"Hey, hotshot."
The voice came from behind, light as a feather but sharp as a thorn.
Aiden did not turn. The voice was familiar—too familiar. It belonged to none other than the so-called future Earl, the boy born with ambition stitched into his bones.
The voice carried with it an echo of mockery, of someone who thought himself clever enough to stand above the crowd.
He came striding forward now, pushing aside whoever lingered near Aiden's shoulder, brushing them away as one might sweep dust from a velvet coat. The arrogance was not unusual; nobility often wore arrogance like a cloak. But there was something especially grating about him.
Aiden's eyes, however, were not for the future Earl. They remained fixed ahead, unblinking, tethered to the dais where the Duke of Merlin's fief presided over the anointing ceremony.
Something about the Duke was off—deeply off.
