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Julien can feel his father’s glare burn into the back of his head as he buttons his coat.
The face Julien sees in the mirror is his own—but since Raimond came busting in, knocking a foreign concept under his roof, his eyes are burning dark, like ashes on a pyre.
The shifting of fabric is suddenly loud in his ears, his eyes flicking up and down his reflection in the mirror to identify the cause of his father’s discontent—and finding none.
“What?” Julien snarls in the end, losing a fight he didn’t know he was fighting.
“Be respectable tonight.”
Julien scoffs. “And you climbed all those stairs for this.”
Raimond frowns. He inhales deeply, trying to steady himself, and strikes another blow. “All the Sundered Houses will be looking at us closely.”
“And why would that be, Father? Could it be because some of us broke bread with the enemy?”
Raimond’s eyes narrow. “It’s the first gala Lady Royce will attend on her own. I thought this would matter to you.”
“And I will be there when she calls me.”
“Hope she doesn’t call you because there’s danger afoot. Sloppy as you have become, you would disgrace yourself and her.”
Julien turns abruptly, fingers still tight on the buttons. He feels his cheeks burn hot, as if Raimond had struck him with his gauntlet square in the face.
He searches for words, but finds none.
“Do you even remember how to use the rapier you wield? You used to be good. You were a good kid." Raimond sighs. "Have you already started drinking?”
“Do you want me to show you if I can still use it, Father?”
“I won’t let you embarrass yourself. You are late.”
Before Julien can reply, Raimond turns and slams the door behind him. Julien’s fingers are so tight on the buttons he can feel them start to give. His chest feels as hot as the depths of a forge, and he finds himself gasping for air.
He grabs the bottle resting on the windowsill and takes a heavy sip.
-
His father’s eyes are fixed on his face as he looks out of the carriage window. Every little sound of displeasure that Raimond lets out makes his skin crawl. He feels vivisected under his gaze, every little fold of his mouth and glint in his eyes inspected, and he finds he hates it.
He hates the silence more. Raimond opens and closes his mouth like a dying fish, gathering words and then letting them go, as if Julien were not worthy of having them spoken aloud.
Julien drowns in the heavy stillness between them.
He clasps his hands so tightly his knuckles turn white, and wishes he could disappear into the bottom of a bottle.
When the carriage stops, Raimond wears his best diplomatic smile and leans toward Julien. “You reek of wine,” he whispers in his ear, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. It feels like an earthquake.
Julien opens his mouth to retort, to explain he only had one sip, but Raimond doesn’t care: he has already decided on his version of the story, and Julien can only keep playing his part.
-
Lady Royce glides through the gala like she was born for it—in some way, she was. Julien loses himself in her well-practised gestures and her wide smiles. She answers all the prying questions about her private life with ease and composure.
It feels so strange to stand at her side again without the traitor to poison their evening. Thjazi always occupied much more space than he deserved in her life, and still his presence looms over them. Julien sees Aranessa’s hand fidget in the pocket of her gown, where he knows her wedding band to be.
He was so, so sure that bringing Thjazi Fang to heel would have restored balance to their lives. He would have had his father back, and even if Aranessa had never been his to begin with, she would have been free of her burden.
But Raimond is farther away than he has ever been, and Thjazi’s shadow wraps its fingers around Aranessa’s neck like a noose.
Thjazi Fang is rotting in a cell for the time being, and yet he bears more weight on all their lives than Julien ever did. It cannot be fair.
He stands next to his lady when she needs him to, and when she goes to speak privately with some nobles, he deflates like a puppet whose strings were cut.
“Go have fun,” she mouths to him as she leaves.
It’s Ilondria who finds him. She interlaces her arm with his and presses a glass into his hand. “You look terrible, darling,” she whispers.
Julien locks eyes with Raimond as he walks with her. Raimond’s mouth twists and he shakes his head. Julien wrenches his arm free, but it’s too late: his father is no longer looking. He never seems to, when it really matters.
Ilondria pats him on the back and guides him onward. “The others are waiting. These people don’t need you.” Shapers know how true it feels to Julien—and how gut-wrenching too.
They meet the others in a drawing room, all curtains and fancy seating.
Julien feels like he’s going to buzz out of his skin, so he wraps his hand tighter around the hilt of his rapier and brings the glass to his lips with the other. When the glass cannot quench his thirst, Jahar hands him the bottle.
-
The rage burns so hot in his veins he thinks he will be set alight.
He tries to smother the flames with the wine, but all fires burn hotter when you pour alcohol on them. Julien’s fury is no different.
Mardonus touches his face softly, fixing a stray curl, and Julien grabs his hand tight and growls.
Mardonus sighs deeply, his cock still buried in him, and starts to withdraw. Julien hisses at the sudden loss, furious and possessive, and tries to wrench himself free when Mardonus wraps his arms around him from behind.
The room spins, and all he can see is the ghost of his father’s dismissive gaze as he left, as if Julien were not even worth casting a second glance to.
He thinks he weeps. He snarls at Jahar, and Ilondria scolds him. He hisses at her too, and when she tries to calm him down, he slams the door behind him as he strumbles out.
He exits the palace, bottle in hand, and sits in a cold alley. He shouts at curious passers-by and is approached by the Revolutionary Guard, but they leave him alone after seeing his family crest.
When his father wakes him in the morning by grabbing the collar of his coat, Julien still has mud on his forehead.