That night, Cairon was invited to dine with Lord Edran Vael and his family. Or more accurately, Lord Kael Viremont was given a place of honor at the high table of Blackstone Keep.
As a boy, Cairon had never been allowed to sit there. The hearth had been warm then, the dishes heavy with roasted meat and dripping fat, but he had only caught glimpses from the servants' corridor. He had eaten cold porridge in the kitchen with the dogs, not the nobles. His blood had not been good enough to earn him a seat.
Now, he sat where lords sat. Draped in black and gold, veiled in serpent-threaded silk, sword resting at his hip, and a name forged in blood and steel. No one at the table saw the starving boy who once scrubbed these floors. They saw Kael Viremont, the masked lord. The serpent knight. The hero of the border wars. The leader of the Blackcoils. The commander who never lost.
Lord Edran raised his goblet. "It is our honor to have a warrior of your repute among us, Lord Viremont. You have already met my wife, Isolde. Allow me to present my children. Rylen, my eldest and heir. Idran, my secondborn. My daughters, Aelis and Mira."
Cairon nodded graciously, his smile hidden behind the dark silk. He remembered each of them, of course.
His half-siblings. The ones who had never spoken a kind word to him.
Rylen, thirteen, tall already, with the beginnings of a soldier's build. Handsome and confident. Idran, twelve, pale and thin, with eyes that always darted with suspicion and envy. A boy who would grow into a liar. Aelis and Mira, eleven and ten, pretty, pampered, full of laughter and dismissive looks.
They were spoiled brats. Raised on honey cakes and every comfort, while their bastard half-brother had starved, labored like a servant, and suffered beatings at the whim of their lady mother.
He remembered how they had spoken of him in whispers. How the boys had giggled when he was whipped. Their smirks when he was made to clean their chamber pots. How Aelis had once wrinkled her nose and said, "The bastard smells like horses and dirt," loud enough for the maids to laugh. Now they looked at him with awe. Their eyes were wide with curiosity. Their posture stiff and nervous. Cairon returned their gaze with nothing at all.
Noblewomen were expected to have at least four children. The eldest son would be the heir. The secondborn son, the backup. The daughters, married off for alliances.
Isolde had done her duty. She had opened her legs for her husband and given him four healthy children. Then she had closed them. There was no love between her and Lord Vael. There never had been. She had been sold to an older man at fourteen and become his broodmare. Anyone could see that their relationship had never included love, even before illness claimed his ability to fuck her. Now he could not even satisfy her physical needs.
"My pleasure to meet you," Cairon said in his cultured foreign accent, smooth and warm. "Are these all your children, Lord Vael? Or do you have more?"
"These are all," Edran replied without pause. "I have no other."
"I understand," Cairon said, still smiling. But a cold fury smoldered beneath his skin. His father had disowned him completely. Denied him without hesitation. Then again, he had never seen him as a son. Only a bastard. Only a mistake. Once, it had broken his heart. The rejection, the unfairness, the cruelty. Now, it only hardened his resolve for vengeance.
He remembered what his father had said before exiling him to the Blightlands, sentencing him to die a slow death among the penal levy. I could protect you. But I will not.
They began to eat. It was a modest feast by noble standards, but far richer than anything Cairon had tasted under this roof as a child. Roast venison, thick stews, honey-glazed turnips. He remembered stealing crusts and gnawing bone ends in the stables while the real family dined in warmth and luxury.
Now, his father tried to impress him. Flatter him.
"The illness has claimed my strength," Edran said between slow bites, his voice fraying like worn cloth. "My sons are too young to rule. And yet the keep needs defending. Lord Avenlock grows bolder. His soldiers encroach on our lands. The king offers no aid, despite our repeated pleas for royal intervention."
"I have heard of your house's misfortunes," Cairon replied gently. "You have my sympathies."
He knew exactly why he was being courted. Why the Vaels treated him as a guest of honor. Why a feast was held in his name. Kael Viremont was worth armies. His men, the Blackcoils, were seasoned killers, and their name alone could keep raiders at bay. House Vael was dying, and Lord Edran hoped to buy salvation with wine and charm.
But the Blackcoils were not cheap. And Cairon was not here for kindness. House Vael had no coin for mercenaries. So Lord Vael tried to win him through gesture. Pay in politeness. In wine. In daughters.
"My daughters, Aelis and Mira," Lord Edran continued, "are young now, but they will flower soon. They are nobleborn and well bred. I must find them worthy husbands in due time. What of you, Lord Viremont? Are you wed?"
Cairon turned to look at the girls. His half-sisters. Their perfect posture. Their youthful smiles. Then he looked back at their father. His voice remained pleasant. "No. I have been occupied building my fortune and my company."
"Perhaps it is time to find a wife," Edran suggested. His tone was casual, but the meaning was clear. "A younger girl of noble birth, perhaps. I myself was twelve years older than my lady wife when we wed. She was untouched. Fourteen at the time. And as you can see, our marriage has been quite fruitful."
Cairon saw the flicker of discomfort in Isolde's perfect face. The subtle bite of her lip. The way her eyes avoided her husband's. Lord Vael saw a woman who had given him four healthy children and fulfilled her role. Isolde had lived a very different story. Forced into marriage young. Treated as a womb, nothing more. Now trapped with a man too weak to even fuck her.
She said nothing. But Cairon watched her.
"Personally," he said, raising his goblet with a light laugh, "I prefer older women. Their beauty is more ripened. Their minds stronger. I lost my mother very young, you see. Perhaps that is why I have always longed for a woman who might offer something of a mother's affection."
His words were directed at the table, but his eyes were locked on Isolde.
She looked at him, frozen. Then she smiled, just a little. The hint of it curled at the corners of her painted lips. She understood. She liked what she heard.
Lord Vael exhaled with mild disappointment. His little game had failed.
Cairon gave his father a reassuring look. "Still, your house's plight moves me, Lord Vael. Perhaps my company and I might help you after all." Lord Vael's eyes lit up, the hunger of a dying man who sees food in reach. But Cairon had already turned his attention. His gaze rested fully on his young stepmother now. "Perhaps we could speak more of this later. You look tired, Lord Vael."
"Yes, husband," Isolde said gently, her voice like silk on glass. "You need rest. If you strain yourself too much, you will grow weaker." She turned to Cairon. Her eyes were bold now. Her voice warmer. "I will speak with Lord Viremont in your place, my lord. We must secure the safety of our house."
Cairon inclined his head in mock respect. "Of course. I would be honored to speak with the lady of the keep."
He smiled as Lord Vael was helped away by servants.
The table emptied. The fire dimmed.
Cairon smiled darkly in satisfaction. His hated stepmother was unknowingly falling for the bastard stepson she had once so cruelly abused. Soon, she would be completely under his power.