14: 𝘈 𝘝𝘶𝘭𝘨𝘢𝘳 𝘈𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦
Overview: When Lord Enver Gortash claims a bastard-born nobleman’s son (Kade'solyn Southersby) as payment for his father’s debts, he expects a pliant pawn: in public, a pretty face for a loveless marriage to improve his image, in private, his own personal political weapon to wield. A protege forged by his own hands. But Kade is not at all what Enver expects: half-drow outcast, idealistic revolutionary, scarred by years of neglect, he carries a spark of fragile defiance Gortash can’t seem to drown – nor resist. Their relationship becomes a battle of wills and reluctant fascination as Kade learns to navigate the manipulative world of Baldurian politics under Gortash’s cruel tutelage. Yet even as he’s forced to play the game, he refuses to surrender his conscience – or his belief that the man who once saved him might be worth saving, himself.
Pairing: Gortash x Male half-drow OC (Kade'soyln Southersby) Genre: slow-burn Gothic Romance pre-canon AU
CW: May/December relationship, major character death, referenced child abuse/neglect, dub-con, non-con
In this chapter: After fleeing the bedroom at dawn, Gortash returns to his chambers expecting to see Kade gone, only to discover a lavish breakfast waiting for him in the sunroom he's never used--along with Kade, himself. It seems Kade arranged this ambush, refusing to let Gortash's fear reject the beginning of something between them. In the end they reconnect and decide to keep trying, together. The peace and playful banter is broken when Jhorin reluctantly interrupts and announces Duke Ravensgard's arrival--in his duty as Lord Marshal of the Flaming Fist, there to discuss the "incident" after the gala.
Author notes: Hey all! Been a long time coming, this chapter. Been dealing with life things but the interruptions are hopefully over! This chapter is setting up a lil mini arc I'm super excited to share with everyone. I'm trying something new for the header of these chapter releases, let me know if it's too obnoxious or anything.
Read on Ao3! or Start at the beginning! < chapter 13
Chapter 14: A Vulgar Amount of Sunshine
The workshop had given him nothing.
An hour of pacing between the forge’s hum and the Netherstone’s pulse, and all Gortash had to show for it was a crack on the worktable where his fist had landed and faded bruises on his knuckles. The stone still whispered—ascend, ascend—but the words felt thin now, threadbare. He kept seeing the golden bloom of dawn on Kade’s face, kept seeing him burrow into the pillow like a creature who’d finally found safe cover.
He had fled from it. Fled from himself.
Pathetic.
Gortash’s boots echoed too loudly in the stone corridor’s oppressive silence, each lonely step a reprimand, a reminder he’d surely ruined whatever fragile beginning dawn had offered them. Kade would almost certainly be gone, retreated back to the east wing.
Back to the fiction that they were simply lord and protégé, nothing more.
He almost turned around twice. Better to escape to the study and his shame, send for reports, to let the day’s churning machinery swallow the awkwardness. To eventually forget.
Instead, Gortash kept walking, jaw set, rehearsing curt apologies that tasted bitter as dust. You deserve better than a man who flees at vulnerability. Next time I will stay until you wake.
Hollow, every one.
He climbed the final flight of stairs and paused outside his chambers, ears briefly straining for any whisper, any sign the room was still occupied. Hearing nothing, he cursed himself for his foolish heart and threw open the door, expecting the hush of an abandoned suite; instead he was met with light and sound.
Sunlight—reckless, indolent amounts of it—spilled through the double doors of the sunroom he never used, to pool on the black-and-gold mosaic floor like molten brass. The air smelled of warm brioche, lemon zest, burnt butter, and beneath those something greener and sweeter, like crushed orange-blossom left to bleed syrup in the sun. The corridor behind him was still dim, all dust and shadows clinging to velvet drapery, but here the morning had been captured, decanted, and set alight.
It was then Gortash heard voices, both familiar. His heart jolted in his chest.
“…and if you drizzle the honey first, the cream won’t sink straight through,” said the first, elderly and genteel and warmer than he usually heard it.
“But then the berries roll everywhere,” replied the second, laughing, the sound making Gortash’s breath hitch in his throat. “Just as well! Let them riot.”
He crossed the antechamber of his suite in five hurried steps—heart racing, boots muffled by rugs thick as winter moss—and paused beneath the arch of sunlight created by the double doors.
The sun-room—an octagonal chamber of glass and gold trim he had not purposefully entered in half a decade—glowed like the inside of a reliquary. Dust motes drifted in the slanted spears of light, each a fleck of gilt suspended in incense-thick air. The tiny glass-inlaid table that usually sat on the balcony had been dragged into the center of the alcove, one of the cushioned, wrought-iron chairs joining it.
Kade himself was curled on the window-seat, swathed in Gortash’s own robe: black silk so matte it drank the dawn, embroidered along the cuffs with the sable fist of Bane in fine thread, the pattern glinting with every subtle shift. The garment hung loose off one narrow shoulder, collar gaping to expose the long, elegant stem of Kade’s throat and the sleeves pushed back to reveal his slender wrists. Every time he breathed the silk slid an inch, whispering against flesh like a secret confession.
His skin was clean and washed but still scraped raw and mottled across his forearms and palms from his impact with the cobblestones last night. The bruise over his shoulder had turned an angry purple and green and his left foot, folded under him and peeking from beneath the robe, was neatly bandaged at the ankle.
But none of that changed the breathtaking vision he was, sitting there primly, teacup in hand. The golden light poured across him from the tempered windows, glittering like sunlight sparkling on the Chionthar. His smoke-colored skin almost glowed, liquid pearl against the coal-dark silk and each strand of moon-white hair became a filament of silvered glass; even his pale lashes caught prismatic fire.
Gortash swallowed deliberately, throat bobbing.
Those amethyst eyes lifted, luminous, amused. A subtle tilt of the neck delivered the unhurried smirk of a boy who had laid an ambush and knew it had sprung true.
Across from him, pouring tea with the gravity of a state ceremony was Jhorin. Sitting. Actually sitting, spine bent like an old willow, the silver pot steady in his weathered hands. Before him the small dinette groaned under clashing displays of appetite: fresh, plump split figs, smoked kippers on rye, and a poached duck-egg omelette stuffed thick with cheese warred with almond pastries oozing marzipan, a bowl of berries drowning in clotted cream, and a plate of plump chocolate scones.
The scrape of Gortash’s boots cracked the moment like glass. The old man’s head rose and suddenly the pot in his hand wobbled; a hot splash hissed on the plate.
“Lord Gortash—!” Jhorin shot up so fast his knee clipped the table. A pastry leapt in protest. “I—beg pardon, my lord, I was—I only—”
“Don’t you dare apologize, Jhorin. You’re the only reason I didn’t eat all the honey-cakes and pass out face-first into the berries and cream.” Kade’s smile was immediate, bright as the glare outside as he turned towards Gortash, shifting his weight with a slight, careful wince as he set the now-empty teacup down with a clink. “You’re late. Your kippers are congealing and your omelet is mortally wounded—see?” He lifted a corner with a silver fork. “Edges curling like a dead leaf. Another minute and I’d have been forced to give it last rites.”
The steward’s ears flushed pink. He hovered, caught in the cross-fire of duty and affection, visibly calculating the shortest route to the door. Gortash felt the familiar twitch of command—dismiss him, restore order—but the words came out softer than intended.
“No harm done, Jhorin. See to the noon correspondence when you’re ready. And take one of those pastries with you.”
Jhorin relaxed, visibly relieved and nodded. “Yes, Lord Gortash. I shall see to it now.” His eyes softened on Kade for a moment, grandfatherly warmth cracking through protocol. He bowed, squeezed Kade’s uninjured shoulder once, and retreated with an almond crown clutched in his thin fingers like contraband.
The latch clicked behind him and silence pooled, thick as the citrus-perfumed air. The sunlight kept pouring in, merciless. It was a light that had no respect for shadows, and it found a willing accomplice in the figure curled on the window seat.
“Almost missed breakfast,” Kade murmured as he gingerly unwound his legs to sit properly and reached for the silver teapot, his movements deliberate, favoring his bruised side. He let out a soft, controlled breath as he settled. “I was beginning to think you’d fled the city.”
The jab slid in under the ribs, neat as a stiletto. Gortash felt heat crawl up his neck but he took the deserved cut, biting his tongue against retort. He shuffled slightly from foot to foot, unsure if he should sit or wait to be invited. Unsure if he was making their relationship too complicated or not complicated enough.
“You needn’t have arranged all this,” Gortash said at last, voice low.
“I wanted to.” Kade’s smile widened. “Portia let me fold the pastries. I burned your eggs myself—consider it retribution, lightly charred.” He poured himself another cup of golden tea, the orange-blossom and vanilla scent wafting up like perfume along the curl of steam. He plucked up four cubes of sugar with small silver tongs and plashed them into the cup—one by one—then slid the cup aside. He liked the sugar to melt before he stirred.
He then reached for the porcelain teapot—Gortash’s own, celadon glaze, usually kept on the highest shelf—and began to prepare his tea. Gortash watched the flawless choreography: Yunnan leaves measured by eye, water just below boil, steeped through a strainer of beaten silver. Steam curled in a perfect question-mark as Kade tilted it over Gortash’s favorite cup, the one with the chip on the rim and the slightly off-center handle. The stream of tea was perfect, dark silk meeting porcelain without a splash above the rim. Then a whisper of milk, no sugar, one languid stir.
Gortash felt his breath hitch; he didn’t know if anyone had ever memorized something so mundane that was such an important part of his daily life. It felt…attentive. Thoughtful.
“Dragon’s Eye,” Kade said without looking up. He tapped the spoon on the rim of the cup to shake off the last drop of tea, and sat it down on a folded napkin. “Four minutes, splash of milk, no sugar, one stir clockwise because you think counter-clockwise is for anarchists. Stop hovering and sit, Enver.” The boy looked up at him then; eyes calm with a patience for his dithering Gortash felt was wholly undeserved. “Do you really think I made the kippers for myself?
Gortash exhaled a breath through his nose and slowly lowered himself opposite. He felt oversized, all angles. “I thought you’d be gone.”
Kade’s hand, elegant and poised, rested lightly on the teapot’s lid. “I considered it,” he admitted, then lifted his head, his eyes holding that spark of defiance Gortash knew so well. “Then I remembered I’m stubborn.”
He slid Gortash’s cup and saucer across the table. “I haven’t the faintest idea how to do this either, you know,” he admitted, voice softer now, the teasing edge replaced by something steadier. “Whatever this is. But I do know sprinting out of bed at sunrise to escape someone whose hair you were tangling in your fingers the night before, might be considered discourteous. In some circles.”
A flush, unwelcome and undeniable, warmed Gortash’s ears. He reached for the teacup, pulled it close and curled his fingers around it. Heat bled through porcelain into his palm—precise, exact, and terrifyingly familiar.
“I—” He tasted metal, swallowed. The old reflex snarled: deflect, dissect, dominate. He throttled it.
The words came finally, awkward and stuttering, but true. “I didn’t know how to...start a new day. Like that. With you.”
Kade leaned back, robe slipping just enough to reveal the hollow of his breastbone, the soft gentle curve of his chest. He adjusted his posture subtly, a hint of discomfort crossing his features as his bruised hip twinged. “One generally begins by staying in the same room.”
A startled huff escaped Gortash—half-laugh, half-surrender. “I cannot deny that. I was…ungracious.”
“Terrified,” Kade corrected gently.
“Terrified,” Gortash allowed, the admission scraping like rough metal. “I am…trying…to learn new steps. They feel clumsy.”
Kade’s lashes dipped; a faint blush crept across his cheekbones, roses tossed against a stormy sky. “They look honest. That’s worth any stumble.”
Gortash couldn’t respond but his own ear-tips burned. He wrapped his hands around the cup—warm, steadying—and raised it to his lips; blew once, twice. Steam carried tannin and sungrass into his lungs. The first sip was earth and brightness and the faint sweet tang that came only from perfect timing. It was hot but not searing, the precise temperature at which pain and pleasure might coexist on the tongue.
Kade watched, lower lip caught between white teeth.
“It’s…impeccable,” Gortash murmured, studying the teacup. “Absolutely impeccable, just how I make it myself.”
Kade shifted with a bashful grin, hair sliding to cover the flush that curled up over his ears and down his cheeks, pride and pleasure mingled. He nudged the plate of kippers closer. “Eat. Protein helps you think before you speak.”
Gortash forked a piece of herring, found it still warm, the flesh flaking pleasantly. He ate, deliberate, the texture and taste perfection. The underside of his omelet was indeed singed, yet the interior melted—salty cheese, meadow mushrooms, the bite of spicy peppers. He chewed, swallowed, felt something inside his chest unknot.
“Delicious,” he said, and meant it. “It’s absolutely delicious.”
He looked around at the table laden with food that suited the both of them: savory for his taste, sweet for Kade’s. It was too perfect to be accidental; Kade had to have rushed to the kitchens right after waking in an empty bed. “You planned this ambush.”
Across the table Kade smiled brighter than the sunshine tracing his silver hair in gold. “Planned breakfast,” he corrected, leaning forward with a slight, careful movement. “Ambush is merely the garnish.”
Outside, a clock-spire struck eight. The world began to wake, to return to routine and daily life. Inside, dust drifted through sun-shafts, each speck a minute ember glittering between them. They breathed the same steam, the same scent of bergamot and bacon and sugar.
Gortash lifted his cup. “To beginning,” he said, the words clumsy but audible.
Kade held his own teacup up and smiled, small and crooked and real.
“To stumbling forward, together,” he said softly. They clinked their cups together, the sound bright and cheerful in the haze of morning light. Gortash cut another wedge of his perfect, slightly scorched omelet. Kade leaned forward to reach for the cream, the robe sliding dangerously further; the rebel swathed, unrepentant, in tyrant’s silk.
Dawn caressed her sunlit fingers over him in blessing, painting his skin in shades of gold and pearl and bathing him in light that felt almost holy. He lifted a sliver of sugared apricot to his lips and bit, flecks of crystalline sweetness left behind as he chewed—an accidental ornament, sparkling bright as heresy. Beautiful as sacrilege.
Gortash watched, breath caught in his throat; an unwitting disciple at this blasphemous alter.
And in that moment he knew peril had never worn so gentle a face.
The silence that followed was a new and fragile creature, woven with the scent of citrus and herring and the whisper of cheekily-stolen silk.
Gortash was much more relaxed than when he first arrived, unused to sitting for breakfast when a strong cup of black coffee—briefly held and then forgotten on the sideboard—was his usual fare. Still though, the meal was proving itself an agreeable interruption to his normal routine. He took another bite of omelet, the char at the edges a surprisingly pleasant counterpoint to the rich, molten cheese.
His gaze, which had been fixed on the steam rising from his tea, lifted and traveled over Kade, who was now happily attacking a buttery pastry. The boy moved with less stiffness than last night, but a faint, deliberate care lingered in his posture. The memory—the limping walk, the bruised aching side, his scraped-raw hands and arms—returned with a sharp, unwelcome clarity.
“Your injuries,” Gortash said, his voice losing its tentative softness, returning to its usual, brusque timbre. He gestured vaguely with his knife. “How are they?”
Kade paused, a crumb on his lower lip. He brushed it away, his smile softening from one of pure enjoyment to something more complicated. “Better. Much better, actually.”
“Good,” Gortash said, the word short. He picked up his fork, pushing a piece of kipper around his plate. “The salve last night was effective, then?”
Kade exhaled a puff of breath, the ghost of a knowing laugh. “The salve was fine. But it was the vial Jhorin brought me that did the real work.”
Gortash frowned. “Vial?”
Kade nodded, his lips curling in a small, self-deprecating smile. “I was hobbling rather pathetically around the kitchens this morning like a wounded deer, trying to find the marmalade before you returned. My ankle was…protesting. I thought I’d have to crawl back upstairs.”
He took a careful sip of tea and continued. “Jhorin found me. Took one look, muttered something in Elvish that I’m fairly sure translates to ‘foolish boy’, and vanished. Came back with a little blue vial he said came from your private stores and told me to drink it all.” He made a face. “It tasted like crushed mint and regret, but it did the trick. The swelling’s gone down.”
Gortash’s expression darkened, his brows drawing together as his half-raised fork lowered to the plate again. A flicker of something sharp and unpleasant crossed his face.
He’d left Kade in pain. He’d fled the room and his own cowardice and left him to wake alone and hurting. His servant had done what he, in his panic and self-absorption, had not. A hot pang lanced his chest. It wasn’t anger at the supposed theft—the potions were trivial. It was a lurch of guilt so acute it was nauseating.
As always, he covered the unwelcome feeling with a spike of gruff authority. “I didn’t authorize that,” he grumbled, the defensive reaction—chafing at breach in his control—surfacing to mask the sharper sting of shame.
“I’d thought as much,” Kade said, his tone light; but his eyes flicked to Gortash with a knowing look. He took a delicate bite of pastry. “I assume Jhorin made the choice of his own free will—which, despite being employed by you, I believe he still possesses.” He dabbed his lips with a napkin, a playful glint entering his eyes.
“Shall I pay you back for it, my lord? I’m afraid I’m a bit short on gold at the moment, but I could work it off. Scrub a floor? Mend a sock? I’m not sure what the going rate is for a healing potion and a steward’s unsanctioned act of mercy.”
A flush crept up Gortash’s neck. “Don’t be absurd. Of course not.”
The annoyance was reflexive, but seeing Kade’s easy, unbothered expression, the irritation deflated; the guilt settled and was still, quiet and acknowledged. “I’m glad it helped,” he added, the words rough but sincere. He looked down at his plate, then towards the sun-drenched windows, wrestling with a sudden impulse.
Kade remained silent, giving him space. The moment stretched, filled only by the distant cry of a gull.
Finally, Gortash reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a plain, unadorned iron key on a thin chain, placing it on the table between them with a soft click. It gleamed dully in the lavish sunlight.
“There is a small, lacquered cabinet in my dressing room,” he said, not meeting Kade’s eyes, his focus on the key. “Ebony and silver inlay, with a lock in the shape of a fist. It’s…my personal supply. There are tinctures for pain. For sleep, when it…won’t come. Draughts for nerves. Things that help.”
He cleared his throat, feeling strangely vulnerable. It was like handing over a piece of his own armor, leaving something soft and vital revealed for the knife. “You can keep the key. I have a duplicate.”
The offering was monumental. It was a listing of what Kade knew Gortash considered his hidden weaknesses: the chronic pain from age and old torments (Bane had healed his crippled leg and made him stronger, but daily aches were beneath the god’s gifts), the sleepless nights haunted by Avernus and ambition, the nerve-fraying stress he never showed the world. And he was sharing it with Kade.
Kade looked from the unobtrusive iron key to Gortash’s averted profile, his expression softening into one of profound, quiet gratitude. He understood the weight of what was being offered. He didn’t remark on the significance; he simply reached out, his fingers brushing Gortash’s hand on the table as he took the key.
“Thank you, Enver,” he said, his voice low and sincere. He drew the key and its chain beside his plate, between the teacup and the butter knife. It was an acceptance, a promise to guard the deep trust given.
Gortash finally looked up, meeting Kade’s gaze. The shame had receded, replaced by a grateful weariness. He gave a single, slight nod as his only answer.
A comfortable, if expectant, quiet descended then, as they ate together in the sunlight. Kade plucked a single, perfect blackberry from the bowl, bringing it to his lips with a ceremonial slowness. He bit down, and a single drop of purple juice escaped, hovering briefly at the edge of his lip before being swept away with a swift, precise flick of his tongue.
Gortash stared, and felt himself tremble along with that sparkling drop—and caught just as deftly.
With the focus of an alchemist, Kade then constructed himself a treat: a torn chunk of chocolate scone, a dollop of cream, a single fat strawberry. He ate it, his eyes closing in a moment of pure, unguarded bliss. When they opened again, it was right on Gortash's own dark unblinking gaze.
“You’re staring,” he murmured at Gortash, utterly unbothered as he licked his sticky fingers. “Is my technique that appalling?”
“I’m trying to ascertain if you’re building a meal or some abomination of a shrine to the goddess of sugar,” Gortash retorted, but the pretense was ruined by the attentive way he watched the simple pleasure flush Kade’s cheeks—and his tongue dart around those graceful digits.
Kade grinned. "Why not both?" He pushed the plate of pastries closer with a finger. “Your turn to worship at the altar. One bite. A tiny heresy against your solemn, savory sensibilities.”
The challenge glinted in his eyes—an invitation and temptation all at once. Gortash felt the iron resistance inside him crumble. With a performative sigh, he broke off a piece of an almond crown drenched in transparent, shimmering glaze, and ate it warily, like a rogue checking for traps. The sweetness was a velvety hammer, thick and overwhelming. His lips pursed and he took a bracing sip of bitter tea.
“Well?” Kade prompted, leaning forward, a hand drifting to his side to soothe the twinge of pain.
“Aggressive and cloying,” Gortash pronounced. “Like being accosted by a choir of overly cheerful pixies.”
Kade’s laugh was a bright, unfettered thing. “That's when it's perfect!” Emboldened, he speared a strawberry that had been half-drowned in the bowl of clotted cream and held it out on his fork like an offering. Thick pink droplets plunked onto his plate. “Now try it with the forbidden fruit. Sunshine on a fork—the final corruption.”
This was too much. Too intimate, too silly. Yet Gortash found himself leaning forward, parting his lips to take the berry from the proffered fork. His teeth closed over the cool metal tines and he slid the yielding fruit into his mouth, flooding his tongue with a sweet-tart burst.
“There,” Kade whispered, his eyes locked on Gortash’s mouth without realizing. “Now you’ve properly sinned.”
Gortash exhaled through his nose. The flavor was a shock—a floral, tart sweetness that obliterated every nuanced note of his Dragon’s Eye. It was pure hedonism.
Without thinking, he captured Kade’s wrist, his grip gentle and careful of his injury—just holding him there for a breath. His dark eyes locked on Kade’s widening ones. Slowly, deliberately, he licked the remaining sweetness from the fork.
“Cloying,” Gortash repeated, his voice a rasp. He released the wrist. “But…persistent.”
A furious blush stained Kade from throat to hairline. He retreated, flustered. “Sunshine,” he mumbled as he fussed with the napkin in his lap, a victorious, embarrassed grin playing on his lips.
Gortash sat back then, the sweet of sugar still on his tongue. “You are a terrible influence.”
“I’m an excellent influence,” Kade countered, his grin softening. “You’re not glaring at the sunlight anymore…you’re just sitting in it.” He took a bite of his pancake and gestured with his fork. “And you’re smiling.”
And he was. A genuine, unpracticed smile touched Gortash’s lips. He looked around. The light was still vulgar and decadent, illuminating every frayed thread in the rug, every faint scratch on the seldom-used table, exposing every hidden flaw.
But it also gilded the curve of Kade’s cheek and made the simple china gleam. It was messy, and bright, and alive.
“It’s tolerable,” he conceded, his voice a low rumble. “From the correct perspective.”
Kade’s answering smile was like the dawn outside—inevitable, and breathtaking. He didn’t push further. He simply passed the pot of lemon curd, their fingers brushing briefly, and returned to his own breakfast, allowing the quiet to settle once more.
They lingered in that sun-warmed peace, bodies relaxing as the conversation did, banter growing playful. Gortash watched Kade—fork precise and careful—pluck and eat every blueberry from his oatmeal, one by one, from over the rim of his chipped teacup, his gaze analytical yet softer than it had been in weeks.
“You eat like a sparrow,” he remarked, the criticism devoid of its usual bite, a smirk ghosting the edge of his lip. “Picking at one thing for an hour. It’s a wonder you have the energy to be so vexing.”
Kade’s amethyst eyes lifted, glinting. “And you eat like a prisoner anticipating a shove from the tray.” He gestured with his fork, pointing at Gortash’s plate. “You’ve demolished that omelet in six bites. You didn’t even taste the mushrooms.”
“I tasted them,” Gortash countered, defensive for a heartbeat before he caught himself. He set his fork down with a soft clink. “They were earthy. From the market by the Basilisk Gate, I’d wager.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across Kade’s face. “See? You catalog the origin of your food even while you inhale it. It’s fascinating.”
“Efficiency is a virtue,” Gortash retorted, though a corner of his mouth twitched.
For a single, suspended moment, it was just them. Two people sharing a meal, trading gentle barbs in the morning light.
Then, the door opened without a knock.
Jhorin stood on the threshold, his posture rigid, his elderly face etched with tension. “My lord, forgive the interruption—”
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” Gortash said, the softness leaching from his voice, replaced by the familiar, imperious chill. He did not look away from Kade. “I am occupied.”
Jhorin did not retreat. “My lord, you have a visitor.”
“I said I am not to be disturbed.”
“It is Duke Ulder Ravengard,” Jhorin pressed, his voice dropping to a grave murmur. “He is not here in his capacity as a Councillor.”
The air in the sunroom solidified, the golden light suddenly feeling cold and exposing. Gortash turned his head slowly, a predator sensing a shift in the wind. “Then why is he here?”
Jhorin’s eyes flickered to Kade, a fleeting glance heavy with unspoken warning. “He is here as the Lord Marshal of the Flaming Fist. He wishes to speak with you regarding an…incident following the Hempstock gala last night.”
The transformation was instantaneous and absolute. The relaxed set of Gortash’s shoulders vanished, replaced by a ramrod-straight posture. The thoughtful, almost soft expression he’d worn moments before solidified into the mask of cold, polished granite that was the Lord of Steel. The walls were not just up—they were fortified, bristling with invisible artillery.
“I see,” Gortash said, the words flat and lethal, devoid of all warmth. He set his cup down with a precise, final click. “Show him to my study. I will be there directly.”
Jhorin bowed and melted away, sealing them once more in silence—a silence now thick and heavy as a shroud.
The warmth of their teasing conversation evaporated like mist. Kade had frozen, a half-eaten berry forgotten in his fingers. The color drained from his face, leaving him pale as milk. The specters of the past night—Cassian’s grasping hands, the tearing silk, the cold cobblestones—crashed back into the sunlit room. He unconsciously curled his bandaged hand against his bruised side, where he’d landed after leaping from the carriage.
“Enver…” The name was a whisper, ragged with fear.
Gortash stood, straightening the lines of his overcoat with a sharp, efficient tug. “It’s nothing. A formality. I will handle it.” The words were armor, each one riveted into place.
“A formality?” Kade’s voice strained against the dread thickening his throat. “The Lord Marshal doesn’t make house calls for formalities. Cassian…his family…”
“I said I will handle it.” The tone brooked no argument, the warmth of moments ago a distant memory. He moved around the table, his presence once again dominating the space, casting a long, cold shadow over the feast. “You will be fine.”
“Will I?” Kade’s question was barely audible. He looked up at Gortash and the fear in his eyes was no longer just for himself. It was for the man before him, for the dark, ruthless calculus he knew lived behind those eyes. He knew the lengths Gortash would go to protect what he claimed as his. The plea formed on his tongue—don’t start a war over this, don’t do anything you’ll regret—but it died unsaid. He knew its futility.
His voice was barely a breath, laced with a resignation that was its own kind of agony. “Please be careful.” He looked away, shaking his head slightly. “Just…be careful.”
Gortash paused on his way to the door. He turned back, and for a fleeting second, the mask softened at the edges. Something raw and unguarded flickered in his gaze—an acknowledgment of the fear. He reached out, his hand closing over Kade’s shoulder in a firm, brief squeeze, careful to avoid the bruises he knew lay beneath the robe. “I am always careful.”
Then the moment was gone. The mask was perfect once more.
“Stay here,” Gortash commanded. “I’ll take care of this.”
He turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft, definitive click that echoed like a verdict in the suddenly hollow sunroom. The glorious light poured in, unchanged, illuminating the abandoned feast, the cooling tea, and Kade—alone once more, wrapped in Gortash's silk and his own careful bandages, waiting in the bright, terrifying silence for the storm his sunshine had failed to hold at bay.
