Chapter 12 Rumours and Relics
Chapter twelve
Rumours and Relics
The gossip spread faster than spilled wine on silk. Courtiers whispered in alcoves, servants traded rumors in the kitchens. Aerion Valemont—who once prided himself on silk sheets, perfumed oils, and bedmates chosen for beauty alone—was said to spend his nights in the barracks.
The truth was simpler, and stranger.
Sometimes, when the keep’s halls pressed too tight, when laughter grated like glass and wine soured in his throat, Aerion would leave the grand wing entirely.
He’d sweep down the servants’ stair in his robe and boots, clutching a half-empty bottle, ignoring the startled bows of guards who knew better than to speak.
The barracks smelled of steel and leather, of sweat ground deep into wood.
It was no place for a lord, much less for the heir of Valemont.
The men slept in rows of narrow cots, the air thick with snoring.
At the far end lay Clyde’s small chamber—a stone box barely wider than its cot, with a trunk, a basin, and nothing else.
Aerion would slip inside and shut the door.
The first time, he nearly staggered at the scent. Smoke and oiled steel. Cloth worn soft by years of use. The faintest trace of leather. It hit him harder than any perfume.
He collapsed onto the cot with a groan, the mattress thin and unyielding beneath him. His robe trailed to the floor, his goblet spilled. He buried his face in the pillow and inhaled until the ache in his chest eased just enough to breathe.
“This is pathetic,” he muttered into the fabric, though his throat tightened. “Pathetic, Aerion.”
But still he stayed.
Nights like that became a ritual. He’d drink too much, laugh too loud at supper, and then vanish—slipping into Clyde’s empty chamber like a thief, curling onto the cot as if the man might return and find him there.
He pressed the pillow to his chest, as if it were broad shoulders, as if it were warmth.
Some nights, the tears came quick. Others, he only lay there, awake until dawn, whispering words he’d never let himself write.
Once, Heston found him stumbling back to his own chambers at sunrise, cloak askew, hair tangled. The butler only bowed. His silence said everything: I saw. I know. I will not speak of it.
But the courtiers noticed. They always did.
The salon was thick with perfume and firelight, heavy curtains drawn against the winter chill. Gold-trimmed fans snapped open and shut with the precision of swords, though the blows they dealt were softer, more poisonous.
Lady Marrisol sat at the centre of it all, a pale jewel draped in violet silk. Her hair gleamed in glossy curls, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. She held her glass of sugared wine delicately between painted nails, as though even lifting it was an act of theatre.
Around her, a small flock of courtiers leaned in—hungry, eager, ready to feed on whatever morsel she dropped.
“I heard,” Marrisol began, her tone light as air, though her eyes glinted, “that Lord Aerion no longer sleeps in his own chambers.”
Fans fluttered. Heads tilted closer.
“Oh?” breathed one young lord, feigning disinterest with a sip of brandy. “And where, pray, does our peacock roost?”
Marrisol’s lips curved. “In the barracks.” She let the word drip, scandal made flesh. “In a knight’s room.”
Gasps circled the salon like ripples on water.
“A knight?” another lady tittered. “Gods preserve us—why lower himself so? Unless…” Her voice trailed, teasing, inviting.
“Unless,” Marrisol echoed sweetly, drawing the word like honey, “he finds the scent of sweat and steel more comforting than silks. They say he carries wine with him, stumbles into the room at night, and collapses onto the cot like a pilgrim seeking relics.”
A hand flew to painted lips. Laughter followed, sharp and knowing.
Baron Faele leaned forward, heavy with jewels, his smile curling cruel. “I do believe our dear Aerion has found himself a hunting dog to keep him warm. Fitting, don’t you think? A peacock trailing after his hound.”
More laughter. Coy, vicious.
“They say he buries his face in the pillow,” Marrisol added, her tone rich with false innocence. “Can you imagine? Lord Valemont, the pride of court, clinging to the stench of a soldier?”
“Oh, I can,” Faele said with relish, raising his goblet. “And I daresay it suits him. Even peacocks must roost somewhere low.”
The circle dissolved into a chorus of giggles and murmurs, the scandal swelling like a tide.
But then—
The doors opened.
And Aerion stepped into the salon.
He wore black velvet cut razor-sharp, his hair pulled sleek, his eyes glittering with cold fire. The room fell silent so suddenly it was as though the storm had stepped inside. Fans stilled. Wine glasses froze halfway to lips.
“Please,” Aerion said, his smile faint, terrible. “Don’t hush on my account. I do so love to hear what rats squeak when they think the hawk’s away.”
Lady Marrisol paled, her fan trembling in her fingers. Baron Faele coughed, wine choking in his throat. The rest scattered like crows from carrion, their laughter dying in their mouths.
Aerion lingered only a heartbeat longer, his gaze cutting sharper than steel, before he moved on—leaving silence in his wake.
That night, he found himself once again in Clyde’s chamber, stretched across the cot, the pillow hugged tight to his chest. The barracks echoed with distant snores and the clink of guards changing shifts. Aerion whispered into the dark, his voice raw with drink and longing:
“Come back to me, Hound.”
The stone walls gave no answer.
But he pretended the silence was a vow.
The sun rose pale and thin over Valemont Keep, its light dripping weakly through the frost-rimed windows of the great hall.
Courtiers gathered early, drawn like flies to honey whenever rumor promised spectacle.
Word had spread: three suitors, each bold enough to offer their hand to Lord Aerion himself.
The hall buzzed. Perfumed whispers twisted between gilded pillars, lords and ladies murmuring wagers about which man the peacock prince might choose. Some spoke of politics, others of scandal, but all of them leaned forward with greedy eyes.
Aerion arrived late, of course.
He swept into the hall draped in emerald silk that clung to his frame like water, his collarbones shimmering with faint dustings of gold powder.
His hair, tied loosely, fell in shining waves over one shoulder.
He carried no sword, only a goblet of dark wine, and his smile was the kind that made courtiers hold their breath.
“Do forgive me,” he drawled, settling onto his father’s vacant throne as if it were a chaise in his bedchamber. “I was busy admiring myself in the mirror. But let’s not waste time—present these men who would be shackled to me.”
The southern duke’s son stepped forward, broad-shouldered and bronzed, with hair like burnished copper. He knelt, presenting a coffer of gilded trinkets: pearls, rare silks, a dagger hilted in ivory.
“My lord,” he said, voice resonant, trained for halls like this. “My father sends these gifts as tokens of peace and prosperity. He asks you to join our houses in marriage, to unite north and south under one bond stronger than blood.”
The courtiers sighed, nodding approval. It was sensible. It was profitable.
Aerion leaned forward, sipped his wine, and let silence coil before he spoke.
“Your father wants my land, not my love.”
The words rang, sharp as a sword unsheathed.
Gasps rippled through the room. The suitor’s face coloured, but Aerion only smiled faintly and flicked his hand. “Next.”
The emissary stepped forward: slight, doe-eyed, with a voice like spun silk.
He carried no treasure, only parchment in hand.
He bowed low, then began reciting poetry in a tongue foreign and sweet, his words painting skies and rivers, stars and blossoms. He spoke of devotion, of beauty unmatched, of a love that would honour and elevate.
A few ladies dabbed their eyes. Some whispered of romance, of softness.
Aerion tipped his head, bored.
When the emissary finally finished, flushing with earnest pride, Aerion’s laugh cut through the hush like shattered glass.
“I can recite prettier things to my own mirror.”
The emissary’s lips parted, stricken. Aerion tilted his goblet, spilling a single crimson drop onto the stone floor. “And my mirror would not bore me half as long. Next.”
The hall’s attention shifted as a man strode forward in armour chased with silver, every step ringing against the marble.
He was stern, older than the others, his cloak embroidered with sigils that boasted of heritage traced back through five kings.
Behind him, a retainer unfurled a parchment boasting of a warship—a vessel armed to carve seas and cow nations.
He bowed stiffly, chin raised. “My lord, I offer not trinkets nor verse, but legacy. Together, we would stand as crown to crown. Your lands secured, your reign made unshakable.”
Murmurs surged, hungry with approval. Security. Power.
Aerion studied him, eyes narrowing. Slowly, he stood, his emerald robe pooling at his feet, his silhouette a flame against the cold light.
“If I wanted a crown without affection,” he said, voice soft but cutting, “I’d marry my title.”
The silence that followed was thunderous. The suitor stiffened, jaw tight. Aerion only lifted his goblet, drank deep, and sank lazily back into his throne.
The suitors departed, their pride bruised, their gifts spurned.
The courtiers whispered like sparrows, their murmurs flitting from ear to ear: He’s mad. He’s brilliant. He’s reckless. He’s untouchable.
But Aerion heard none of it.
His gaze drifted east, beyond marble walls and painted ceilings, beyond suitors with crowns and poems. His fingers tightened around the goblet until the stem creaked.
What good were silks, ships, or crowns when the only man he wanted had already given him an oath? When the only presence he craved stood somewhere in the snow, far from his reach?