Chapter 103: Shina

"L... Lady Catherine as well...?" The Duke’s voice cracked through the chamber, edged with awe, suspicion, and the faintest tremor of dread.

Aiden nodded once. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding against the pressure of his own gamble. He could feel the fire at his back, licking close—too close. He was playing with it now, tossing sparks into a chamber soaked in oil. One misstep, one wrong breath, and the inferno would consume him.

But gods, what a chance this was. And chances like this came once in a lifetime—if at all.

It had not been certainty that drove his whisper, only a sharpened guess. A gambit. He remembered the Duke’s words: ambitious. Yes, that was what he had been called. Ambitious, reckless, hungry. Perhaps this would be the blade that cut or the blade that crowned him.

Why Augustus? Why keep that snake closer than other men? The answer had always gnawed at Aiden’s mind. Augustus had blood ties—the viscountess was the daughter of an Archduke, and Augustus was the web by which the Duke tethered her lineage, and through it, control. Control over lands, over whispers, over the very heart of the viscount fief.

If that link were weakened—if Augustus were seen as a man who could not even rein his own wife—what use was he? What man could command soldiers, estates, vassals, when he could not command his own hearth? Men whispered such things in their cups, and now Aiden had set that seed in the Duke’s ear.

A seed of weakness. A seed of rot. A seed that said: Augustus had no power.

The Duke leaned back, the weight of his golden gaze heavier than iron chains. Then his lips curled.

"That was good information... very good. Keep being useful, Aiden." His tone dropped lower, sharp with the hunger of command. "And don’t forget—keep a check on my wife."

Aiden bowed, his smile hidden beneath the angle of his head. The curve of it cut deep into his cheeks, unstoppable, uncontainable. He turned, steps measured, gaze flicking across the chamber as he departed. His eyes drank in every stone, every flicker of flame, every shadow that might one day hide his triumph.

And as he descended the steps, that smile grew, stretching wider.

Of coooooouuuuurse he would follow the order. To the very last breath. To the very last detail.

Of course he would take care of Sabrina.

The ceremony drew to its final breath. Voices dimmed, footsteps echoed against marble. Yet as Aiden glanced across the dispersing nobility, his eyes caught the Saintess—the one destined, whispered, foretold. Her eyes found him again, unwilling, searching, drawn to the streak of white hair that marked him apart.

Once. Twice. Thrice she looked back as she was ushered away.

If his guess was right, she sought him—sought that mark, the omen that branded him. His hair, pale as frost, as bone, as storm-washed stone.

Coincidence? Destiny? He despised the thought. He hissed inwardly, biting down on the surge of unease.

Be gone, wench. Never come into my life again.

He turned away, forcing her from his mind as he stepped into the stone halls.

The nobility dispersed to their homes—homes within Merlin itself. Mansions layered like veins around the city’s heart. A lattice of marble and stained glass, each estate screaming lineage and pride. Even the lesser barons had their keeps, small fortresses embedded into the city like teeth in a jaw.

Aiden felt the tug of envy. Always under another’s roof, another man’s command. His blood longed for stone of his own, for a banner that rose unbent.

Aiden envied it—that sense of dominion, of a man under his own roof. He had none of that. Always a guest, always beneath another’s ceiling.

Yet the viscount’s mansion suited him well enough. He already knew its contours, its pulse, the corners where shadows gathered thickest.

The corner room—yes, that one. Curtains heavy, the door far from prying eyes. A place where he could press the viscountess against velvet and lace, where he could take her in silence, taste her without fear of discovery. A sanctuary built not for prayer, but for sin.

The corner kitchen where he could molet Akidna until she cummed, the bathroom which nobody used, perfect for pounding Luna or flora whenever he wanted.

But, Inside, the living hall thrummed with presence. There sat the two viscounts, rigid as carved oak. Two earls beside them, polished, proud, their wives glittering like jeweled daggers.

But Aiden’s eyes narrowed. Another figure, unexpected. The Baron Melodias—seated closer to the Duke than any other. His wiry frame seemed almost swallowed by the position, but the nearness spoke volumes. Something brewed here. Something coiled and venomous.

He paused his step. Five paces from the circle, the air shifted. A ripple of attention, unseen but undeniable.

The noble wives turned.

It began as a flicker, then sharpened into focus. Their eyes found him, one after another, drawn as though he were a flame in the gloom. Strange, always strange—men rarely noticed the undertone of his scent, the natural musk that clung to him like smoke to fire. But women... women seemed unable to look away.

First Catherine, her eyes blue as glacier’s edge, sliding toward him with sidelong precision. Then Sabrina, her gaze slower, deeper, heavier than any others in the hall. They sat side by side, sovereign even here, as if the sofas themselves had bent into thrones beneath them.

Aiden inclined his head politely, but inside he smirked. He had learned long ago: women’s glances were wars fought in silence.

He was held in the periphery, as if deliberately penned. The Red Commander loomed nearby, with big John, the giant, beside him. Aiden almost scoffed.

What was there to guard? These nobles were powerhouses in their own right. The knights were ornaments, tradition bound into steel and flesh. Nothing more.

So he drifted instead toward the balcony. Toward the night air.

The doors opened with a sigh. He stepped into the cool breath of Merlin’s evening, the city sprawling before him, towers rising like stone lances piercing the sky. The lanterns glimmered, rivers of gold threading through the streets. He inhaled deeply, filling his chest with the city’s heartbeat.

But footsteps followed.

Inside, one woman rose. Brave—or reckless. She bowed toward the Duke, murmured fatigue, and slipped away from the gathering.

Shina.

The Duke gave only a flick of his hand in dismissal, already turning back to hushed discussions. Yet Catherine’s gaze sharpened. Sabrina’s narrowed.

They watched.

A glance passed between them—sharp, wordless, ancient as Eve. The language of women, unspoken, undeniable.

...Is that whore going to the balcony?... Catherine’s eyes said.

...Yes. Toward him... Sabrina’s gaze confirmed.

..But Aiden is there...

..I know...

...I don’t like it. She’ll spread her legs soon at this rate....

...Perhaps she already has...

Catherine’s jaw tightened.... Why are you so calm?..

Sabrina’s lashes lowered... I’m calm because I’m fine with him fucking you...

Shock flickered in Catherine’s stare, sharp as a slap. ...We are...

...Don’t say different. For Aiden, every woman is fair game...

A sigh rippled through Catherine’s chest. She half-rose, then eased back into the sofa, defeated by Sabrina’s steady gaze.

The two women turned their faces outward again, but their silence was a storm.

On the balcony, the air carried the salt of the distant river and the faint scent of rain upon stone. Aiden’s hands rested on the railing, his fingers drumming once, twice, as he surveyed the sprawl below. His hair caught the torchlight, pale white, glimmering faint as moonlit frost.

He knew she was there before she spoke.

"Sir Aiden..."

The voice, soft, hesitant, yet laced with something unspoken.

He turned, lips curling already. He knew. He had always known.

"Lady Shina," he greeted smoothly, bowing his head with deliberate grace.

"Yes. How may I help you?"