My Father's Basterd Son

Chapter 3: The Dinner

Chapter 3: The Dinner

The grand dining hall of House Valebane was a cavern of dark wood and colder silences. Fires roared in twin hearths, but the warmth didn't reach the long table where the family sat, an island of tension amidst the shuffling servants and whispering ministers.

Duke Aster sat at the head, a statue carved from granite. He hadn't touched his wine. "Where is he?"

A maid by the sideboard flinched. "Your Grace, last I checked, Lord Jade was… taking a bath."

Ace snorted into his goblet. The sound was too loud. "Of course he is. Probably scrubbing every inch to make a good impression. Gotta look pretty for the table, right?"

A few of the younger Omegas seated further down tittered, then fell silent under Alex's glacial glance.

Minister Kalgen leaned toward his mate, his voice a stage whisper meant to carry. "You see? No control. The second son barks like a stray. This is why we need… a more refined influence in the succession."

The door to the hall creaked open.

All conversation died.

Jade stood in the doorway, backlit by the hall sconces. He wore a simple, high-collared white robe of southern silk. It hugged the narrow line of his waist, hinting at slender curves beneath. His moon-white hair, slightly damp at the ends, caught the firelight like spun silver. His lips, a soft, natural pink, looked freshly bitten or perhaps just warm from the bath. The round, silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

He looked like a ghost. A beautiful, unsettling ghost with Valebane eyes.

He entered, his steps silent on the rug. He placed a gloved hand over his heart and dipped into that slight, graceful bow. "Good evening, Your Grace. My Lady."

His crimson eyes lifted and found the Duke's. They held for a heartbeat too long—a look that wasn't defiance, but something quieter. Heavier.

Then it was gone.

Minister Kalgen was on his feet before anyone else could speak. "Ah! Welcome, welcome, Lord Jade! We have been awaiting your presence." His smile was all oily warmth. "Such beauty. Such grace. Truly, the North is blessed to have such elegance within its walls."

Jade gave a small, polite nod and moved to the only empty seat—positioned far down the table, between a minor Beta lord and an elderly Omega aunt who peered at him with open curiosity. He sat, back straight, and picked up his fork with delicate fingers.

Kalgen wasn't finished. "Forgive an old man's curiosity. Is it true what they say? You are a poet?"

Jade looked up, a soft, almost shy smile touching his lips. "Ah. Yes. Though I am no one of renown. I only write about… small things. The seasons. The fall of light. Nothing of great import."

"Modest as well!" Kalgen beamed, casting a pointed look toward Ace, who was glaring at his plate. "But, if I may… your robe. It seems rather thin for our northern cold. Are you not chilled?"

From further down, a young Alpha—Kalgen's own son, Rykar—snorted. "Probably showing off. Trying to attract a certain kind of attention."

The clink of cutlery stilled.

Jade's fork, spearing a piece of roasted root vegetable, paused mid-air. His long, white eyelashes lowered, veiling his eyes. For a second, the room waited.

Then he smiled again. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Ah. Forgive me," he said, his melodic voice clear in the quiet. "This is proper formal attire in the Elistan Empire. Is it considered inappropriate here?" He set the fork down gently. "I wished to purchase a thicker outer robe upon my arrival, but the weather turned so quickly. The imperial escort was… insistent on haste. Had I lingered on the road, I fear I would have been trapped in the storm."

He picked up his fork and resumed eating, as if the conversation was over.

The explanation was flawless. Polite. It painted him as a victim of circumstance, not a provocateur.

Ace's knuckles were white around his knife. He leaned forward, his voice a low, dangerous purr meant for Jade alone, though it carried. "A storm's the least of what you should fear here, poet."

Jade didn't look up. He took a small, precise bite.

Duke Aster finally moved. He lifted his goblet and took a long, slow drink. His crimson eyes were fixed on the fire, but everyone felt his attention like a weight. The message was clear: this charade would be endured. For now.

Lady Roseline, seated to his right, spoke for the first time. Her voice was gentle but carried the quiet authority of the lady of the house. "Steward Marlon will see you are provided with suitable clothing tomorrow, Lord Jade. We would not have our guest take a chill."

It was courtesy. Cold, distant, but courtesy.

"You are most kind, My Lady," Jade murmured, dipping his head toward her.

The rest of the meal passed in a stilted pantomime of normalcy. Forks scraped. Wine was poured. Minister Kalgen held forth on trivial matters, his eyes constantly flicking between Jade and the Duke's stony face. The white-haired poet ate little, spoke less, and seemed to be listening to a song only he could hear.

As the last course was cleared, Aster stood. The table fell silent instantly.

"We retire," he stated, his voice leaving no room for discussion. He offered his arm to Roseline.

As they passed Jade's chair, Aster didn't look at him.

But Jade looked up.

His eyes followed the Duke's broad back, the protective curve of his arm around his mate. The gentle, sorrowful look from the courtyard was back for a fleeting second. Then it vanished behind a blank, polite mask as he noticed others watching.

Alex rose next, his movements efficient. He gave Jade one final, assessing look—like a general evaluating a new, unpredictable piece on a map—and left without a word.

Ace lingered. He swirled the dark wine in his glass, his ruby eyes burning a hole into the side of Jade's face. "Enjoying the show?"

Jade finally turned to look at him. He removed his glasses, folding them with careful hands. Without them, his crimson eyes were startlingly direct. "There is no show, Lord Ace. Only dinner."

"Yeah?" Ace smirked, leaning closer, invading his space. His scent of black cherry and smoked cedar pushed out, aggressive and warm. "Funny. From where I'm sitting, you're playing a part. The delicate, misunderstood poet. The poor, chilled southern flower. You think that act will work here?"

Jade didn't pull back. He met Ace's heated gaze with a calm that was somehow more infuriating than fear. His own scent of winter lily and clean musk didn't waver; it simply existed, a cool barrier.

"It is not an act," he said softly. "It is simply who I am. You, however…" He let the sentence hang, his eyes dropping briefly to Ace's white-knuckled hand on the table, then back to his face. "… seem to be playing a part quite aggressively. The ferocious young wolf. Does it tire you?"

Ace's smirk froze. A flash of something raw—anger, yes, but also surprise—crossed his face. No one spoke to him like that. No one dared.

Before he could retort, Jade stood, his chair scraping softly. He placed his folded glasses on the table. "If you will excuse me. The journey was long. Goodnight, Lord Ace."

He walked away, his white robe flowing around him, moving with that same quiet grace toward the east wing corridors. The two guards posted at the dining hall entrance fell into step behind him at a distance.

Ace was left standing alone at the nearly empty table. He threw back the rest of his wine, the taste suddenly bitter.

In the shadows of a pillared archway, Minister Kalgen watched Jade's retreating back, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. He leaned close to his son, Rykar.

"You see?" Kalgen whispered. "He didn't fight. He didn't snarl. He just… absorbed it. Like deep water absorbs a stone." He chuckled, low and pleased. "A poet. How perfect. The Duke's true heirs are all brute force and passion. But this one… this one knows how to use silence. The Emperor has sent us a blade, my boy. A very, very quiet one."

Rykar frowned, watching the slender figure disappear. "He seems weak."

"Oh, no," Kalgen murmured, his eyes gleaming. "The quiet ones are never weak. They're just waiting. Now, let's go. We have letters to write."

---

In the blue suite of the east wing, Jade closed the door. The guards took their positions outside with a soft thud of boots.

He stood in the center of the cold sitting room, alone.

Slowly, he raised his bare hands. He stared at them in the firelight. They were trembling.

He curled them into fists, pressing them against his thighs until the shaking stopped.

He walked to the window, looking out at the moonlit, snow-blanketed courtyard where he'd arrived just hours before. His reflection in the glass was pale and haunted.

He leaned his forehead against the cold pane.

A single, silent tear traced a path down his cheek. It was quickly wiped away.

He took a deep, steadying breath, his breath fogging the glass. When he pulled back, his face was calm again. Composed. Empty.

He turned from the window, picked up a small, leather-bound journal from his traveling trunk, and sat by the struggling fire.

He opened it to a blank page, uncapped a simple ink pen, and began to write. The script was elegant, flowing.

"The snow here does not fall. It settles. Like a final judgement. The wolves are beautiful, and they look at me as if I am the one who set the trap…"

He wrote until the fire burned low.