaze skim the crowd beyond the alcove.
Across the room, the Count watched the gathering from his dais, flanked by his advisors. Eyes sharp behind his jeweled spectacles. Measuring. Judging.
It wouldn't take much.
One poorly placed word, one outburst, and Leonel would sink whatever thin threads of credibility he'd barely begun to weave.
So he did nothing.
Not visibly.
Instead, he memorized the sound of Callen's laugh. The way his mouth curled with arrogance. The cadence of his insults.
Every detail mattered.
A goblet tilted too casually.
A nod shared between parasites.
A weakness offered without realizing it.
Leonel let the burn settle deep into his ribs, coiling tight. Not to lash out with—but to forge into something colder, something harder.
Across the hall, a server stumbled slightly, tray dipping before recovering. The small disruption broke the flow of conversation near the alcove, scattering the gathering slightly.
Leonel used it.
Callen's voice floated across the marble floor again, cutting through the hum of polite conversation.
"Maybe we should pass a hat around," he drawled. "Give the Varnhart whelp a few coins to stumble home with. Can't have the poor thing starving before he sells off the family name."
The laughter this time was louder. Crueler.
Leonel didn't move from his place at the edge of the gathering.
His fingers flexed slightly against the goblet, feeling the slick sweat of glass, the tremor of barely checked rage starting to coil under his skin.
Across the hall, more heads turned—some curious, some amused, a few whispering already.
Callen's smirk widened as he tossed a mocking glance toward where Leonel stood half-shadowed.
The bait hung heavy in the air.
Leonel shifted his weight forward, slow and deliberate, letting his hand fall away from the goblet.
The nobles nearby edged aside, conversations faltering, heads turning toward the growing tension.
Callen lifted his chin, eyebrows raised in mocking invitation, still swirling his drink lazily between his fingers.
Leonel moved another step, the space between them shrinking, the polished floor cold under his boots.
"Say that again," Leonel said, voice cutting clean through the music, loud enough for everyone at the nearby tables to hear.
A hush rippled outward. Some faces turned fully now, eager for the crack in civility to split wide open.
Callen straightened off the pillar, the smirk never leaving his mouth.
He looked ready to answer.
Leonel didn't lower his gaze, didn't shift his stance, waiting, the tension in his shoulders humming like a drawn bow.
Across the room, he caught the flash of his father's dark coat moving toward them—but Lord Varnhart hadn't reached them yet.
Callen opened his mouth to speak—and Leonel stayed exactly where he was, waiting for the next word to drop.