The bells of Leonidus rang in triumph that night, their bronze throats singing through the misted valleys.
From the towers to the courtyards, torches flared like veins of fire across the stone, and banners of violet and gold fluttered in the wind. The House of Leonidus was alive again.
Inside the great hall, the smell of roasted venison and honeyed wine filled the air, mingling with the perfume of nobles and the faint, metallic breath of the hearths. The laughter of lords echoed beneath the ribbed arches like the hum of a distant storm.
At the head of the table sat Viscount Augustus, radiant and reborn. His face was bright with color, his posture proud. To anyone else, it would seem as though the gods themselves had blessed him. But Aiden, standing behind the chair to his right, could still feel the pulse of something darker beneath that vigor—his eyes seeing the lace of his incubus charm.
He masked his awareness with a polite smile.
