"Shina… you, you are indeed a great actor."

The thought slithered across Aiden's mind as he caught her once more from the corner of his vision—the slim waist, the trembling lips, the tears that shimmered in candlelight like dew on glass.

Her face wore sorrow like a veil, fragile, convincing, yet her spirit sang a different hymn.

Beneath the performance he tasted excitement, a raw pulse of desire that betrayed her every practiced gesture.

His lips curved, but he forced his gaze away. Not now. Not yet.

He drew a breath, steadying the storm within him, and turned his attention to the Baron.

"Baron… would you please," Aiden said softly, gesturing with a slight tilt of his head, leading him toward a quieter corner.

The older man followed, his steps slow, unsteady, as if every pace weighed tenfold more than it should.

His eyes were vacant, emptied wells of grief. Despair clung to him like mildew to stone, rancid and inescapable.

Aiden's mind coiled with a cruel whisper: Haa… it is because your son dared reach for what was mine. If you had raised him better, he might have learned not to covet stars above his grasp. But you did not. And so—here we are.

The thought lingered, cold and vicious, but his expression softened as easily as a blade sheathed.

"Baron, I grieve for you. I truly do," Aiden said, voice heavy with honey. Smooth, practiced. A liturgy of lies.

The Baron's gaze twitched, faint life stirring.

"You… grieve?" the older man rasped, his voice hoarse, as though disbelief itself weighed down his throat.

"Your son," Aiden continued, lowering his voice, letting silence and sincerity weave around each word. "He was a good lad. We talked, he and I."

The Baron's eyes widened. He stepped closer, his hands trembling. "Really…? What did he say?"

Aiden let silence fall for a heartbeat, perhaps two. The chamber beyond them hummed with laughter and clinking goblets, but here, in this carved-out stillness, only grief breathed.

He leaned closer, watching Meliodas's desperate golden eyes search his face as if to drink the last truth he might ever hear of his son.

"He was innocent," Aiden said at last, voice low, gentle. "He did not speak the words the commander claims. Not those. In truth the commander wanted glory… and he got it."

The Baron's lips parted, trembling. "Glory? Then he… he did not…?"

"No." Aiden shook his head slowly, gravely. "He did not die a coward. He died a knight, even if the world denies him that."

The words landed like stones in water, spreading ripples across the Baron's hollow soul. His hands clutched his robe, desperate for anchor.

Aiden pressed further, tilting his head as though reluctant to continue. "The truth was twisted, Baron. The commander—" He stopped, letting the implication hang like a noose.

The Baron clenched his fists, voice cracking. "Those bastards… they will not even leave me his honor?"

Aiden lowered his eyes, lips tightening in manufactured pain. Perfect. Let the fire kindle in him.

"Like I told you i do not like the corruption festering within the Leonidus fief," Aiden said, his voice soft but sharp, each word a blade hidden in silk. "I cannot abide it. And so—after I am knighted, when I am transferred to the brotherhood, to the garrison—I will need your help."

The Baron blinked, startled. "My… help?"

"Yes." Aiden lifted his gaze, meeting him eye to eye, letting sincerity shine like polished gold. "You know the currents here. You know the men who will twist truth for coin, who will stain honor for power. With your guidance… perhaps I can prevent another father from standing where you stand tonight."

The Baron's lips quivered, tears trembling at the edge of his lashes. "You… you would do that? For him?"

"For him. For all of us," Aiden answered smoothly. "Your son's death will not be wasted, Baron. Not while I breathe."

The older man staggered a half step, as though the words had pierced him deeper than any blade.

Then, slowly, his hand rose and clasped Aiden's shoulder. The grip was weak, trembling—but his voice, for the first time that night, was firm.

"Indeed… you remind me of him. Truly. You and my son… you look alike."

Aiden's smile held, though laughter clawed inside him—sharp, cruel, incredulous. Alike? That beaver-toothed boy and me? That scrap of clay and I, carved from lightning? It is heaven and earth, fool. But let you think it. Let the bond deepen.

"I will not fail him," Aiden whispered instead, letting the Baron drown in the comfort.

The two spoke on, threads of grief and pretense weaving into shallow comfort, until the noise of the hall shifted. The air itself thickened with anticipation. The ceremony neared its peak.

Aiden excused himself with practiced grace, leaving the Baron still caught between sorrow and fragile hope, and strode back to the hall's center.

The knights gathered there—twenty-five in all, drawn from fiefs across the realm. They stood in ranks, armored yet unblooded, waiting for the moment steel and title would bind them to history.

Among them, Aiden stood alone. Not in body—others pressed close, their armor brushing shoulders, their breath warm in the torch-lit chamber—but in presence. In aura.

He felt it ripple even before he saw it.

The women noticed first. Whispers rose like the rustle of silk. Eyes slid from commanders, from courtiers, from men draped in polished honor, and found him.

His beauty cut like a drawn blade, sharper than the sword belted at his hip. Their glances lingered, stolen yet brazen, filled with curiosity and hunger.

Even those who had been laughing with the commander now faltered, their smiles dimming, their gazes drifting, drawn like moths to flame.

Aiden felt their stares, their longing, their fear. And for a moment, he let his golden eyes gleam, just enough for the nearest to catch the glint.

One lady gasped, quiet as a prayer. Another lowered her gaze too quickly, as though burned.

Inside him, a pulse stirred—not of pride, but of inevitability. This is the current. I do not swim against it. I become the river itself.

The ceremony drum began to sound—a deep, slow thunder echoing through the vaulted hall.

The air grew heavy.

And as the first note struck, Aiden's thoughts shifted, dark and clear. All of this—this pageantry, these hollow vows—is theater. But theater is power. And I am no mere actor. I am the hand that writes the script. Cause I know the script. Until chapter 140 of course.

The knights bowed as one. Torches hissed with smoke. Outside, the wind carried the faint scent of rain.

Aiden lowered his head, though his eyes still gleamed, watching through strands of his hair.

He felt the Baroness's stare upon him even now—hungry, trembling, her sorrow-mask cracking with every beat of the drum.

The moment was not yet his. But soon.

Very soon.

She will get what she wants.

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