Chapter 136: Coming along.

Night had drawn its veil over the garrison, yet inside, the halls did not sleep—they whispered. Distant voices of armored men, boots scraping against stone, the echo of power and suspicion traveling through every archway.

Baron Meliodas walked beside Aiden, his hands clasped behind his back in an effort to appear calm, though his every motion betrayed unease. The older man’s eyes darted toward the corners of the hallway, toward every shadow that seemed too still, every sound too quiet.

Aiden noticed, of course. He always noticed.

When they turned a corner, the baron finally spoke, voice low and hoarse, like a man too weary of pretending.

"Do you not feel it, Aiden? The air itself is heavy tonight... it listens. I can almost hear their boots in the next hall." He paused, swallowing. "You walk as if you’ve never known fear. Even now—after all that has happened—all that is going to happen....how can you be so... calm?"

Aiden slowed his steps, turning his head slightly so that the torchlight kissed the sharp line of his jaw. His lips curved—not mockingly, but with something quiet and knowing.

"Fear..." he said softly, almost to himself. "I suppose I forgot what that feels like."

The baron frowned, uncertain whether the younger man was jesting.

Aiden chuckled—a dry, almost boyish sound that didn’t match the danger surrounding them. "No, really. I think I was made wrong, Baron. Some men tremble when death breathes near. I’ve always laughed instead. Maybe I’m a fool."

Baron Meliodas studied him, eyes narrowing as though he might find the secret to courage—or madness—hidden behind that grin. "A fool," he murmured. "Or something else entirely."

For a heartbeat, silence lingered between them. The baron’s expression softened, the years of politics and deceit weighing visibly on his shoulders. "You should not have been dragged into this, Aiden. My wife told me what you said to her—that all would be fine—but I know how this garrison devours men like you. I see it every day."

Aiden’s smile faltered for just a breath. He turned his gaze away, toward the dark stretch of corridor ahead. "Your wife comforts well, my lord," he said lightly—too lightly. "And she is wiser than most who wear silk...."

Meliodas didn’t catch the double meaning—or chose not to. His sigh echoed softly. "Still... promise me you’ll be cautious. The Blood Commander has your scent. The Earl can barely contain his disdain. You’re walking in the open, in his hall, like a man daring the gallows to miss his neck."

Aiden’s steps didn’t falter. His armor whispered against itself as he moved, relaxed, unhurried. "They think I’m cornered," he said simply. "And men who think that rarely look up to see the roof falling on them."

Meliodas gave a strained laugh, but worry still lined his face. The sound of approaching footsteps made both men tense—briefly—before Aiden lifted a hand, gesturing for calm.

The footsteps belonged to Aethal.

He came half-running, half-stumbling through the dim light, cloak unfastened, hair a disheveled halo around his pale face. His breath came quick as he reached them. "You shouldn’t be out here," he hissed, looking around before grabbing both men by the wrists. "Come. Now."

Before either could object, he tugged them into a side passage—a narrow stairwell leading to a small records room, forgotten by most of the garrison’s guards. Inside, the air smelled of parchment and dust.

Aethal bolted the door behind them, his hands shaking slightly as he reached into his coat. "You need to see this," he said, voice low but sharp. He pulled out a stack of parchment, still sealed with red wax. "I took it from Father’s office before his messenger sent it with the messenger."

He placed the top sheet on the table. The wax seal was broken now, but the symbol pressed into it—three crescents of the Wessex line—was unmistakable.

Aiden leaned forward, scanning the flowing script. His eyes flicked once, twice, before a low laugh escaped him—quiet at first, then growing richer, almost joyous.

The baron frowned. "What’s so amusing?"

Aiden looked up, gold-flecked eyes glinting with mischief and something darker. "The Earl sent a decree to the Leonidus fief," he said, tapping the letter with one finger. "Accusing me of disobedience, insubordination, and... attempting to usurp noble command."

Aethal’s expression was grim. "He’s demanding that the Leonidus family strip you of your title. He’s calling for your trial to be handled here—in two days—under his jurisdiction. And the Blood Commander will preside."

Baron Meliodas’ face paled. "That’s a death sentence."

Aiden smiled wider. "Not for me."

The baron blinked. "You don’t understand—"

"Oh, I understand," Aiden interrupted gently. "But your Earl doesn’t. He’s sent this letter thinking he’s rid himself of a problem. But he’s just called thunder to his doorstep."

He sat down on the edge of the table, tapping the parchment as if it were an amusing piece of gossip. "Because by now, my own letters are already halfway to Leonidus—and to the Merlin duchy. If the Earl’s decree reaches lady Catherine first, she’ll break hell loose on this garrison before his ink dries."

Aethal’s eyes widened. "You wrote to Viscountess Catherine?"

"And Viscount Augustus," Aiden said with a shrug. "If they get wind of how one of their knights was chained in a cell by a drunk and his bloodhound for stepping into a dungeon without permission..." He tilted his head, grin sharp as a blade. "They’ll come down on Wessex like wolves on lambs."

The room fell silent for a beat. Only the faint crackle of torches outside reached them, distant and ghostly.

Aethal exhaled slowly, still trying to make sense of the calm coiled in Aiden’s posture. "You’re insane," he said at last. "You’re playing a game with lords who can crush you like an insect."

Aiden chuckled again, running a hand through his white hair. "I’ve always liked insects. They survive more than anyone expects."

Baron Meliodas stepped closer, voice low, urgent. "Aiden... even if what you say is true, if the Viscountess gets that letter—what then? She’ll come for the Earl, yes, but the Blood Commander will kill you before she arrives."

"Then I must make sure he doesn’t get the chance," Aiden said simply.

Meliodas’ eyes widened. "You mean to—"

Aiden raised a hand, cutting him off with a soft gesture. "Nothing foolish. Not yet. There are more elegant ways to kill a man than with a sword."

He rose from the table, brushing off invisible dust from his armor. "For now, we prepare. Tomorrow morning, the ladies of the court will gather for tea. You’ll see to it that I’m there."

Aethal blinked. "You... want to go to the tea party?"

"Yes." Aiden’s voice was steady, even playful. "No one looks for daggers at a tea table. I’ll be the most polite man in the room."

Aethal glanced at Meliodas, confusion written across both their faces. "You’ll be discovered," Aethal said. "Half the Blood Commander’s men will be patrolling the upper hall."

"Then make sure they’re looking somewhere else," Aiden said simply.

He started toward the door, then paused, his tone softening for just a moment. "You’ve done me a favor tonight, Aethal. Both of you have. That’s not something I forget easily."

Meliodas frowned, worry still clinging to his every word. "And what about the Commander? What if he finds you before the tea? You can’t charm him like the rest."

Aiden’s smile returned, slow and dangerous. "I don’t need to charm him. I only need him to think he’s already won. Which he already does..."

He turned the door’s latch halfway, then stopped again, looking over his shoulder. "When the morning comes, send word to the kitchen. Have them prepare a fresh set of trays for the tea party. Tanya will handle the rest."

Aethal exhaled, rubbing his temples. "You talk as if this is already done."

Aiden’s eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. "It is," he said, voice low but certain. "By tomorrow night, the storm begins to turn."

Then he left the room, the door closing softly behind him—quiet as a closing snare, back to his Cell.