"Lady Selene." Emeric inclined his head, his voice perfectly neutral. "I’ve heard so much about you."
"All good things, I hope."
"You were mentioned in passing." He let the pause linger, just long enough. "When my wife was telling me about the people who were kind to her after the Duskmere incident."
Selene’s smile flickered. She’d been conspicuously absent from that list.
"Perhaps I should have been kinder," she said, recovering quickly. "But you know how it is—one simply doesn’t know how to act around such... tragedy."
"Perhaps you should have tried kindness first and worked backward from there." Emeric’s voice never rose. "It’s what decent people do."
The air between them turned cold. Selene’s eyes narrowed, and Isolde’s hand found Emeric’s wrist, meant to serve as a warning, a touch, a thank you.
They moved on, but the damage was done. Word spread quickly in noble circles, and Emeric had just made an enemy of Lady Selene Lacona, a minor noble, but a vicious one, with a talent for gossip and a long memory.
"Emeric." Isolde’s voice was low. "That was unnecessary."
"It was necessary." He squeezed her hand. "She deserved to hear it."
"And now she’ll make our lives difficult."
"She already would have." He smiled down at her. "At least now she knows I’m not afraid of her."
They had been in the ballroom for barely twenty minutes when Emeric felt them.
He didn’t need to look. He knew the precise cadence of his father’s footsteps, the particular way the Duke of Halden moved through a room.
"Emeric."
The voice was cold, carrying the exact note of disappointment that had colored every interaction between them for as long as he could remember. He turned, his face carefully neutral, and found himself facing the full assembly of House Halden.
Duke Edard Halden stood at the center, tall and broad-shouldered, his grey hair swept back from a face that had never learned to smile. His dark eyes swept over Emeric with disinterest as usual.
To his right stood Emeric’s elder brother, Lord Kaelen Halden. At twenty-six, Kaelen was everything their father had ever wanted in an heir. He was tall, handsome, powerful, with a Tier 5 mana core and the easy confidence of a man who had never failed at anything in his life.
To the left, their sister, Lady Celeste Halden. At nineteen, she was the golden child of the family; beautiful, accomplished, engaged to a viscount’s heir. She looked at Emeric the way one might look at a stain on an otherwise perfect garment.
Behind them, a handful of lesser cousins and hangers-on, all wearing expressions of polite disdain.
"Father." Emeric inclined his head, his grip on Isolde’s chair steady. "Kaelen. Celeste."
Isolde’s hand found his on the back of her chair—a brief touch, a silent anchor. He felt her presence like a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"Isolde." Duke Halden’s eyes moved to his daughter-in-law, and his expression didn’t shift. "I see you’ve managed to make an appearance."
"Your Grace." Isolde’s voice was cool, perfectly composed. "How kind of you to notice."
The Duke’s eyes narrowed fractionally. He wasn’t used to being addressed with anything less than deference, and Isolde had never been particularly good at deference.
"Brother." Kaelen stepped forward, his smile spreading like a wound. "It’s been... some time. I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten how to leave that hovel of yours."
"We’ve been busy," Emeric said, his voice flat. "I’m sure you understand."
"Busy." Kaelen laughed, a sound with no warmth in it. "With what, exactly? Playing nursemaid to your crippled wife?"
The words hung in the air like a slap.
Emeric felt something cold settle in his chest. His grip on Isolde’s chair tightened, but he didn’t look down at her. He kept his eyes fixed on his brother, and his voice when he spoke was quiet enough that only those closest could hear.
"Say that again, Kaelen. I’d like to be sure I heard you correctly."
Kaelen’s smile flickered. He was used to being the one in control, used to being able to say whatever he wanted without consequence. But there was something in Emeric’s voice that gave him pause.
"I merely meant," Kaelen said, recovering his composure, "that you seem to have your hands full. That’s all."
"You have a strange way of expressing concern," Isolde said, her voice like ice. "Perhaps you should practice more. Or perhaps you should simply keep your mouth shut when you have nothing worthwhile to say."
Kaelen’s eyes widened. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like that—not by anyone, certainly not by the crippled wife of his failure of a brother.
"I was speaking to my brother," he said coldly. "Not to you."
"Emeric is my husband." Isolde’s voice didn’t waver. "What you say to him, you say to me. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the Duke. Or the Queen. Or anyone else who might care that you’re making a scene at a royal event."
Kaelen opened his mouth to respond, but Duke Halden raised a hand, silencing him.
"That’s enough," the Duke said, his voice brooking no argument. "We are here to be seen, not to embarrass ourselves with petty squabbles."
"Father, I was merely—"
"You were being a fool." The Duke’s eyes moved to Emeric, and something in them was different.
And then Lady Celeste spoke.
"Father," she said, her voice sweet as poison, "you’re being too hard on him. He’s asking what we’re all thinking." She turned to Emeric, her smile a perfect mask of sisterly concern. "It must be difficult, having to take care of Isolde all by yourself. I’m sure you’re doing the best you can with what you’ve been given."
The words were kind. The tone was not.
Emeric felt Isolde stiffen beside him. He placed his hand on her shoulder, offering a silent reassurance.
"Your concern is noted, Celeste," he said, his voice flat. "But unnecessary. Isolde and I are doing just fine."
"Are you?" Celeste’s eyes flicked to Isolde’s chair, lingering with theatrical sympathy. "I suppose ’fine’ is a relative term. For you, at least."