Chapter 185: A Lot to Think About

"My Lord, unless you intend to leave the Duke with no toes left to stand at the party, I suggest you find your rhythm."

Cherion jolted, his left foot hovering awkwardly over where his partner’s, or, well, the air’s, feet should be. Heat rushed up his neck. "My apologies, Madame. I... I got caught in my own head."

Varo sighed, the kind of sigh that came from forty years of trying to turn stiff Northern men into elegant swans. She adjusted her glasses, eyes sharp as ever as she scanned his posture.

From the shadowy corner near the heavy velvet drapes, a steady voice cut in. "Maybe the young master’s just tired."

"A break, then," Varo said, tapping her fan against her palm. "Fifteen minutes. Not a second more, or we shall lose the momentum entirely."

Cherion didn’t wait to be told twice. He practically collapsed into a chair near the window, the cold glass behind him a blessing against the sweat sticking to his shirt. Reiner gave him a brief, knowing nod. "I’ll get some tea."

As Reiner’s footsteps retreated toward the entrance, Cherion leaned his head back and closed his eyes. But there was no peace behind his eyelids. Every time he tried to visualize the "one-two-three" of the waltz, the music was drowned out by the echo of Marielle’s voice from the night before.

"They don’t treat him like their son."

The sentence kept looping. It was a glitch in his brain, a record skipping over the same scratchy, painful note.

"Did my brother ever complain? No. He tried his best. He tried so hard to be the ’good son,’ and what did he get? A curse from a dying mother on her deathbed."

A wave of nausea hit him. He hadn’t even heard the story from Zarius himself, who guarded his trauma like a dragon hoarding broken glass, but hearing it from Marielle was almost worse. It was proof that the rot in this family wasn’t hidden at all. It was obvious enough that even the other child saw it.

"I was treated a little better, probably because I’m a woman."

Cherion’s eyes snapped open, staring up at the ceiling. And suddenly, there it was again. That weird, dizzy feeling. Like he’d stepped outside the story for a second. Like he wanted to yell at the sky.

God, I hate this, he thought, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it. I absolutely loathe whoever wrote this.

In his mind, he started a very detailed list of the original author’s crimes. The person who wrote this web novel wasn’t just a writer; they were full-blown, god-complex psychopaths.

It was "edgy" character development at its most lazy and cruel. And for what? In the novel, this man’s trauma didn’t even make the guest list. Zarius was just labeled "orphan, runs the North, moving on," so we could get back to the endless, smutty cycles of Yerel and Philia’s romance.

It’s easy to read a dark backstory when it’s just ink on a page, Cherion thought, his fingers digging into the velvet chair. It’s a whole other thing to look at the man who survived it and realize he’s still not okay.

"You’re doing it again," Madame Varo said, her voice softer now as she moved toward him. She wasn’t scolding him this time; she looked almost pitying. "That look in your eyes. It’s the same one the Duke wears when the wind blows from the North."

Cherion forced his hands to relax. "Just thinking, Madame."

Varo nodded slowly, her gaze wandering toward the portraits at the far end of the hall. "Ah, right. The anniversary of the former Duke and Duchess’s passing is nearly upon us."

Of course there was a portrait. Because apparently, that was necessary.

Cherion’s stomach did a slow, unpleasant flip. Ugh. Here we go again. The dead parents club. "People still talk about it, don’t they?" he asked, trying to sound casual despite the bitter edge in his voice. "Even after all these years."

"Of course," Varo replied, her voice taking on that dreamy, storytelling quality that historians used to gloss over the truth. "It was the end of an era. They were the kingdom’s pride. The Duchess Nerissa... ah, she was like moonlight. So gentle, so ethereal. And Duke Lario? Unshakable. Iron itself. Together, they were perfectly balanced."

Moonlight and Iron? Cherion almost laughed out loud. More like Psychopath and Sadist. What kind of ’vibrant spirit’ tells her kid he’s a mistake? What a bunch of absolute jerks.

"Were they really that perfect?" Cherion asked, his voice coming out colder than he intended. "Usually, when something looks that shiny from the outside, it’s because someone is spending an awful lot of time polishing the rust."

Varo paused, her eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. She leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice.

"Well... there is gossip, of course. There always is with the Great Houses. Some say the Duke wasn’t quite as ’Iron’ in his loyalty as people suggest. There were rumors... of a mistress. A woman tucked away where the Duchess couldn’t see her. No family is ever truly as perfect as the portraits they hang in the gallery."

Cherion leaned back, his mind racing. A mistress? That hadn’t been in the novel. Or maybe it had been one of those "blink-and-you-miss-it" lines in a side Chapter? But it kinda fit.

The clink of a silver tray cut broke the tension. Reiner had returned with some refreshments. Behind him, Ezek lingered in the doorway.

"Tea," Reiner announced, his voice firm, leaving no room for further gossip.

"Indeed," Ezek added, clearing his throat awkwardly as he shuffled into the room. "And perhaps we should let the departed rest in peace. It’s bad luck to stir the ashes of the dead when there’s so much work to be done for the living."

Reiner set the cup down in front of Cherion, his eyes meeting the younger man’s for a fleeting, heavy second. "Ezek is right. There is little profit in discussing things that are... less than pleasant. Especially rumors that have no place in here."

She straightened her back immediately, face going blank in that classic "I am being paid to be calm" way. "Quite right. We’ve wasted enough time on scary stories."

The lesson resumed. The music started again, a haunting, sweeping violin melody that felt like a challenge. Cherion rose to his feet, his muscles aching, but his mind was strangely clear.

A mistress. An affair. A mother who hated her son and a father who wasn’t faithful. If the rumors were true, it didn’t excuse what they did to Zarius, but it kinda made sense. Hurt people hurt people, but Zarius’s parents had turned it into a goddamn Olympic sport.

Something cold and stubborn settled in his chest. If the author, that faceless, sadistic creator, intended for Zarius to be a lonely monster destined for a tragic end, then Cherion was going to be the most annoying, persistent, and loud-mouthed deviation that script had ever seen.