Chapter 127: Mark of jealously

The gates of the garrison loomed ahead, iron teeth biting against the sky. Smoke curled from chimneys within, mingling with the sharp scent of tar and horses, but it was not the familiar stench of the city that set Aiden’s nerves on edge.

It was the line of armored men waiting just inside—helms glinting, shields raised as if expecting an invading force rather than their own returning knights.

The clang of their spears striking the ground echoed like a funeral drum.

Aiden’s jaw clenched. He knew before he even saw the man at their head.

The Earl of Wessex.

An man, broad-shouldered despite the weight of years, with a face carved from authority itself. His cloak bore no dust, no travel stain, as though the world itself dared not mar him.

His eyes, pale and cold as a wolf’s, fixed directly on Aiden—not with curiosity, but with condemnation already passed.

"Father," Aethal began, stepping forward, his voice carrying a rare urgency. "It’s not as you think. Aiden acted because the slayer took the healer suddenly—there was no time for procedure—"

"Silence." The Earl’s tone was not a shout, but it cut sharper than any blade. Aethal’s mouth shut with a click, his words smothered like sparks under snow.

Aiden stood still, his battered armor cracked and bent, holes torn through the plates, dried blood crusting at the seams. A walking testament to the dungeon’s horrors. Yet to the Earl, none of it mattered.

"As a knight," the Earl said, each word deliberate, heavy with judgment, "you abandoned procedure. You went directly into the dungeon—a realm for adventurers, mercenaries, slayers. Not noble men sworn to law."

Aiden felt the words burn hotter than the wounds beneath his armor. Not because they were lies, but because of the truth in them.

He had gone in without waiting. Without asking. Because he could. Because waiting would have cost Arina her life, Amber’s life.

Behind the Earl, Baron Melodious cleared his throat, his robes rustling as he stepped forward. His face was pale, worry lined across his brow. "My lord, with respect, Aiden’s actions were reckless, yes, but necessary. The incident would have catastrophic for the Nobel society if not contained. If not for him—"

"Baron." The Earl’s voice swelled like thunder. "Do not attempt to romanticize disobedience...."

Melodious faltered, his lips parting, then closing again as if the weight of rank pressed his tongue silent.

Aiden didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Because just behind the Earl, he saw him.

The Blood Commander.

His rival’s smile gleamed faintly, cruel and satisfied. Oh, he knew jealousy burned in the man’s chest like oil on fire—but to see this? To see him stand behind the Earl with triumph in his eyes, savoring every humiliation Aiden now faced?

This was more than jealousy. This was design.

’So this is how far you’ll go, cunt,’ Aiden thought bitterly, his gaze sliding back to the Earl. ’You really never had a good image of me. And why should you? I’m no noble. No pedigree. Just a weapon you thought you could throw.’

But that was fine. That was more than fine.

Because now he had a target.

The Earl’s voice snapped him back. "Disciplinary action will be carried out at once. Seize him."

Chains clinked before the command was even finished. Guards moved in, gauntlets gripping cold iron, shackles clattering.

Arina’s hand shot to her sword, steel flashing in the corner of his vision. Her eyes burned—fury, loyalty, a dangerous combination.

"Stand down!" she barked, her voice a snarl, already preparing to cut through anyone who reached for him.

But Aiden stepped into her path, his hand pressing against her shoulder, firm. "Calm the fuck down," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "Not here. Not now."

She froze, torn between instinct and his voice. "But—"

"Listen." His eyes bore into hers, steady, unyielding. "Trust me. Take care of the elves. Keep them hidden. This... this I’ll handle."

The moment stretched, her knuckles white around her sword hilt. Then slowly, painfully, she eased back.

The guards moved fast, snapping the chains around his wrists, yanking them tight. The bite of iron dug into his skin, the chill of metal a sharp reminder of where he stood—powerless, at least for now.

Aiden didn’t fight it. He let them bind him, drag him toward the cells.

The iron bit at his wrists, cold and immediate; the clink of shackles sang like small, bright bells in the hush between commands. Leather straps rasped. Faces leaned in, breath warm with curiosity and malice.

A guard’s gauntlet pressed into his shoulder like an accusation. He tasted metal on his tongue—blood from an old cut, or the tang of adrenaline, he couldn’t tell—and the world narrowed to the rhythm of boots on stone.

But he smiled.

Not the grin of a broken man. Not the sheepish curl of someone begging for mercy. This was a careful, deliberate thing: slow, dangerous, folding like a blade in silk.

It crept first at one corner of his mouth, then widened, a predator acknowledging a new toy. The smile warmed his face from the inside, a private flame no man could snuff.

He lifted his gaze once more to the Earl. Pale eyes met pale eyes across the space of accusation and authority. In that look Aiden packed centuries of contempt and a promise that tasted like smoke.

’You,’ he thought. The word landed like a gauntlet thrown. ’You’ll do.’

He imagined the Earl in the center of a web—lantern light revealing rotten ropes, tendrils leading to gilded halls and secret ledgers.

He saw courtiers with greasy hands, magistrates with pockets full of bribes, priests who whispered absolution for coin.

Every rot, every ugly stitch that held the kingdom together—he would pin them to this man’s chest. He would make the Earl the scapegoat, the lightning rod for a storm he intended to summon.

Every lie, every chain, every drop of corruption that stinks in these walls—I’ll hang it all on you. And then I’ll burn it down.

It wasn’t bravado. It was a plan laid like tinder. He felt it solidify in his bones as the guards hauled him through the gate: the image of names shouted in council, of sealed indictments unrolled like funeral shrouds, of whispered secrets set aflame in the right hearths. Revenge could be crude. Revenge could also be an art.

His laughter—quiet, but unmistakable—slipped between his teeth as they pulled him away. It sounded small against the clatter of the courtyard, but it carried: a single, cool note of steel that threaded under the guards’ boots and into the Earl’s ears.

"Enjoy your halls, my lord," he murmured, almost to himself. "They’ll taste different come winter."

As the portcullis fell and the corridor swallowed him, the smile lingered like a brand. The cell door slammed—final for now—but the ember in his chest did not gutter. It only burnished, promised, and waited.

"....Very interesting," he whispered to himself, his voice too low for the guards but not for Arina’s sharp ears. "Things are starting to get very, very interesting."