It’s quite amusing how some people show up where they aren’t wanted, but it’s even funnier when they do it with a smile.

With Aiden hanging back, I hastened my pace, feeling urgency creep into my steps. The sound of my boots hitting the cobble echoed in the quiet morning, and the tension in my hands made my fists tighten. My arms clenched in a way that almost hurt. I retraced everything that had been said earlier, step by step, word by word. Duke Lysander’s daughter, Catherine.

Just what I needed, another reason to put on that darn fake smile.

Why did she even bother coming? What was the point? To play nice with a bunch of people she probably couldn’t care less about? To me, it felt like an act, a performance she was trying to sell.

I find it more than a little ironic, though, someone who can’t stand a place still goes out of their way to visit it. Now, you might be wondering why I feel this way about Catherine. It’s simple, really.

The last time that Lysander bitch was here, I overheard her talking to her maid. They were having one of those private chats, the kind that everyone else was too busy to hear, and she was practically complaining about being here.

“I despise this place,” she’d whispered. The look on her face when she said it was enough to sear itself into my memory. It wasn’t just annoyance; it was genuine disdain, the type of disdain someone has when they don’t see you as worth their time.

I’ve never been able to shake that look. It was like she didn’t even care enough to hide it. And that’s the thing. If she couldn’t stand being here, why didn’t she just be like a normal bitch and tell Aiden her thoughts? Why couldn’t she just say, “I don’t want to go to Stormvale, Aiden, you should come to Silverhold instead?”

It would’ve been the easiest thing in the world. After all, her family was higher status than ours. She could’ve done whatever she wanted, whether it was forging some kind of meaningful bond between our families or just screwing around. I wouldn’t have cared either way. At least if she stayed away, I wouldn’t have to watch her put on that fake sweet act in front of my family. It was pathetic, honestly.

At least there was one thing to be thankful for. My parents weren’t here. If they were, my head would already be splitting from hearing my mom harp on me about wearing something fancy and my father lecturing me on how to “act proper” around Catherine. I could already feel my jaw aching from the thought of it.

Furthermore, her visit had already taken its toll. On the way to the gate, I could see the several arches and pillars the florists had set up to beautify the pathways. I could even smell their overwhelming sweetness from where I was walking.

The estate staff were bustling about, too, rushing around with their chores. Some gardeners were out in the courtyards, trimming the hedges. They didn’t stop what they were doing but just glanced up at me as I walked by. I noticed the subtle furrows of their brows, probably wondering why the son of their lord, who they usually saw only during afternoon hours, was up so early in the morning.

The guards were changing shifts as well. Four of them were trudging off to the guardhouse, looking like they were already anticipating a break. I made my way toward one of the guards, a tall man with a small bulging lump on his forehead. He stopped dead in his tracks as I approached, his posture stiffening instantly.

“Morning, Master Alex,” the guard rumbled in greeting, his voice deep and steady.

“Morning,” I mumbled, barely looking up. “What time did I come back last night?”

The guard scratched his chin, taking a moment to think. “I didn’t see you, Master Alex,” he said thoughtfully. “After Lord Stormbourne left the estate by a quarter after nine, only a few servants came back from town around ten. After that, nobody from among the household staff or your family members exited or entered the estate.”

I furrowed my brow, trying to piece together the events of the previous night. How the hell did I drag myself back here? Was there even anyone who brought me home, or had I somehow stumbled through the gate on my own, completely unaware of how I got here? Maybe I drunk-walked all the way back, passing through unnoticed.

I looked up at the walls of the estate, wondering if I’d somehow scaled them.

The guard seemed to sense my confusion and offered, “Want me to check the logbook, Master Alex?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Forget it, and thanks,” I muttered, not wanting to waste any more time on it. I had enough on my plate.

I turned away and started making my way down Storm’s Road, the familiar path leading me out of the estate and into the quiet of the morning. The hedge maples lined the road, their branches creaking like they were gossiping among themselves. But this wasn’t the usual wind-whispering that I’d gotten used to. No, these leaves were talking about something far more sinister.

“Revenge, blood, nosebleed, paper cut,” they murmured in an oddly pleasant, almost malicious tone.

I blinked and shook my head. What the hell? Perhaps I was just hearing things, or maybe it was just where my head was at. After all, my thoughts were clouded with too many questions and too much anger to make sense of it.

Funny how you can be surrounded by so much noise, and yet your ears only pick out what your mind is already stewing on. The world could be screaming at me, but all I could hear was the silence between my own thoughts, louder than anything else.

As I walked further, the trees thinned out, their shadows receding like retreating soldiers. The landscape shifted before me, giving way to patches of open fields and a few scattered cottages. Those old, sturdy ones that seemed to have been standing forever, simply watching the world pass by. Here, the air felt fresher, less stifled by the high walls of the estate.

By the time I hit the streets, the town was alive, buzzing in that unmistakable way only Stormvale could pull off. Vendors shouted their prices from every corner. Kids darted through the streets like they had the devil on their heels. The air was thick with the smell of food, so rich it could make even the grumpiest soul crack a smile.

But I wasn’t here for the market. My goal was simple and clear. The Chosen One bar. A new drinking spot on the eastern edge of town, far enough from the noise to keep its own vibe, but close enough that you didn’t feel like you’d left the hustle behind.

Still, as I wound through the streets, dodging stray cats and overly enthusiastic merchants, a few things caught my eye, making me pause. It’s funny how the world throws distractions your way when you’re trying to stay focused. Almost like it’s testing you, seeing if you’ll stick to your path or get caught up in whatever random nonsense it sways in front of you.

I tried to keep moving, but a part of me couldn’t help but look around, taking in the view. The town seemed to know what I was up to and decided to tantalize me with everything that didn’t have a thing to do with what I was looking for.

First, there was an old man, probably in his seventies, leaning forward under the weight of every year that had settled on his shoulders. His face, lined with deep creases, told the story of decades spent in labor. He was locked in a stubborn battle with a mule that seemed equally determined to make his morning as miserable as possible. The animal stood like a boulder, and from the look on its face, it screamed, “Tug all you want, old man, but I’m not moving an inch.” The reins were taut under the man’s grip as he mumbled some choice words. Words that would surely earn him a scolding from his wife.

Just when it appeared the old man might give up, a young boy, maybe his grandson, came running up with a handful of oats. The boy’s expression was full of earnestness, his bright eyes believing that he could solve anything.

Now, that’s the face of cleverness. I grinned, already guessing what the boy was about to do. Sure enough, at the sight of the oats, the mule’s ears twitched, and after a quick sniff, it started walking at last.

The old man straightened his back with a creak like an old barn door. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a weathered hand. His eyes flicked to the boy, a look of relief and fondness mixing in his gaze before he ruffled the kid’s hair. The boy burst into giggles, and together, they continued down the road. The mule scampering obediently behind, as if it were telling the old man, “Alright, you win this time.”

Next, my attention shifted to a middle-aged man, a merchant, judging by his well-worn clothes. He struggled with a cartload of casks and boxes tightly wrapped in cord. His face had turned deep crimson, and sweat poured down his forehead in rivulets. He muttered curses under his breath, likely lamenting the bad luck that had saddled him with a cart on the verge of collapse. He clung to the crates as though he could hold them together by sheer willpower, but it was a losing battle.

As he rounded a corner, the top crate wobbled, then slipped off and crashed to the ground. The splintering wood rang out, and apples scattered everywhere, rolling away as if they had somewhere better to be.

Poor guy. I sighed in sympathy.

I was about to offer my help when, out of nowhere, a group of street-smart kids swooped in. They pounced on the apples with lightning speed, tossing them gleefully back into the crate like it was some sort of game. The merchant looked up, startled at first, but his face softened into gratitude. He chuckled and nodded at the kids, who beamed with pride before darting off to their next adventure. The merchant, now smiling to himself, started reloading the crate with a little more care, clinching it down more securely this time.

And then there was this dog, a scrappy little fellow full of boundless energy, darting through the streets after a pack of laughing children. It scurried on tiny legs at an incredible speed, its tail wagging so fast it was a blur. No matter how quickly it ran, it never quite seemed to catch up. It yelped, its feet barely touching the cobblestones. “Come on, buddy, you can make it,” I silently cheered for him, wishing the little guy would catch up to the group.

At one point, the dog made a sharp turn and nearly collided with a plump woman carrying a basket of eggs. The woman screamed curses, struggling to keep the basket balanced. The dog, oblivious to the near disaster, shot past her, barely missing the basket. She sidestepped, clutching the eggs tighter.

“Oi! Watch where you’re going, you mutt!” she shouted after it. But the dog didn’t pay her any mind, continuing its chase with its ears flapping in the wind. The woman clicked her tongue in exasperation and waved her hand dismissively at the dog.

I took a deep breath, absorbing the chaos. It was all so ordinary, so typical of a peaceful town. Life chugged along, regardless of whether you were paying attention. And sometimes, it was the little moments, like the dog and the woman, that made you pause and smile.

But I wasn’t here for those little moments. I had a destination in mind.