The gates of Blackstone Keep groaned open as the autumn wind howled through the valley, dragging with it the scent of dying leaves and old stone. The soldiers at the gate did not recognize him. They saw a lord draped in black and gold, his fine cloak trimmed in serpent-thread, his face veiled in a silk scarf that hid everything below his eyes. What they saw was a man of coin and confidence, mounted on a stallion too fine for any northern bannerman.
They saw Lord Kael Viremont.
No one saw or remembered Cairon Blackthorn.
He passed beneath the archway and into the keep that had once been his whole world. And already, it felt smaller. The towers were chipped and lichen-stained. The courtyard was empty of life. Where once banners had snapped in the wind, there now hung only a few faded strips of fabric, clinging like ghosts to their poles.
The last four years had not been kind to House Vael.
A servant met him in the yard and bowed deeply. "Lord Viremont, you are most welcome. Lord Edran awaits you."
Edran Vael. His father. The man who had brought him here after his mother's death, then tossed him to the rats and the servants. The man who had forgotten him in the stables, and did nothing while his lady wife had him whipped for her enjoyment.
Cairon followed in silence.
They found Lord Vael in the solar, seated before a weak fire. He was only forty years of age, but looked closer to seventy. His back was hunched, his hair more gray than brown, and his hands trembled where they gripped a cane carved with the family crest.
Cairon stopped in the doorway.
Edran coughed into a cloth and looked up. His eyes, once sharp, were fogged and sunken.
"Ah... Lord Viremont. A pleasure to have you in our home."
His voice was hollow. Polite. Forgetful. He did not know the man before him. Did not see the bastard son he had condemned to death. Why would he? He had never really looked at him, not even when the lash had struck flesh in the snow.
"A pleasure to be here, Lord Vael," Cairon said with a cheerful tone. His voice was smooth, confident. Nothing like the beaten dog his father had once ignored.
There was no shock. No pain. Just a wry smile behind the silk. Cairon had never expected love from his father. And certainly not recognition.
Lord Vael tried to sit up straighter. "You are most welcome in our halls. Forgive the state of things. Illness and years have not been gentle."
Cairon offered a perfect, practiced nod. "I have seen far worse in my travels."
And then she entered.
Lady Isolde Vael.
She swept into the room in a gown of soft blue, lined with fur at the collar and sleeves. Her black hair flowed in curls down her back, her skin pale and flawless, her lips painted the color of ripe berries. She was twenty-eight now, but looked younger still. There was not a line on her face. Only poise, elegance, and the kind of hunger that women locked in cages wear like perfume.
"My lord," she said, her voice honeyed and warm. "We are honored to host a hero of so many tales."
She did not recognize him. Not even a flicker. The bastard boy she had abused for ten years had become a stranger.
Cairon bowed low. "Lady Isolde. Your beauty is more radiant than any fire I have ever sat beside."
She smiled, openly pleased. And she looked at him long. A flicker in her eye. A curious heat.
He watched her closely. He saw her now not as he remembered her in childhood terror. He saw the girl beneath the woman. A girl married at fourteen to a man twelve years her elder. A girl who had been expected to bear heirs before she had stopped being a child. A girl who had grown into a woman with power over servants, but no power over her own life.
She had ruled Blackstone Keep for years now, her husband too weak and sick to rise from his chair. She was a queen in a crumbling court. Beautiful, imprisoned, frustrated.
She saw Kael Viremont and her eyes lit.
Here was no frail noble. He was strength. Mystery. A foreign flame cloaked in darkness. A man whose voice curled like smoke. He looked like power. He smelled like danger.
"Lord Viremont," she said, stepping closer, her gaze drifting to his sword, his gloves, his scarf. "I have heard you fought in the eastern wastes. That you led men against the beasts of the southern front. Tell me, is it all true?"
"More or less," Cairon said with a smile in his voice. "Though some stories are too vulgar for polite company."
She laughed. She did not look at her husband. She leaned closer instead.
"And the scarf? Is it custom from your homeland? Or are you hiding something?"
"Only the things I wish to be remembered for."
She shivered. Just slightly. Her smile deepened.
Later, at supper, she had him seated beside her. She asked question after question. She touched his hand once when she laughed. Her eyes wandered his chest, the cut of his jaw beneath the veil. Her lips parted unconsciously when he leaned close to refill her cup.
Cairon played the part well. He told tales of war. Of slaying beasts. Of treasure taken and enemies crushed. He flattered her with skill. With warmth. With precision. And never once did he need the serpent's tongue.
Isolde was captivated.
To her, Kael Viremont was everything her husband had never been. He was dangerous. Decisive. Commanding. She imagined him stripping her bare. Taking her not out of duty, but out of hunger. Out of domination. She thought of his weight pressing down, his voice whispering filth into her ear as he took her from behind, over the same stone that had once chilled her wedding night.
Her thighs grew warm.
She had no idea she was being hunted.
Cairon smiled beneath the scarf. A smile colder than steel. She had once ruled his life with her whims and lashes. Now she chased shadows. She offered him her glances, her sighs, her hunger.
And he had not even touched her yet.