My father used to say, “The greatest revenge is letting it go.” As usual, he wasn’t wrong. No one can predict the future, no matter how hard we try.

Silent and unassailable, Stormbourne Estate and the town of Stormvale were divided by a twenty-foot-high gate that kept out any unsanctioned civilians or intruders. Its black iron stood in stark contrast to the white cobblestone path it guarded. The guards stationed there wore red and white uniforms, making them easy to spot against the dark metal.

Anyone who dared to approach without proper clearance would find themselves swiftly turned away, or worse, dragged off for an intense and very personal conversation with someone whose job involved breaking legs and asking questions later.

I exited the estate through the gate. A pair of guards straightened with military precision. Their boots slammed into the ground in sync, and their hands shot to their foreheads in a sharp salute.

“At ease,” I ordered.

They relaxed instantly, but their eyes still sharp, scanning over my shoulders for anything out of the ordinary.

“Were you guys on the night shift that brought me back to my house?” I asked.

One of them hesitated for a heartbeat before nodding. His tone was respectful, but there was a nervous twitch in his voice.

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

The words tumbled out in a messy rush, like he was trying to walk a tightrope without a safety net. My gaze narrowed, slicing through his clumsy explanation. If I weren’t in such a hurry, I might’ve given him an earful.

But what he said lined up with what Alfred told me earlier. Three women had helped get me back home while I was completely out of it. That image stuck in my head, whether I liked it or not.

Past the black gates lay Stormvale. In many ways, the town owed everything to my family. Its founder, William Stormbourne, stood immortalized in bronze at the center of the town square. From his pedestal, he watched in eternal silence while members of my family gave speeches, rallied the people, and made sure the Stormbourne name stayed relevant for another generation.

As for me, I never gave much thought to that old statue. I’d walked past it more times than I could count. His glinting, judgmental face was just another part of the scenery from my childhood, no more special than the bakery’s morning bread or the midday clang of the bell tower.

When Alistair and I were younger, full of mischief and dumb ideas, we figured it would be hilarious to egg the statue. We turned it into a contest to see who could hit our ancestor Will right between the eyes first.

Pretty sure Mom lost track of us for a few minutes that day, and when she caught on, all hell broke loose. What followed could’ve been ripped straight out of one of those wild stories we used to act out, pirates and bandits running from the law. In the end, I won the contest, obviously. Not that Alistair would ever admit it.

I passed through the market, eyes skimming the crowd for the old man who’d gifted me the lovely lump on my head. The place buzzed with sellers yelling over each other, hawking everything from spices to trinkets, none of which matched the grim focus on my face.

This wasn’t just a stroll or some errand. This was about payback, and I was all in.

A quick right turn took me off the main market path and onto a wider road. Unlike the narrow, muddy pathways that had dirtied my boots earlier, this stretch was much pristine and well-maintained. Maybe the people passing through here just knew how to avoid the mess. Or maybe the street sweepers worked harder than usual in this part of town.

Either way, it made sense. After all, this road led up to a major landmark in Stormvale, and no one wanted to make a bad impression on out-of-towners or the wealthy folks who passed through here.

By “major landmark,” I mean the Royal Rose Tavern.

The tavern stood out, of course, with its rich appearance compared to others that weren’t as highly valued. Built just a decade ago for fine gentlemen and noble ladies, it had gleaming windows and doorways fitted with gold tinsel, supported by marble pillars. The owner claimed the seats were polished mahogany, with velvet cushions and fur accents. Velvet was for comfort, while fur kept warm those who could afford such luxury.

With refined patrons, tavern brawls were almost unheard of. The last time someone dared to disrupt the peace was seven months ago, when two visiting nobles from a neighboring town fought over the affections of one of the lovely barmaids. It had been quite the spectacle, with overturned tables, shattered glasses, and a few bruised egos by the end. Since then, the place had been guarded by a few hand-picked men to keep things under control.

The guards at the door gave me a nod as I entered, already knowing who I was. The owner, on the other hand, was far less welcoming. His stare hardened, and his scowl deepened as he watched me step inside. He didn’t even bother hiding his disapproval, a reaction I had grown used to over time.

To him, I was trouble, a walking magnet for complications. Still, he put up with me. Maybe it was because he had no choice, or perhaps my name carried enough weight to keep him from throwing me out. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t here to win his favor.

“Master Alex,” Hemming hissed, his voice sharp with worry. “You shouldn’t be here. What if your uncles or your father find out you came to a place like this?”

“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 a large plantation outside Stormvale. As for Dean’s father, hmm… I couldn’t quite remember what he owned.

But one thing was certain. Their parents would have a tough time finding suitable brides from the same social circles as them.

“Which dudes?” Hemming raised an eyebrow.

After I told him their names, he leaned back a bit and crossed his arms.

“Nah. Haven’t seen them all day,” he shrugged.

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

“What usual?” Hemming’s gaze narrowed, suspicion creeping into his expression.

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

I chose one of the chairs nearest the window at a small round table and pulled it out. The chairs looked rich and expensive, like mahogany, but in reality, 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 asked in a perky tone.

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

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

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

“Hey, Sheila!” someone shouted from across 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, silently promising myself that one day I’d buy this tavern just to work him like a dog.

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

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

I glanced out the window at the streets, trying to spot those three guys coming into the tavern. It was odd they weren’t here yet, especially since I always picked them up from this place before heading to my favorite drinking spot.

I hoped they’d show up because I was planning for them to help me pin the old man down while I punched him in the face. Maybe I’d even give him a kick to the groin and strip him naked to send a message that he shouldn’t mess with me again. But as the minutes passed, my patience wore thin, and I realized I might have to handle the beating all by myself.

It was getting dark as I trudged along the streets again. 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 hauled me back to the estate.

This old tavern was nothing like the Royal Rose. It was much rougher, the sort 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 eyed 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 rattling. 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 filth. Dark stains, possibly blood or vomit, marked the flooring 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, usually a source of warmth and comfort, now looked cold and hostile. A few broken glass pieces sparkled in the dim light. They were the remains of bottles and mugs that had been used as weapons.

A handful of barmaids moved around the room, righting chairs and sweeping up debris with their brooms. Their aprons whispered with dirt and grease, and their steps were slow with exhaustion from cleaning up the mess.

Behind the bar, the tavern owner, 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 happened.”

“A brawl?”

“Aye, a brawl,” he confirmed.

“Really? There was a brawl here last night?” I scratched the side of my head. “Then why wasn’t I told about this?”

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

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

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

“You mean the old guy sitting by himself?” My gaze sharpened as I looked at Brutus.

“Old guy?” He thought for a moment. “Well, aye, the old guy.”

“So, did they get him?”

“Nay; your friends got knocked out too!” Brutus exclaimed loudly.

“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 a good 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!”

I gulped. “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.”

Well, that changed things. A tight knot formed in my throat, and I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling skulking over me.