Chapter 31
A Bittersweet Memory
Three and a Half Months Ago
Caspian hated balls.
He stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, watching nobles swirl across the marble floor in their elaborate dances, and wished he was anywhere else. The northern border. A battlefield. Even doing paperwork in his study would be preferable to this.
"Stop scowling," his mother said quietly, appearing at his elbow with a glass of wine. "You're frightening the debutantes."
"Good," Caspian said.
"Caspian," Duchess Genevieve sighed. "You need to at least try to be sociable. Your father and I didn't drag you to the capital just so you could stand in corners looking menacing."
"I excel at looking menacing."
"Yes, but you could excel at it while also making polite conversation," his mother said. "Come. The Holloways are here. Earl Holloway is an old friend of your father's."
Caspian suppressed another sigh and followed his mother across the ballroom, his father falling into step beside them. The crowd parted automatically, nobles stepping back with poorly concealed nervousness.
He was used to it. Had been dealing with it since his powers manifested at age seven and he'd accidentally reshaped his entire nursery into a fortress of stone and metal.
The Butcher of the North. The Frost Reaper. Winter's Blade.
He'd heard all the titles. Knew exactly what people whispered when they thought he couldn't hear.
Monster. Killer. Dangerous.
They weren't entirely wrong.
Earl Holloway saw them approaching and straightened, his expression shifting to that particular blend of nervousness and forced courtesy that most nobles adopted around Caspian's family.
"Lord Holloway," his father said in that cold, formal tone. "Countess Holloway. A pleasure."
Pleasantries were exchanged. Caspian paid minimal attention, his gaze drifting over the assembled family until it landed on the daughter.
Lady Caroline Holloway.
She was beautiful—he noticed that immediately. Honey blonde hair arranged in elegant curls, an emerald gown that complemented her amber eyes, delicate features that suggested nobility and breeding.
But it was her expression that caught his attention.
She wasn't looking at him with fear or calculation or that mix of fascination and revulsion he'd grown accustomed to.
She was looking at him with... curiosity. Assessment. As if he were a puzzle to be solved rather than a threat to be avoided.
"This is our son, Caspian Vanthorn, Duke of Vanthorn," his mother said warmly. "Caspian, dear, Lady Caroline is Lord Jasper's sister. You remember Lord Jasper from the Academy?"
"Briefly," Caspian said. "Before I was asked to leave."
Silence fell, as it always did when someone mentioned his abbreviated Academy education.
People never knew what to say. How to acknowledge that the Academy—the most prestigious magical institution in the kingdom—had politely but firmly requested that Caspian continue his education elsewhere because his unique powers were too dangerous to teach alongside other students.
Lady Caroline, apparently, had no such hesitation.
"I heard you destroyed three training halls," she said.
Caspian felt his eyebrows rise slightly. Her mother made a strangled sound. Her father's face went pale.
But Lady Caroline just looked at him, waiting for an answer, as if she'd asked about the weather.
"Two training halls and the dueling arena," Caspian corrected.
"On purpose?"
Was she... was she actually asking him this? In the middle of a formal introduction? With both their parents listening?
"The first one was an accident," Caspian said, deciding to answer honestly. "The other two were... requested demonstrations."
"Of your Matter Manipulation?" Lady Caroline asked, and there was genuine interest in her voice.
"Caroline," her mother hissed.
Caspian's father stepped in, his voice glacial. "Perhaps we should discuss more appropriate topics."
"Why?" Lady Caroline turned to face Duke Winterhelm directly. "Everyone already knows about it. Everyone talks about it behind your backs anyway. At least I'm being direct."
Caspian stared at her.
She'd just... she'd just called out the social hypocrisy that everyone pretended didn't exist. To a duke. To his face.
Either she was incredibly brave or incredibly foolish.
Possibly both.
"Caroline," her father said urgently. "Apologize."
"For what? Being honest?" Lady Caroline looked back at Caspian. "They call you The Butcher of the North. The Frost Reaper. Winter's Blade. I've heard at least a dozen terrifying titles attached to your name."
Her mother looked ready to faint.
Caspian waited for the usual fear to follow. For Lady Caroline to realize what she'd said and backtrack desperately.
Instead, she continued.
"But rumors are just rumors," she said. "People exaggerate. They fear what they don't understand. I don't believe everything I hear."
Something shifted in Caspian's chest.
She didn't believe everything she heard.
This noble lady, standing in a ballroom full of people who whispered about him in terror, was looking him in the eye and saying she didn't automatically believe the worst.
"You don't believe the rumors," Caspian said slowly, testing.
"Some of them are obviously ridiculous," Lady Caroline said. "Like the one where you supposedly killed a hundred men with a thought. That's clearly impossible. Maybe twenty. Thirty at most."
Caspian felt his mouth twitch.
Was she... was she actually calculating the plausible limits of his killing capacity? As if it were a math problem?
"Thirty," he repeated.
"Well, I don't know the exact limits of Matter Manipulation," Lady Caroline admitted with complete seriousness. "But a hundred seems excessive. People always exaggerate numbers when they're frightened."
His mother was smiling now. Actually smiling. His father's expression had thawed slightly from glacial to merely cool.
And Caspian found himself... intrigued.
"Lady Caroline," his mother said. "How refreshing to meet someone so... forthright."
The conversation continued, Lady Caroline's parents attempting damage control while she remained cheerfully unrepentant about her brutal honesty.
Caspian watched her, fascinated despite himself.
She wasn't performing. Wasn't calculating her words for maximum political advantage. She was just... saying what she thought.
When was the last time someone had done that around him?
"You're not afraid," Caspian observed.
Lady Caroline looked him up and down with that same assessing gaze. "Of you? Should I be? Have you killed anyone at a ball recently?"
"Not recently, no."
"Then I think I'm safe," she said. "Besides, you're here with your mother. I can't imagine The Butcher of the North doing anything to upset his mother at a formal event."
His mother laughed—actually laughed.
And Caspian felt something unfamiliar stirring. Something that might have been... hope?
Here was someone who looked at him and saw a person. Not a weapon. Not a monster. Just a man with an unfortunate reputation and an overprotective mother.
"You mentioned my titles," Caspian said, surprising himself. "Do you have a preference?"
Lady Caroline considered this with the same seriousness she'd applied to his kill count. "The Frost Reaper is the most poetic. Winter's Blade has a nice ring to it. But The Butcher of the North is the most honest, isn't it? You do kill a lot of things."
"Monsters," Caspian corrected quietly. "I kill monsters."
"Blightspawn," Lady Caroline said, nodding. "The corrupted creatures from the wasteland. I've read about them."
She'd read about the Blight. Actually studied the threat his family spent generations containing.
"You've read about the Blight?" Caspian asked.
"I like to know what's actually happening in the kingdom," Lady Caroline said. "Not just court gossip and fashion trends. The Blight is spreading. Someone has to contain it. That's your family's responsibility, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Then the titles make sense," she said simply. "You're not a monster. You're just doing what needs to be done. People fear you because you're effective at killing things that need to be killed. It's practical, really."
Practical.
She'd just summarized his entire existence—the killing, the fear, the isolation—as practical.
No one had ever done that before.
"Would you like to dance, Lady Caroline?" The words were out before Caspian fully processed the impulse.
He wanted to know more about this strange, honest woman who wasn't afraid of him. Who looked at The Butcher of the North and saw someone doing necessary work rather than a monster to be feared.
"I... yes," Lady Caroline said, looking surprised. "Yes, I would."
She took his offered arm, and Caspian led her toward the dance floor, acutely aware of every eye in the ballroom tracking their movement.
Let them stare. He was used to it.
The music began—a formal waltz. Caspian placed his hand at Lady Caroline's waist, took her hand in his, and began to lead.
She followed perfectly, her movements graceful and practiced.
"They're all staring," she observed.
"They always stare," Caspian said.
"Doesn't it bother you?"
"I've grown accustomed to it."
They moved together across the floor, and Caspian found himself genuinely enjoying the dance. When was the last time he'd enjoyed anything at these tedious events?
"I should probably apologize," Lady Caroline said. "For being so blunt with your parents."
"Don't," Caspian said, and meant it. "It was... refreshing."
"That's what your mother said."
"She's right." His hand tightened slightly at her waist. "Most people can barely look at me without flinching. You looked me in the eye and told me my kill count was probably exaggerated."
"Well, it probably is," Lady Caroline said matter-of-factly. "People are terrible at accurate record-keeping when they're terrified."
Caspian smiled—actually smiled. Small, but genuine.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled at a ball.
"Why aren't you afraid?" he asked quietly.
"Should I be?" she countered.
"Most people think so."