My Father's Basterd Son

Chapter Two: The Arrival

Chapter Two: The Arrival

Why do we have to stand in the damn snow to welcome a w***e’s son?” Ace muttered, his breath a cloud of fury.

“Protocol,” Alex answered, his voice low, eyes fixed ahead.

“f**k protocol.”

The Duke said nothing. He simply stared at the empty path leading through the gates, his eyes red-rimmed from a sleepless night, his jaw a hard line. Roseline moved an inch closer, her shoulder almost touching his arm, a silent anchor.

The snow fell in silent, fat flakes, blanketing the courtyard in a hushed, waiting white. It clung to fur cloaks and powdered black hair, a cold, pristine stage.

In front of the great stone manor, the family stood as a united front. Duke Aster, a statue carved from grief and duty. Lady Roseline, just behind his shoulder, her face pale but composed, her hand hidden in the folds of her skirt, clenched tight. Alex and Ace flanked them, two dark mirrors of tension—one still and simmering, the other vibrating with contained lightning.

Behind them, a half-circle of council ministers and household servants shifted in the cold.

whispers grew bolder.

“See?” a minister sneered, voice just loud enough to carry. “No control. The second son has the manners of a stray dog.”

It was Minister Kalgen, a Beta with a grudge and a nose that had never quite healed straight after a past… disagreement with Ace. He chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound. “What do you expect? Both sons only understand violence. The youngest is the worst. Whoring around in brothels, they say. Even with married folk. Tsk. I feel for Lady Roseline.”

A pregnant minister, her hands resting on her belly, laughed softly. “I hear the new one is a poet. Cultured.”

“mm...heard he’s a pretty Omega,” another added. “Polite.”

A chuckle. “Polite, or easy to control? If the Duke is forced to acknowledge him as heir, the Emperor will have his puppet right inside the Wolf’s den.”

“A shame he’s a bastard born from a r**e,” a lady’s voice sighed with false sympathy. “If he were legitimate… well, if he’s the firstborn, that would make him legitimate, wouldn’t it? And make the others…” She left the thought hanging, sweetly poisonous. “I, for one, hope he’s not a wild dog like our young lords. Poets have elegance.”

Someone elbowed her. “Hush. The Duke will hear.”

Ace heard every word. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. He didn’t turn. He just raised his voice, cutting through the snowfall.

“Must be really elegant, hua..”he drawled, loud enough for all to hear. “Probably been spreading his legs to gain favors in court. Like all poets do.”

A shocked gasp, then a ripple of stifled laughter escaped the crowd of ministers. Alex’s hand shot out, gripping Ace’s wrist below the cloak, a silent, vice-like warning. Ace shook him off, his ruby eyes blazing.

The crunch of wheels on packed snow cut through the tension.

A black lacquered carriage, marked with the Emperor’s sunburst, rolled to a smooth halt before them. The coachman, draped in imperial colors, jumped down and opened the door with a flourish.

Then the figure stepped out.

He unfolded himself from the carriage with a grace that seemed to defy the cold.

He was tall, nearly matching Alex and Ace in height, but where they were built for power and speed, his frame spoke of a different refinement—broad shoulders tapering to a lean, elegant waist. His skin was pale as the snow itself.

His hair was the shock. Not Valebane black, but a cascade of pure, moon-white silk, catching the weak morning light. A pair of round, silver-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose.

His eyelashes were long and white against his cheeks. His lips… they were a natural, soft pink, a shape so perfectly bowed it looked kissed for hours.

He wore simple, traveling clothes: a white robe under a formal black over-robe, unadorned. No furs. No crest.

His eyes lifted.

Crimson. The Valebane bloodline eyes, unmistakable.

They swept across the courtyard—. They lingered on the Duke. The boy’s breath hitched, just once. One gloved hand curled inward slightly.

His gaze moved to Roseline, to Ace’s defiant snarl, to Alex’s icy stillness. Then it returned, and settled, on the Duke.

A soft, gentle scent unfurled on the frozen air, cutting through the nervous pheromones. Winter lily. Sakura blossom. Clean white musk. It was delicate. Polite. Unthreatening.

He placed his gloved hand over his heart and dipped his head slightly.

His voice, when it came, was soft, melodic, touched with a foreign accent from the southern empire.

“Greetings, Your Grace. My Lady.” He straightened, his crimson eyes holding Aster’s. “My name is Jade. You have come to receive me with all your family. I am… truly honoured.”

Silence.

The Duke didn’t answer. He was staring, his soul laid bare in that look.

This boy.

This living, breathing reminder of a night where his will was stolen, his trust violated, his fidelity to his mate—however unknowingly—shattered. This proof of his greatest failure, standing in the snow, looking at him with 'his' eyes.

Aster’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticked as if fighting a war inside his own skin.

Finally, he stepped forward. One heavy boot sank into the snow. The air grew heavier, his own scent of ancient cedar and cold fury rising, a protective, warning wall between this stranger and his family.

He stopped a few feet from Jade. He looked down at the young man—his son, by blood alone.

“Honour,” the Duke said, his voice a low rumble that carried to every listening ear, “has nothing to do with it.”

He didn’t offer a hand. He didn’t smile.

“You are here by the Emperor’s command. Not by my invitation. You will be shown to your rooms. You will stay out of my family’s private quarters. You will speak when spoken to. Do you understand?”

The words were ice. They were meant to wound, to establish dominion.

Jade's lips parted.. his breath hicced slightly. He simply bowed his head again, a lock of white hair falling across his glasses.

“I understand, Your Grace,” he murmured.

But as he lifted his head, his crimson eyes met Aster’s for one fleeting second. And in their depths, for just a heartbeat, there was something else. Not defiance. Not anger.

It looked like sorrow.

Then it was gone, replaced by gentle, blank courtesy.

The silence after the Duke’s words was a physical weight. The falling snow seemed to mute even the sound of breathing.

Jade’s gentle acceptance hung in the air, a perfect, infuriating contrast to the raw hostility crackling from the family.

The Duke turned abruptly, his cloak swirling. “Marlon,” he barked.

The stern, grey-haired head steward stepped forward. “Your Grace.”

“Take him to the east guest wing. The blue suite. Post two guards at the door. He is not to wander.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Aster did not look back at Jade. He offered his arm to Roseline. She took it, her fingers trembling slightly. Together, they turned and walked back toward the manor, a united front leaving the cold behind.

Alex followed, a shadow in their wake, but not before casting one last, glacial look over his shoulder—.

Only Ace remained, rooted in the snow, staring at the white-haired intruder.

Jade watched the family retreat. His expression didn’t change, but the hand at his side uncurled slowly.

Marlon approached him, face impassive. “If you would follow me, sir.”

“Thank you,” Jade murmured, and turned to follow.

“Hey. Poet.”

Ace’s voice stopped him. Jade paused, looking back.

Ace sauntered closer, until they were almost chest to chest. He leaned in, his ruby eyes blazing, his scent of black cherry and chaos rolling out in a hot, aggressive wave, meant to intimidate, to dominate.

“Let’s get something clear. That ‘position’ you’re so aware of? It’s on thin ice. This isn’t some imperial court where you can simper and sigh and win favors. This is the North. We eat pretty things like you for breakfast.”

He searched Jade’s face for a crack, a flinch, a spark of anger.

Jade merely blinked behind his glasses. The delicate scent of winter lily held firm against Ace’s assault. “I do not simper, Lord Ace,”

he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I have no appetite for causing trouble. I am simply… here.”

Jade gave him another small, polite nod. “Good day, my lord.”

Then he turned and followed Marlon toward the manor’s side entrance.

Ace watched him go, a storm of frustration brewing in his gut. He kicked at the snow, sending up a powdery spray.

--

The East Wing was the coldest part of the manor, reserved for diplomatic guests who were not quite friends.

A fire had been lit, but it struggled against the deep chill seeping from the stone walls.

Jade stood in the center of the sitting room after Marlon and the guards left. He was alone. He removed his gloves slowly, finger by finger. Then his glasses. He placed them neatly on a side table.

His shoulders slumped. He brought his bare hands to his face, pressing his palms against his eyes.

A long, shuddering breath escaped him—the first real one since stepping from the carriage.

The weight of a thousand staring eyes, the Duke’s hatred, the brothers’ venom… it settled on him now, in the silence.

He walked to the window, looking out at the snow. His reflection in the glass was ghostly—pale hair, pale skin, those damned crimson eyes.

A soft knock at the connecting servant’s door made him start.

“Enter.”

A young maid slipped in, bearing a tray with a tea pot and a single cup. She kept her eyes downcast. “My lord, some tea to ward off the chill.”

“Thank you, dear”Jade murmured softly, she blinked. Suprised by the kindness.

The maid dared a glance up. Seeing his smile, his gentle demeanor, she relaxed a fraction. “It’s no trouble, sir. Is there… anything else you require?”

Jade’s crimson eyes met hers. “No,” he said softly. “Nothing at all. You may go.”

As the door shut behind her, Jade poured the tea. The steam rose, fragrant and warm. He lifted the cup but didn’t drink. He stared into the amber liquid, then he exhaleed softly..

Then finally he took a sip.