The ink hadn't even dried on the contract when the summons arrived.
Two days after striking his first deal, a liveried courier from the Count's estate stood at the front gate, scroll in hand, bearing the regional seal. The servants treated it like a gift delivered by gods. They hovered around it, whispering, casting glances toward the main hall where Lord Varnhart waited.
Leonel knew better.
When the butler found him in the old workshop, still hunched over spare pen frames, there was no ceremony. Just a stiff nod and four clipped words.
"Your father requests you."
Leonel wiped the ink from his hands and followed without speaking.
The solar was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the bright afternoon sun. Lord Varnhart stood by the long window, scroll opened in one hand, a glass of something dark and sharp in the other.
He didn't look up as Leonel entered.
"You will attend," his father said, voice flat. "There will be no discussion."
Leonel stayed silent, crossing the room with even steps until he stood a few paces from the desk.
"You'll wear the house colors. You'll stand straight. You will not disgrace us further."
Lord Varnhart's gaze cut to him finally, cold and unwavering.
Leonel met it without flinching.
It wasn't a request. It wasn't even an order worth debating.
It was a sentence.
He accepted it the only way he could—by reaching for the folded invitation on the desk and sliding it into his coat without a word.
That, at least, seemed to satisfy the old man.
Leonel turned and left the solar, boots clicking once on the polished stone, the sound swallowed instantly by the heavy silence that had ruled the estate long before he was ever born.
The servants came like vultures the next morning, armed with cloth and brushes and critical eyes.
They scrubbed him raw—face, hands, boots, even nails—like filth could be scoured from blood. Two of them argued quietly over whether the blue or the silver waistcoat best disguised the broadness of his shoulders. The steward, an old man with a spine as stiff as the family's dwindling finances, personally delivered a velvet cloak embroidered with the faded Varnhart crest.
As Leonel dressed, he caught his reflection in the cracked mirror propped against the wardrobe.
The clothes fit.
But they didn't belong.
Not yet.
The carriage ride to the Count's manor was stiff and silent. Lord Varnhart sat opposite him, reading a ledger in the dim light of the cabin. No words passed between them. None were needed.
Outside, the world blurred in autumn colors—rusted gold, deep red, dying green.
Banner poles lined the road, each one bearing a different crest. Some Leonel recognized from dusty history books; others were newer, stitched recently enough that the embroidery still shone.
Each was a reminder.
A scoreboard of whose favor rose, and whose collapsed.
House Varnhart's banner had not flown on this road for years.
The Count's manor loomed ahead—a grand estate of white stone, high-arched windows, and a sprawling garden hedged in tight by marble statues. Carriages lined the drive. Servants rushed to and fro, unloading guests too important to wait.
Leonel stepped down from the carriage when it jolted to a halt, ignoring the footman's offered hand. He adjusted the cloak at his shoulders, feeling its weight, feeling every eye slide toward him in quiet, sharpened recognition.
Two guards at the gate didn't stop him.
They didn't bow either.
Inside, the ballroom spread out in a wave of warm candlelight, polished marble, and music floating like silk over the murmured conversations. Nobles clustered in careful groups around tables laden with wine and spiced meats. Laughter chimed off stone walls, too sharp, too brittle.
Leonel stood still just past the threshold.
For a breath, he simply existed.
Then the murmurs began.
Soft at first. Like dust brushing across old floors.
Varnhart.
The drunk heir.
The fool's son.
They rippled through the hall, invisible but tangible, brushing cold fingers against the back of his neck.
Leonel moved forward, steps even, posture straight. He ignored the sidelong glances, the whispering lips hidden behind jeweled fans, the smirks poorly concealed behind crystal goblets.
He was no one here.
And everyone knew it.
A servant approached with a tray of wine. Leonel took a glass to keep his hands occupied but didn't drink. The heavy scent of spices filled his lungs. It clung to the back of his throat like a weight.
He drifted along the edge of the gathering, neither inserting himself into conversation nor shrinking from notice.
The ballroom's heart pulsed with political games, invisible knives flashing behind smiles and toasts.
It would be so easy to stumble here. One wrong word. One slip. One reminder of the idiot they all believed him to be.
Leonel lifted the goblet to his lips but didn't drink, letting the motion serve as camouflage.
He let their laughter wash over him without letting it sink in.
Around him, the dance of noble power played out like an old song played too many times. The eldest sons boasting of hunting tournaments. Daughters maneuvering behind veils of wit. Alliances stitched and unstitched with casual cruelty.
And through it all, the echo of his own name.
A thousand knives without a blade.
Leonel adjusted the cuffs of his jacket and stepped further into the light, every gaze slicing across him like glass.
The goblet at his side felt heavier now. He kept it low, ignored the sting building in the back of his throat. No need to drink. No need to react.
Movement caught his eye — a cluster of younger nobles gathering near the far alcove, their laughter cutting sharper than the music.
Leonel angled his steps toward them, blending into the flow of circulating guests. His boots tapped softly against marble, the noise drowned under the clink of glasses and the rustle of expensive fabrics.
He wasn't looking for a fight.
He was listening.
And already, through the hum of the ballroom, voices started to pierce the noise — familiar ones, too casual, too cruel to be safe.
Leonel shifted closer to the edge of the gathering, the wine untouched in his hand, and waited for the first real blow to come.