The courtroom of the Duchy of Valthorn reeked of beeswax and self-righteousness. Flickering candles cast dancing shadows on walls adorned with tapestries, each one boasting the glory of a house that, in Cassian's view, clung to its grandeur like a castaway to a rotting plank.
He stood at the center of the room, wrists bound by golden chains—typical of his father. The duke wanted to make an example, but Cassian couldn't help finding it amusing.
'Golden chains? Really? As if gold could disguise the humiliation they're trying to heap on me.'
The high council, a lineup of withered old men and potbellied nobles, stared down from their elevated seats. Their gazes wavered between pity, anger, and barely concealed satisfaction.
Cassian studied them one by one, mentally cataloging their weaknesses, which he'd taken pleasure in uncovering over time.
Lord Maeven, whose mistress was far too young to be discreet. A rosy-cheeked commoner with marked knees, seen slipping into his quarters at hours when curtains should stay still. An exemplary commander, they said, but incapable of keeping his sword sheathed—in every sense.
Lady Veyra, who couldn't hide her taste for wine. A goblet always full in her hand, her speech slurring by the third sip, and a tendency to agree to anything she didn't understand, so long as it came with a flattering smile.
Sister Aldenna, with her pinched face, draped in virtue… and yet. He'd seen her eyes linger too long on a dark-haired young acolyte. She prayed for the salvation of souls but dreamed of soft flesh. A delicious hypocrisy, all the more savory because she thought herself untouchable.
Lord Valen, the treasurer, sweated more in the duke's presence than after his visits to private brothels. He skimmed the accounts with the finesse of a butcher, hiding dubious expenses behind "maintenance works" or "rural subsidies." Cassian had an entire ledger on his "investments" in Yran's brothels.
Lady Ravenn, the magistrate, fancied herself justice incarnate. Cold, rigid, unyielding. But beneath her austerity lurked a visceral fear: that one day, the scandal of her murderous son would resurface. She'd made witnesses disappear. Cassian had found one. He'd made him talk. And write. A sealed letter rested in a chest, far from here.
Lady Elira, his dear aunt… loyal to the throne, loyal to the duke, except when night fell and she slipped into her servants' chambers. She liked to dominate, apparently. Liked a bit of resistance before submission. And she especially liked the idea that it was all a secret. Cassian hadn't particularly enjoyed their sessions, but pleasure is pleasure.
And of course, his dear father, Duke Alaric Valthorn, whose wrinkles seemed deeper since their last argument. The old man sat at the center, his steely gaze fixed on his eldest son, though Cassian caught a flicker of pain in it.
'Poor father. You still think you can save me.'
To his left, his younger brother, Renner, stood straight as a blade, golden hair neatly combed, clad in ceremonial garb. The family's prodigy, a Master Knight, the hero all of Eryndor adored.
Cassian suppressed a smile.
Renner was so predictable, so perfect. It was almost boring.
Beside him, Renner's fiancée, Lady Seraphine, avoided Cassian's gaze. Her cheeks still bore the flush of the humiliation he'd inflicted.
'What a delightful evening that was,' Cassian thought, recalling how he'd orchestrated that scandal, just to see how far he could push the limits.
The heavy silence was broken by the deep voice of Captain Knight Gavren, the loyal watchdog of House Valthorn. The burly, scar-riddled man stepped forward, a stack of parchments in hand. His eyes blazed, as if he dreamed of slitting Cassian's throat himself.
'What a waste of energy.'
Gavren was the kind of man who'd swing a sword when a well-placed word would do.
"Cassian Valthorn," Gavren boomed, his voice echoing through the hall like a hammer's strike, "you are accused of high treason against House Valthorn, attempted murder of your brother, Lord Renner, and dishonoring his fiancée, Lady Seraphine. The evidence is overwhelming."
Cassian raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Silence? Me?" He let out a small laugh, just loud enough to make the more nervous councilors flinch. "Come now, Sir Gavren, you know I'm not one to hold my tongue. But please, enlighten us. What is this overwhelming evidence?"
A murmur rippled through the assembly.
Duke Alaric raised a hand to restore silence, but his gaze remained locked on Cassian.
'You'll never stop staring at me like that, father. The child you knew died long ago.'
Gavren unfurled a parchment and began reading in a monotone, as if reciting a litany. "On the 12th day of the month of Lyr, you were seen conspiring with mercenaries in the underbelly of Luminar. Witnesses claim you ordered them to assassinate Lord Renner during his return from the royal hunt."
Cassian tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips.
The mercenaries. What a useless lot. He'd known from the start they'd fail—Renner was too skilled to fall for such a crude trap. But success wasn't the point. The point was chaos, a crack in House Valthorn's pristine façade. And oh, how that crack had widened.
"Witnesses, you say?" Cassian replied, his voice soft but sharp. "Drunkards from the slums, I presume? Or perhaps disgruntled servants slipped a few coins? You know, Sir Gavren, loyalty is a fragile commodity in Luminar."
Another murmur rose, but Gavren didn't waver. He moved to the next parchment. "On the 20th day of the month of Lyr, you publicly humiliated Lady Seraphine at the Ashen Ball, spreading slanderous rumors and orchestrating a scene that tarnished her reputation and that of House Valthorn."
Cassian couldn't help but grin openly this time.
The Ashen Ball. One of his finest performances. A few well-placed words, a glass spilled at the right moment, and a forged letter slipped into the hands of a nosy noble. Seraphine, with her saintly airs, had collapsed in tears before the entire court, and Renner had looked ready to kill him on the spot.
'What a spectacle,' he thought. He glanced at Seraphine, who clenched her fists, her eyes glinting with restrained fury. 'Who knew you were so fragile? I pity you, brother.'
"Humiliated?" he replied, feigning innocence. "I'd say… enlightened. The court deserved to know that our dear Renner's fiancée isn't as pristine as she claims."
A cry of outrage escaped one of the councilors, and Renner stepped forward, his aura practically crackling. "You dare?" he growled, voice trembling with rage. "You've defiled everything we stand for, Cassian. You're nothing but poison to this house!"
Cassian let out a light, almost musical laugh. "Poison? Oh, Renner, always so dramatic. Let's just say I'm the mirror you all refuse to face."
Duke Alaric slammed his fist on the armrest of his throne, startling the assembly. "Enough!" he roared. His voice still carried the authority of a man who'd once commanded armies, but Cassian heard a crack in it. The old man was tired, worn down by years and the weight of a son who refused to bend. "Cassian, your actions have dishonored our house. You've betrayed your family, your blood. Do you have any idea of the gravity of your crimes?"
Cassian shrugged, the golden chains clinking softly. "Gravity? Father, it's all just a game. You move your pieces, I move mine. Sometimes, you lose a round." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "But I don't stay down for long."
A chilling silence fell over the courtroom. Even Gavren seemed momentarily thrown, his eyes flicking from Cassian to the duke, as if expecting an outburst. But the duke merely closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging slightly. When he opened them, his expression was that of a man who'd made a decision he dreaded.
"Cassian Valthorn," he declared, his voice low but firm, "for your crimes, you are stripped of your title as heir. You are banished from the Duchy of Valthorn and exiled to the Northern Lands, where you will take up the mantle of lord of those frozen wastes. There, you will answer for the governance of that rebellious region, under penalty of death if you fail."
A murmur of disbelief swept through the hall.
The North. The cursed lands, where the cold killed more surely than any blade, where barbarians and wild beasts ruled, where even the bravest lords had perished.
Cassian felt the weight of their gazes—some pitying, others triumphant.
He felt none of it.
The North? A frozen wasteland filled with savages and wretches? It was perfect.
'Oh, father, you think you've punished me. You've given me a kingdom.'
The duke leaned forward. "Have you anything to say, Cassian? A defense, remorse, a plea?"
Cassian raised his head, his lips curling into a bright, almost insolent smile. Then he burst into laughter—clear, provocative, ringing through the hall like an insult. The councilors held their breath, Renner clenched his fists, and even the duke seemed taken aback.
When the laughter faded, Cassian locked eyes with his father, his gaze sparkling with irrepressible mischief.
"What do I have to say, father?" he replied, his voice dripping with amusement. "I had a damn good time."