Two Years Later Veritas Main Estate - The Crimson Ballroom

The chandelier cost more than most people's houses. Each crystal had been hand-cut by master craftsmen, enchanted to catch and multiply candlelight into something that looked like captured stars. It hung over a ballroom that could comfortably hold three hundred nobles, though tonight it held only fifty.

A "small gathering," the elders had called it.

Avian stood by the food table, systematically destroying what had probably been an artistic arrangement of tiny, pretentious foods. He picked up something that might have been a sandwich if sandwiches were the size of coins and cost more than swords.

Fucking worthless, he thought, eating three in rapid succession. Who makes food this small? Are we feeding nobles or mice?

At fifteen, he'd grown into his frame in a way that made the servants whisper. Six feet two inches of lean muscle, with the kind of sharp, aristocratic features that portrait painters dreamed about. His dark hair fell perfectly even though he'd barely run his fingers through it, and his storm-blue eyes had a weight to them that made people step back when he looked directly at them. The formal suit—midnight blue with silver threading—had been tailored to perfection, making him look every inch the noble heir.

He still felt like a fraud wearing it.

"You're doing it wrong," Elira murmured from beside him, appearing with her usual supernatural timing. She held a plate properly, with the kind of posture that suggested years of practice.

"Eating?"

"Existing at a party. You're supposed to mingle, not assault the canapés."

"The canapés started it by being tiny and useless." He grabbed another handful of whatever these were supposed to be. "Who invented food that takes more energy to pick up than you get from eating it?"

"The same people who invented seventeen different forks." Her smile was patient, the expression of someone who'd been having this argument for two years. "Which you still refuse to learn."

"I know how to use a fork. Stabbing end goes in food. Food goes in mouth. System works."

"There are different forks for different—"

"Still stupid."

Across the ballroom, the dance instructor—a woman who looked like she'd been pickled in propriety—was trying to teach the younger nobles some new dance from the capital. Avian watched them spin and bow and simper with the kind of fascination usually reserved for watching buildings burn down.

"Lord Veritas will be expecting you to participate," Elira said, following his gaze.

"Lord Veritas can expect a lot of things. Doesn't mean they'll happen."

"You've been taking lessons for six months."

"Against my will."

"Lady Montclair says you're actually quite good when you apply yourself."

"Lady Montclair is a liar and possibly insane." He grabbed what might have been a tiny cake or a large button. "She said I have 'natural grace.' I tried to tell her it's just muscle memory from not dying, but apparently that's 'inappropriate ballroom conversation.'"

"Imagine that."

The ballroom doors opened with the kind of fanfare that suggested someone important had arrived. Or at least someone who thought they were important. Avian didn't bother looking—if they needed his attention, they'd make it known.

"That's Lord Cloveborn," Elira informed him quietly. "Your father's old war companion. They're one of our closest allied families."

"Fantastic. More people to disappoint with my table manners."

But then a voice cut through the ballroom chatter, clear and irritated.

"Father, you said this would be a quick visit. This looks decidedly not quick."

A girl about his age stood in the doorway, and the temperature seemed to rise a few degrees. Red hair fell in waves past her shoulders—not the orange-red of autumn leaves, but deep crimson like embers in a dying fire. She wore a dress of gold and scarlet that managed to be both perfectly proper and somehow suggested she'd rather be in training clothes. Her green eyes swept the room with the kind of assessment usually reserved for battlefield terrain.

Pretty, Avian noted clinically. Also looked like she'd rather be anywhere else. He could respect that.

"That is Lady Canaline Cloveborn," Elira whispered. "Fire mage. Fifth Circle, which is exceptional for her age."

"Good for her."

The girl—Cana—was still arguing with her father, a bear of a man who looked like he'd been stuffed into formal clothes under protest. "One hour, Cana. We pay our respects to Lord Veritas, maintain our alliance, and leave."

"You said that about the last party. We were there until dawn."

"That was different. Someone challenged me to a drinking contest."

"Someone always challenges you to a drinking contest."

Avian found himself almost smiling. At least someone else understood the torture of noble gatherings.

Then Cana's gaze swept across the room and landed on him. Her eyes narrowed slightly, taking in his position by the food table, the way he was eating directly from the serving platters, and his general air of not giving a single fuck about proper etiquette.

She walked over with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested incoming confrontation.

"You're eating from the serving platters," she said without preamble.

"Yes."

"That's not how it's done."

"It's how I'm doing it."

Her eyebrows rose slightly. "You're supposed to take a plate, select items carefully, and eat with the proper utensils."

"That sounds like a lot of work for tiny food." He picked up another micro-sandwich, making direct eye contact as he ate it. "This is more efficient."

"It's uncivilized."

"Good thing I'm not trying to be civilized then."

A flush of color rose in her cheeks, and the air around her actually shimmered with heat. "Do you have any idea how—"

"Cana." Lord Cloveborn's voice carried across the space between them, warm and amused. He approached with the easy confidence of someone who'd survived enough battles to find social gatherings boring. "Making friends already?"

"Father, this person is eating directly from—"

"Smart lad," Lord Cloveborn interrupted, grabbing a handful of tiny foods himself. "Never saw the point of plates at parties. Food's for eating, not displaying." He looked at Avian with interest. "You'd be one of Aedric's boys. Got the Veritas look about you. The 'I'd rather be training' stance."

"Also the Veritas manners, apparently," Cana muttered.

"Lord Cloveborn." Aedric's voice preceded him, smooth and controlled as always. He materialized from wherever he'd been watching, probably amused by the entire exchange. "I see you've met my son."

"This is your heir?" Lord Cloveborn's bushy eyebrows rose. "The one who killed that Elder death mancer?"

"Among other things." Aedric's tone suggested those other things were both numerous and interesting. "Avian, this is Lord Magnus Cloveborn. We served together during the Border Wars. He's the only person who's ever beaten me in a drinking contest."

"You were poisoned," Lord Cloveborn protested.

"You poisoned me."

"Details." The big man grinned, then looked at Avian with new interest. "So you're the one causing all the fuss. Making the other noble houses nervous. Good. They've gotten soft." He gestured to his daughter. "This is Canaline. Cana. Best fire mage of her generation, though she spends too much time worrying about proper fork placement."

"Father!"

"What? It's true. Yesterday you gave me a twenty-minute lecture about soup spoons."

"Because you were using a dessert spoon!"

"Spoon is spoon."

Avian found himself actually liking Lord Cloveborn. "Exactly. Utensils are just delivery systems for food."

"See?" Lord Cloveborn clapped Avian on the shoulder hard enough to stagger most people. Avian didn't move. "Boy gets it. Cana, you could learn from him."

"Learn what? How to horrify every etiquette instructor in the Empire?" But there was less heat in her voice now, more resignation. Like this was a familiar argument.

"Avian's education has been... selective," Aedric said diplomatically. "He excels in areas that matter."

"Combat," Lord Cloveborn translated. "Good. Too many noble children think dancing is more important than not dying." He grabbed more food from the table. "Speaking of which, how's his training? Marcus mentioned you had Lysander Crowe working with him."

"Had. She declared him 'adequately unkillable' last month."

"High praise from her."

"The highest she's ever given, actually."

While the fathers talked, Cana studied Avian with poorly hidden curiosity. "You're not what I expected," she said quietly.

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more..." She gestured vaguely at the room full of preening nobles. "That."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"I didn't say it was disappointing." A small smile tugged at her lips. "Just unexpected. Mother made you sound like some perfect noble heir. All proper bearing and sophisticated manner."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Your mother hasn't met me."

"Clearly." She paused, then added, "Though she was right about one thing."

"What?"

"You are annoyingly handsome. It's actually unfair that you look like that without trying."

Avian blinked. "I look like someone who got beaten daily for two years."

"Yes, but in a very symmetrical way." She grabbed one of the tiny sandwiches, looked at it with disgust, then ate it properly with delicate fingers. "See? This is how you're supposed to—why are you smiling?"

"You hate it as much as I do."

"I don't hate it. I just think it's inefficient and—" She stopped. "Fine. Yes. It's stupid. But it's what's expected."

"Expected by who?"

"Everyone! Society! People who matter!"

"Do they though? Matter?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, then narrowed her eyes. "You're going to be trouble at the Academy, aren't you?"

"Academy?"

"The Imperial Academy? The place all noble heirs attend? The entire reason our families are allies, so we can look out for each other there?"

"Oh. That." Avian had been trying not to think about it. Three more months of freedom before he had to pretend to care about formal education.

"Yes, 'that.'" She shook her head. "You really don't care about any of this, do you? The politics, the alliances, the careful social dancing?"

"I care about getting stronger. Everything else is just obstacles."

"That's... actually refreshing." She sounded surprised by her own admission. "Most nobles say that but don't mean it. You actually mean it."

"Lying takes too much energy."

Lord Cloveborn's booming laugh interrupted whatever she was going to say. "—and then Aedric says, 'That's not a demon, that's my lieutenant!' Poor bastard had gotten so covered in blood we couldn't tell!"

"To be fair," Aedric said mildly, "he was making inhuman noises."

"He was gargling! The blood was in his throat!"

"Details."

Avian watched his father interact with probably the only person who treated him like a normal human being instead of one of the Five Great Blades. It was strange seeing him relaxed, almost approachable.

"They've been friends for forty years," Cana said, following his gaze. "Father says your father saved his life seventeen times."

"And Lord Cloveborn saved his eighteen times, so he's winning," Aedric added, having heard despite the distance. "Though I dispute the count. That incident in Blackwater shouldn't count—I had it under control."

"You were missing an arm!"

"I still had the other one."

The doors to the ballroom opened again, and Lady Montclair, the dance instructor, clapped her hands with the sharp crack of someone used to being obeyed. "Lords and ladies, the evening's formal dances will now begin. If the younger generation would take their positions..."

Avian started backing toward the nearest exit.

Aedric's hand landed on his shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Bathroom?"

"Try again."

"Death?"

"After you dance. Once. Then you can flee." His grip was light but absolutely immovable. "Consider it payment for letting you skip the last three social gatherings."

"This is cruel and unusual."

"This is necessary. You can't fight your way through every social situation at the Academy."

"I can try."

"No." The word was final. "Lady Canaline, would you be so kind as to ensure my son doesn't accidentally declare war through improper footwork?"

Cana looked between them, amused. "You want me to dance with someone who just called it 'death'?"

"Think of it as a challenge," Lord Cloveborn suggested. "You're always saying you want to test your skills against difficult opponents."

"In combat! Not dancing!"

"Dancing, combat—same thing with different music," Aedric said. "One dance. Then he can return to horrifying people with his table manners."

Cana sighed dramatically, but held out her hand. "Fine. One dance. Try not to step on my feet."

"No promises."

She led him to the dance floor where other young nobles were already paired up, all perfectly positioned like pieces on a game board. The orchestra—because of course there was an orchestra—began playing something slow and formal.

"Right hand on my waist," Cana instructed. "Left hand holds mine. And for the love of all that's holy, don't grip like you're trying to strangle someone."

"This is how I hold a sword."

"I'm not a sword!"

"I noticed. Swords are simpler."

She muttered something that sounded like "insufferable" but adjusted his grip with surprising patience. "Now, you lead. Step forward when—no, MY forward, your backward—other foot—how are you this bad when you're so coordinated in combat?"

"Combat makes sense. This is just walking in circles with extra steps."

"It's not—" She stopped as he stepped on her foot. "Ow."

"Sorry."

"You don't sound sorry."

"I warned you."

Around them, other couples moved in perfect synchronization, all flowing fabric and practiced grace. Avian and Cana looked like someone had thrown two cats in a bag and called it choreography.

"You're thinking too much," she said after he nearly threw her into another couple. "Stop trying to plan eighteen moves ahead."

"That's literally how I stay alive."

"Well, stop it. Dancing is about feeling the music, moving with your partner."

"That sounds like a good way to get stabbed."

"No one's going to stab you at a dance!"

"You don't know that."

She made a frustrated noise that came with a small puff of smoke. "You're impossible. How did Lady Montclair last six months?"

"Wine. Lots of wine."

Despite the disaster, Cana kept trying to guide him through the steps. And slowly—very slowly—something clicked. Not understanding, exactly, but pattern recognition. The music had a rhythm. The steps had a sequence. It was like a very slow, very boring kata.

"Better," Cana admitted as they managed three whole steps without collision. "You're still too stiff, but—"

"Lord Avian!" A feminine voice called out. "Might I have the next dance?"

A girl in white and silver approached—one of those perfectly crafted noble daughters who looked like they'd been bred for ornamental purposes. She batted her eyelashes in what was probably supposed to be alluring.

"No," Avian said flatly.

The girl blinked. "I... what?"

"No. I don't want to dance with you."

"But... but I'm Lady Silviana of House—"

"Don't care."

Cana made a choking sound that might have been suppressed laughter. The rejected girl fled with tears threatening her perfect makeup.

"That was cruel," Cana said, but she was definitely fighting a smile.

"That was honest."

"You can't just tell people no like that!"

"I just did."

"You're going to cause a diplomatic incident."

"Good. Maybe then they'll stop making me come to these things."

The music ended, and Avian immediately stepped back. "There. One dance. I'm done."

"That was barely half a dance!"

"It counts." He was already moving toward the balcony doors. "Thanks for not setting me on fire when I stepped on you."

"It was close!" she called after him, but there was amusement in her voice.

The balcony was blessedly empty and quiet, cold winter air a relief after the stuffy ballroom. Avian leaned against the railing, looking out over the Veritas compound's training grounds. Even in the dark, he could see the scars from two years of Lysander's educational violence.

"That was painful to watch."

He didn't turn. Kai had mentioned he'd try to sneak in tonight—apparently he'd succeeded. "Then don't watch."

Kai emerged from the shadows where he'd probably been the entire evening. His friend had changed over two years—still lean, but with the kind of dangerous edge that came from training with assassins. Raymond had been thorough in his education.

"You know there are easier ways to get out of dancing."

"Like?"

"Poison. Fake injury. Actual injury. Mysterious urgent message requiring immediate attention."

"I'll remember that for next time."

"There won't be a next time. In three months, we'll be at the Academy where dancing is apparently part of the curriculum."

"Fuck."

"Eloquent as always." Kai joined him at the railing. "Lady Cloveborn seems interesting."

"She's bossy."

"She got you to actually attempt dancing. That's basically a miracle." He paused. "Plus, she's quite pretty."

"I hadn't noticed."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm an excellent liar. I just choose not to with you."

"I'm honored." Kai pulled out a flask, took a sip, then offered it to Avian. "Lord Cloveborn brought this. Northern whiskey that could strip paint."

Avian took a drink and immediately regretted it. "Fuck! That's not whiskey, that's liquid hatred."

"Builds character." Kai took the flask back. "So, ready for the Academy?"

"No."

"Good. If you were, I'd be worried." He glanced back toward the ballroom. "By the way, three more ladies are planning to ask you to dance. Also, Lady Silviana's mother is coming to lecture you about rudeness."

"Time to leave then."

"Already arranged. There's a training emergency that requires your immediate attention."

"What emergency?"

"I'll think of something on the way." Kai grinned. "That's what you pay me for, right? Creative solutions?"

"I don't pay you."

"Your father pays me. Same thing." He pushed off from the railing. "Come on. If we go now, we can be gone before—"

"AVIAN VERITAS!"

"Too late," Kai muttered. "The mother found you."

Lady Silviana's mother stood in the doorway like righteousness in silk, practically vibrating with indignation. "How dare you refuse my daughter! Do you have any idea—"

"No," Avian said, walking past her.

"I'm not finished speaking!"

"I am finished listening."

The woman made a sound like an offended peacock. "Your father will hear about this!"

"He's right there," Avian pointed to where Aedric stood with Lord Cloveborn, both watching with poorly hidden amusement. "Tell him. I'm sure he'll care."

He left her sputtering, Kai following while trying not to laugh.

"That was magnificent," Kai said once they were safely away. "Stupid, but magnificent."

"She'll make trouble."

"No, she won't. Your father doesn't care about hurt feelings, and everyone knows it." They reached Avian's quarters, where Elira was already waiting with training clothes. "How did you know?"

"Young master always flees social gatherings at the first opportunity," she said calmly. "I've learned to prepare."

"Am I that predictable?"

"Yes," Kai and Elira said simultaneously.

As Avian changed, he could still hear the music from the ballroom. In three months, he'd be at the Academy, forced to pretend to care about proper noble education. Dancing, etiquette, politics—all the things that made him want to commit violence.

But at least Lady Cloveborn—Cana—would be there. Someone else who understood that the rules were stupid even if she followed them. That was something.

"Young master," Elira said as he headed for the door. "Lady Montclair asked me to remind you that you have dance lessons tomorrow morning."

"I'm going to be sick tomorrow."

"No, you're not."

"I could be."

"I'll drag you there myself if necessary."

"Betrayal, Elira. Pure betrayal."

"Yes, young master." Her smile was serene. "Eight o'clock sharp."

As he left for night training—because hitting things was always better than thinking about feelings—he found himself remembering the brief moment when the dancing had almost made sense. When Cana's hand in his had felt... not terrible.

Fuck, he thought. The Academy is going to be complicated.

Behind him, still at the party, Cana stood with her father watching the nobles spin and gossip.

"So," Lord Cloveborn said. "What do you think of the Veritas heir?"

"He's rude, has no respect for tradition, and actively hostile to basic etiquette."

"But?"

She sighed. "But at least he's honest about it. Do you know how exhausting it is being around people who pretend to care? He just... doesn't."

"Could be worse then."

"Father, he told Lady Silviana 'no' to her face. Just 'no.' No explanation, no excuse, just refusal."

"Good for him."

"Father!"

"What? The girl's insufferable. Her mother's worse." He looked down at his daughter with knowing eyes. "Besides, you like him."

"I absolutely do not!"

"You didn't set anything on fire. That's basically a declaration of love from you."

"I'm going to bed," Cana announced, her hair starting to smoke slightly. "This conversation is over."

"The Academy will be interesting," Lord Cloveborn said to her retreating back.

"I heard that!"

"You were meant to!"

In the ballroom, Aedric and Lord Cloveborn watched their children flee in opposite directions.

"Think they'll kill each other at the Academy?" Lord Cloveborn asked.

"Possibly. But it'll be entertaining either way."

"To entertainment then." Lord Cloveborn raised his glass.

"To survival," Aedric corrected, clinking his own against it. "Theirs and the Academy's."

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