The ballroom glowed under chandeliers strung with crystal and enchantments, casting warm golden light over a sea of polished boots, embroidered coats, and wine-red silks. Music drifted from the quartet in the corner—light, playful, a steady current beneath the louder roar of conversation.
Leonel leaned against a column near the banquet tables, a goblet hanging from loose fingers. The wine burned hot and heavy in his gut, sweeter than he remembered and twice as sharp. Another laugh burst from a nearby circle of young nobles, sharp enough to cut.
He didn't bother turning toward it.
The world blurred slightly at the edges when he shifted his weight, the floor sloping in a way he knew wasn't real. His coat was half-unbuttoned, cravat loosened enough to scandalize the matrons clustered near the gardens. A servant drifted by with another tray, but Leonel waved him off with a lazy flick of the hand.
Enough wine. For now.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the fabric of his shirt damp with sweat. Too many bodies, too much perfume thick in the air, too many sideways glances he didn't care to decode.
"Varnhart," someone said behind him, too loud, too familiar.
Leonel turned—or tried to. The movement spun a little harder than he expected. He caught the edge of the column to steady himself and focused blearily on the voice.
It belonged to a boy barely out of his teens, sharp-faced and smirking under a mane of carefully tousled blond hair.
Callen Drex.
Of course it was Callen.
Leonel stared at him for a long second, waiting for the boy to flinch or lower his gaze. He didn't. Instead, Callen stepped closer, tilting his goblet in mock salute.
"Didn't think you'd show your face tonight," Callen said, loud enough that several nearby guests pretended not to listen.
Leonel smiled thinly. "And yet... here I am."
Callen's smirk widened. "Here you are indeed. Still clinging to whatever scraps the vultures left you."
Someone chuckled behind Callen—a girl with a lace fan she barely bothered to hide her amusement behind. Another pair of boys shifted closer, smelling blood.
Leonel's fist tightened around the stem of his goblet. The glass creaked softly.
"You want to say that again?" His words slurred slightly at the edges.
Callen laughed, the sound rich and full, meant to carry across the marble floor. "I said—"
Leonel didn't let him finish.
The goblet dropped from his hand, shattering against the stone. In the same breath, Leonel lunged forward, grabbing Callen by the front of his jacket and driving a fist into his gut.
The crowd gasped, the music faltered, strings shrieking out of tune as the musicians missed their cues.
Callen staggered, trying to pull free, but Leonel wasn't done. Another blow cracked across the boy's jaw, snapping his head sideways. Blood spattered across the polished floor, bright and jarring under the crystal lights.
Someone screamed.
Servants rushed forward, hesitating at the edge of the fight, afraid to touch either noble. Callen's friends backed away, hands half-raised, shouting for help, for guards, for anyone to stop it.
Leonel barely heard them.
The wine, the shame, the months of whispered laughter behind his back—all of it boiled up in a red mist behind his eyes.
He drove Callen backward into the nearest table, shattering crystal decanters and splattering wine across silk tablecloths. Callen tried to fight back, swinging clumsy, desperate punches, but Leonel caught his arm, twisted, and slammed him down.
The boy's head struck the marble with a dull, sickening crack.
Silence dropped over the ballroom like a curtain.
Only Leonel's ragged breathing filled the space between the shocked faces.
He staggered back a half step, looking down at Callen Drex sprawled at his feet—face bloodied, chest heaving shallow breaths.
Around them, nobles pressed back against the walls, unwilling to step closer.
Leonel wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood that wasn't his across his knuckles.
Through the haze, he felt it—the change.
The invisible, permanent shift in the air.
The music wouldn't resume. The laughter wouldn't return. Not tonight.
Not after this.
From the far entrance, heavy boots struck the marble with sharp, deliberate steps.
Leonel turned sluggishly toward the sound.
Count Drex.
He moved with the slow inevitability of a coming storm, cutting a straight line through the frozen guests.
Leonel stiffened, some ancient instinct screaming at him to run, to kneel, to apologize, to disappear.
But his body was too slow. His mind too drunk.
He watched as Count Drex knelt beside his son without a word.
Callen didn't move.
The Count laid two fingers against the boy's throat, checking for a pulse, his face a blank wall of restraint. Only the slight tightening around his mouth betrayed anything human.
Leonel felt himself swaying slightly, the world shifting again, but this time it wasn't the wine.
It was the cold weight of Drex's stare locking onto him across the broken table and blood-smeared floor.
There was no shouting.
No demand for satisfaction.
No public challenge.
Just silence.
And something deeper, colder, far more dangerous than rage.
Leonel staggered back another step, his boots scraping loudly against the marble.
The Count straightened slowly, cradling his son's head carefully, still saying nothing.
Whispers began to stir at the edges of the room. Servants hovered, unsure whether to rush forward or stay back.
Leonel's throat worked, dry and useless.
No apology would matter.
No excuse would save them.
Across the shattered wreckage of wine and blood, Count Drex's gaze pinned Leonel in place harder than any blow could have.
The noise of the ballroom—music, laughter, clinking glasses—all of it seemed impossibly far away now.
Leonel's stomach turned sharply, and for the first time that night, it had nothing to do with the wine.
The nobles began to move again, slowly peeling away from the Varnhart crest, their alliances already shifting in the air.
Leonel turned his face away from the boy on the floor, but the Count's stare held him fast.
Somewhere deep past the buzzing in his skull, he knew with sickening clarity:
This wasn't just a drunken mistake.
This was a war he had started with his own hands.