My father used to say, ‘The greatest revenge is letting it go.’ As usual, he wasn’t wrong; no one can predict the future.

Silent and unassailable, Stormbourne Estate and the town of Stormvale were separated by a twenty-foot-high gate that prevented any unsanctioned civilians or intruders from proceeding. Its black iron sharply contrasted with the white cobblestone path that it guarded. Those who stood watch over it wore red and white to stand out from the gate.

I exited the estate through the gateway. A pair of guards snapped to attention, stomping their right feet and saluting. “At ease,” I ordered. Instantly, they relaxed, their eyes still sharp, scanning over my shoulders for anything out of the ordinary.

“Were you on the shift that brought me back to my house?” I asked one of them.

The guard nodded. “Yes, Master Alex. Three young ladies dragged… I mean, carried you while you were wasted… I mean, unconscious, for some unknown reason.”

My eyes cut through the guard like a blade, unimpressed by his stutter. I would have really given him an earful if I hadn’t been in a hurry. Well, what he said confirmed what Alfred told me when I questioned him earlier.

Past the black gates was Stormvale. In fact, this large town owed everything to my family. Its founder, William Stormbourne, had a monument in the town square where he presided immortally, watching as the leading members of the family made their speeches to the townsfolk, ensuring the legacy of the Stormbourne name continued to thrive.

I paid little mind to his bronze statue, which I had passed many times. When I was a kid, Alistair and I threw eggs at the sculpture to see who could hit our first ancestor’s face first. Our mom, who lost sight of us for a moment, ended up chasing us around the square. A scene of playful chaos followed, and in the end, I won the bet.

Walking through the market of the town, I kept my senses alert, scanning the crowd for that old man who had gifted me a lump on my head. The market was crowded, with different stalls and sellers clashing with my grim focus. After all, this was no mere errand. It was about settling scores, and I took it seriously.

Turning right separated me from the market and led me to the main road. Unlike the narrow and muddy pathways that had dirtied my boots earlier, the main road was far more pristine. Perhaps the people passing through here knew how to avoid the mess or the sweepers worked much harder than usual. After all, this road was an extension of an important landmark in Stormvale, and no one wanted to leave a poor impression on any visitors from out of town or the wealthy few who frequented this part of the area. When I say important landmark, I mean the Royal Rose Tavern.

The tavern stood out, of course, with its rich look among others that were not as highly valued. It was built just a decade ago for fine gentlemen and noble ladies. Its windows and doorways gleamed with gold tinsel, supported by marble pillars. The owner claimed the seats were polished mahogany under some velvety fur. Velvet was for comfort and fur was to keep warm those who could afford such luxury.

And with the refined patrons, tavern brawls were almost non-existent. The last time someone started a fight was seven months ago when two nobles from a neighboring town decided to brawl over one of the lovely barmaids. Since then, the place had been guarded at night by a few hand-picked men, just to keep the peace. The guards at the door nodded at me because they already knew who I was. The owner, though, scowled every time I entered the establishment.

“Master Alex,” Hemming hissed. “You shouldn’t be here. What if your uncles or your father find out you’re in such a place?”

“Relax, Hemming,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not here to get wasted. I’m looking for those three dudes who were here last evening.” I know, I know. My unruly drinking buddies might have looked rough around the edges, but they came from wealthy families. James’ father owned the town bank. Craig’s father owned land outside Stormvale. As for Dean’s father, hmm, I couldn’t quite remember what he owned. But one thing I knew for certain was that their parents would face an epic challenge finding suitable brides from the same social circles for their sons.

“Which dudes?” Hemming’s eyebrows furrowed. After I told him their names, he leaned back a bit and crossed his arms. “Nah! Haven’t seen them all day,” he shrugged his shoulders.

“Then I’ll wait for them upstairs. Call me the minute they get here.” I tried not to sound too annoyed. “And bring me my usual.”

“What usual?” Hemming narrowed his eyes.

“Buttermilk!” I snapped. “If my uncle walks in here, you’ve got an out; you don’t serve booze to the underaged.” I started for the stairs, then stopped. “And yeah, more milk.”

I chose one of the chairs nearest the window at a small round table and pulled it out. These chairs looked rich and expensive, like mahogany, but in truth, they were just regular wood with velvet cushions.

Before long, a barmaid came by and placed a mug of buttermilk on the table. “You’re not drinking today, Master Alex,” she said brightly.

“Not today, Sheila,” I said, deepening my voice. “Gotta mess up an old man later on.”

“I see,” she nodded. “You sure you’re not going to mess up a young girl instead?”

“Well, if I wanted to mess up a girl, you’d be the first on my list,” I replied, teasing. Sheila giggled, her eyes twinkling with fun as she looked at me.

“Hey, Sheila!” someone shouted from the other side of the room. “Don’t talk to that guy. You know he’s still a kid, right?”

It was Hemming. That windbag! I clenched my teeth, promising myself that one day I would buy this tavern just to work him like a dog.

“Okay, boss,” Sheila answered, then turned to me. “When you turn twenty-one, come and look for me, Master Alex.”

“I sure will,” I nodded as she walked away from the table, breathing a little dreamy sigh.

I looked down at the streets through the window, trying to spot those three guys coming into the tavern. It was odd that they weren’t here at this hour, considering I always picked them up from this place before heading to my favorite drinking spot. I hoped they would show up because I was planning to ask them to help me pin the old man down while I punched him in the face. Then maybe I would give him a kick to the groin and strip him naked to send a message that he shouldn’t mess with me again. But my patience wore off, and I realized I might have to handle the beating all by myself.

It was getting dark as I trudged along the streets. My next stop was another tavern at the farthest corner of town. With any luck, I might find some answers there, especially about the three ladies who had helped haul me back to the estate.

This old tavern in question was nothing like the Royal Rose. This one was far rougher, the kind of place you didn’t go to unless you had a good reason or no other choice, like me. It was where I could drink in peace without worrying about running into any of my relatives. Unfortunately, it was also a place where you could lose your coin purse if you weren’t careful. But I wasn’t too worried. Who the hell didn’t know Alex Stormbourne, Marquess Lucian’s son? Well, one old coot didn’t between here and there, and here I was.

I reached the tavern and stopped outside, eyeing the faded sign creaking above the door. The Drunken Stag. A man could get some answers here if he knew who to talk to. I pushed open the heavy door. The wood creaked. I half-expected a wave of pipe smoke and ale to hit me, but instead, I was met with the aftermath of a brawl, minus the passed-out drunks.

The floor, once wooden, now held sticky patches where drinks had been spilled and left to pool, further spreading the uncleanness as people walked through them. Dark stains, possibly blood or vomit, marked the ground and walls, adding to the disarray that made this place a fitting crypt for vivacious, lascivious bachelors.

The large fireplace at the other end of the room, normally a source of warmth and comfort, appeared cold and hostile. A few broken glass pieces sparkled in the dim light, broken bottles and mugs that had served as weapons.

Some barmaids moved about the room, righting chairs and picking up debris. Their aprons whispered with dirt and grease, their steps slow with tiredness from cleaning up the mess.

Behind the bar, the barkeep, Brutus, silently scrubbed the counter, wiping away all traces of the violence. His eyes were tired when he looked up, but they instantly lit with relief when they fell upon me. “Master Alex! Thank goodness you’re here.”

“Are you all right, Brutus?” I asked, taking a few steps closer.

“Barely. I only had the courage to come here an hour ago with my kids to clean the place. I was so afraid the person who did all this would return.”

I glanced at the shambles. “What happened here?”

“A brawl is what happened.”

“A brawl?”

“Aye, a brawl.”

“So there was a brawl here last night? Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Eh, well, it started after you passed out, Master Alex.”

“Ah, I see,” I nodded and tried to piece together the events. “So what happened after I got knocked out?”

“Your three friends confronted the man who had thrown the bottle at you.”

“You mean the old guy sitting by himself?”

“Old guy?” Brutus reflected for a moment. “Well, aye, the old guy.”

“So, did they get him?”

“Nay; your friends also got knocked out!”

“What?” My eyebrows shot up. “Are we talking about the same geezer here?”

“Aye,” Brutus nodded solemnly. “Not only that, after your friends went down, about two dozen patrons came to help. They knew you were the Marquess’ son and wanted to make an impression on your father by helping his son.”

“Really! They did that for me?” I grinned. “So, did they get him?”

“Nay! They all got knocked down, too!”

My eyes widened. “Brutus, are you really, really sure we’re talking about the same dude here?”

Brutus’ voice became serious. “Aye, Master Alex. You’d better be careful if you ever cross paths with him again.”

A tight knot formed in my throat, and I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling creeping over me.