CHAPTER 138: CHAPTER 138: RUMOURS

The scent of jasmine and spiced wine still lingered in the corridors. It clung to silk drapes and marble floors alike, the residue of laughter that had gone too long, of eyes that had glimmered too brightly. The tea party had ended hours ago, yet the castle had not quieted. It hummed—low and steady, like a hive stirred awake.

It began in whispers.

Whispers that Aiden was not the traitor they said he was. That the Blood Commander had overstepped, that the Earl of Wessex had grown paranoid.

That perhaps the "common-born knight" was something else entirely—chosen, blessed, the kind of man whose loyalty outshone the titles of lesser lords.

The women had carried his name first, their voices soft as petals over porcelain cups. They had spoken of how his eyes had seemed sincere, how his words lingered like warmth after wine.

One swore she’d seen the faint glow of light in his aura; another, that when he spoke of the realm’s rot, her heart had burned with shame.

By nightfall, servants were whispering the same. By morning, the guards.

And by the second day, even the knights were murmuring Aiden’s name when they thought no one listened.

The magic worked not as thunder, but as tide. Slow. Unstoppable. His incubus blood—subtle, insidious—had sunk its roots deep into the hearts of those who had drunk his essence mingled with the tea, into the minds of those who had met his gaze and believed they saw honesty instead of calculated grace.

Now, Aiden didn’t need to speak. The fortress spoke for him.

The Earl of Wessex slammed his fist onto the oak table so hard that ink splattered from its inkwell.

"Enough!" he roared, voice echoing through the chamber. "I will not hear his name again in this hall!"

The Blood Commander stood opposite him, arms folded, jaw tight. His crimson cloak shimmered faintly in the firelight, his expression a mask of rage and disbelief.

"With respect, my lord," he said, the last word edged with contempt, "you might as well forbid men from breathing. They speak it in the barracks, the kitchens, even in the chapel. I warned you—he’s poison."

The Earl’s eyes narrowed, tired lines deepening. "Poison doesn’t make soldiers disobey their own commander. Not unless someone spreads it."

The Commander’s lips twisted. "You think I did this?"

"I think," the Earl said, leaning forward, "that you’ve lost control of your men."

That struck. The Commander’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking near his temple. "You’d blame me for their weakness?"

"They are your responsibility," the Earl snapped. "And now, every time I order discipline, some fool quotes that knight’s words back at me—’Honor isn’t given, it’s earned.’ What kind of madness is this?"

The Blood Commander turned away, pacing toward the window. Outside, the courtyard thrummed with life—squires training under dawn light, servants crossing paths, merchants unloading carts.

But there was something off about it. The sounds carried differently now. Where once the guards had barked orders, now their tones were softer, restrained. And laughter—light, unguarded—broke through where silence once ruled.

They were happy.

And happiness was dangerous.

Two days ago, this place had been a fortress of order and fear. Now it breathed like a living thing—free, almost hopeful. The Commander could feel it. A shifting of loyalty. A warmth that had no business living in a place ruled by iron.

He turned back to the Earl, eyes burning. "They’re under a spell," he said flatly. "You’ve seen it. You must have. This isn’t natural."

The Earl rubbed his temples, trying to banish the creeping headache that had not left him since that cursed tea party. "Magic or not, the result is the same. Half my court speaks like zealots, the other half hides behind their doors."

"And the Barons?"

The Earl’s gaze darkened. "Three of them have already petitioned me to delay Aiden’s execution. They claim a proper inquiry is needed. One even quoted the laws of the High Council to my face."

The Blood Commander slammed a gauntleted hand on the wall. "Traitors."

"No," the Earl said bitterly. "Fools. Fools who think they smell the wind changing."

For a moment, neither spoke. The fire crackled. Outside, bells tolled the hour.

Finally, the Commander said, "Then end it now. Quietly. Let me take him out of his cell, claim he resisted judgment. No one will question it."

The Earl’s gaze snapped up, sharp as a blade. "You’ll do nothing without my command."

The Commander turned on him, fury in every line of his frame. "You’re afraid."

"I am prudent," the Earl hissed. "You think I don’t know what it means to execute a man with ties to Leonidus and Merlin? If those families catch wind before we bury the body—"

"They won’t."

The Earl’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. "They already have."

That silenced even the Blood Commander.

The Earl straightened, the weight of years in his shoulders. "A letter came this morning. From the Leonidus capital. A courier carrying the Viscount’s crest arrived at dawn." He paused, the next words sour on his tongue. "He asks for explanation. And civility."

The Commander’s face blanched. "Explanation?"

"Yes," the Earl said. "Which means he knows. And where Augustus knows, Sabrina Merlin won’t be far behind. By the gods, if that woman catches scent of this—"

"She’ll send fire," the Commander finished grimly.

The Earl nodded, sinking back into his chair. "And she’ll do it with a smile."

For a long while, the only sound was the slow drip of wax from the candelabrum, the echo of distant boots in the hall.

Then, the Earl spoke again, voice quieter but filled with steel. "Tell me, Commander. Have we lost already?"

The Commander hesitated. "Not yet. But the walls are bleeding."

.

.

Elsewhere in the keep, servants traded rumors like currency.

"Aiden of the cell," they called him now, "the knight who spoke truth to chains." One swore he’d seen a glow around his prison at night. Another claimed his wounds healed faster than normal men’s.

A pair of young guards—barely of age—leaned against their spears by the west corridor.

"I heard he saved a child in the capital once," one said.

"Nonsense," the other replied. "He fought a demon barehanded. My cousin’s in the north barracks; he swears on it."

By midday, even captains of the watch were questioning their orders. The Blood Commander’s men—his loyal enforcers—found doors shutting in their faces, servants ignoring their commands. Some knights stopped saluting altogether when he passed.

It was as though the castle itself rejected them.

Aiden’s name—spoken softly, reverently—had become both shield and sword.

.

.

That evening, the Earl walked the courtyard alone. Rain began to fall, fine and silver. It pattered against his cloak, against the stones that had seen too much. He could hear voices through the mist—guards laughing, someone humming a tune.

His jaw clenched. The laughter had not existed two days ago.

Two days. That was all it took.

He thought of the letter on his desk—the seal of Leonidus, the careful language that hid sharp accusation beneath politeness. He thought of the Duchess of Merlin, whose wrath was legend even in foreign courts.

And then he thought of him.

Aiden.

The common knight who had entered his house as a servant of duty and now, somehow, ruled it from a cell.

The Earl’s steps slowed, rain running down his face like sweat.

"Who are you really, boy?" he muttered. "What have you done to my people?"

No answer came. Only the whisper of rain and the faint echo of voices praising his enemy’s name.