Henrik’s manor was one of the most dominating buildings within the rchant district of Ironhold, a symbol of the wealth that had been accumulated through the profitable trade of herbs through the years.
The walls were made of white marble imported from the Western Regions, and in the afternoon sun, they shone brightly, while its gardens were carefully maintained by a small army of servants.
But today, unlike all other days, sothing was different, the usual beauty of the manor seed almost mocking, a mask of respectability which had been broken beyond repair by a re drunken miscalculation.
In the main study on the second floor, in a room adorned with expensive wooden shelves and filled with books of account recording profitable dealings for decades past, Lord Bjornson sat at his massive desk with his face looking like a stone.
His hands were clasped before him so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, and a muscle twitched in his jaw with barely suppressed fury.
In front of him was his son Henrik Bjornson with head hung low.
The young man was clearly a ss, like he’d been dragged through hell several tis.
His expensive silk robes were disheveled with stains on them, his hair was untidy, and the red mark on his cheek told its own story of the beatings he had received throughout the day.
The silence continued, heavy with anticipation
Every tick of the clock in the study seed to echo through the silence like a drum beat calling out the minutes to a blast.
Finally, after what seed like an eternity, Lord Bjornson broke the silence, his voice so chilling, so lacking in warmth, that it seed to cool the temperature in the room just a little further than it already was.
"Do you have any idea," Lord Bjornson began, his voice still calm to the point of being deadly, "what you have done this ti? Do you have even the slightest inkling of what damage you have brought on yourself?"
He didn’t want a answer, he continued.
"For how long, for god knows how many years, I have been working to keep your na clean, have you any idea what efforts I have made to cover up your debaucheries, your lack of self-control?"
Henrik flinched with each word, but Henrik’s father was not yet done.
"And every ti, every single ti I cleaned up your ss, what did I tell you? What did I say would happen if you did this again?"
"Father, I—"
"SILENCE!"
The roar reverberated through the study, and Henrik took a step back as if he’d been punched.
The servants by the door stiffened into rigidity, their eyes fixed intently on the floor, not wanting to be trapped in the cross fire between father and son.
Lord Bjornson’s voice fell back into that deadly calm again, and that was even more frightening than when he had been shouting.
"But that wasn’t even the worst of it, was it? No, you always have a way to make things even worse. Tell , do you rember what you did when you saw Lord Edmund McCoy standing in that crowd?"
Henrik’s face went from pale to ashen.
"I... I didn’t recognize him at first, Father.... I was so sorry—"
"SHUT UP"
"Do you have any idea how that sounds? How utterly insane and presumptuous those words were? You spoke as if your marriage to Miss Evelyn was already guaranteed, if not of the son of Blackwell Family that happen to be there at that ti as well, how else would you have disgraced us further?"
"But Father the marriage agreent..." Henrik started weakly.
"Is ANNULLED!" Lord Bjornson roared, his composure shattering completely.
"Lord Edmund publicly announced the annulnt yesterday! The marriage agreent that cost favors destroyed in an instant because you couldn’t keep your pants on and your mouth shut!"
"Do you understand what this ans for us, for our family? How much we’ve lost this ti. The McCoy alliance was supposed to secure our position for the next generation.
With Miss Evelyn as your wife and only other son Rupert of the McCoy family within our control, it wouldn’t have taken much for combined strength of both families to have made us invincible in the upper ranks of the Ironhold."
"But now? Now, in this new situation, our alliance is ended. Furthermore, Lord Edmund has inford us in unmistakable terms that he will in no way allow you to marry within his ranks. Our political position has been seriously undermined because of you."
"And the worst part, the absolute worst part of all of this," he continued, "is that I couldn’t even defend you. I couldn’t say the rumors weren’t true this ti."
"I could pay off ten people. Maybe even twenty if I was desperate. But dozens? Including mbers of families equal or near-equal to our own status? It’s impossible."
"Father, please—"
"No. No more excuses." Lord Bjornson stopped pacing and fixed his son with a stare that could cut glass. "You have destroyed sothing it took decades to build. And now I have to clean up your ss one final ti."
"Lord Edmund is being flooded with marriage proposals for his daughter. Dozens of them, from every rchant family and minor noble house in the region. It’s beco a political nightmare for him. He can’t accept any without careful consideration, and he can’t reject them all without offending half the city."
"So, I made him an offer. A solution to his problem."
Henrik straightened slightly. "What kind of solution?"
"A public competition. A Suitor’s Challenge. A series of tests to determine who is worthy of courting Miss Evelyn. It solves his political problem by making the selection process transparent and fair. No one can complain they weren’t given a chance."
Lord Bjornson’s gaze bored into his son.
"And I managed to persuade him that, despite all that you have done, he should let you take part."
He leaned forward, his palms resting on the desk.
"One. Final. Chance. Do you understand ?"
"Yes, Father, I—"
"If you lose this competition, if you embarrass this family for the last ti, you’re finished. Finished as my successor. Finished as my son. You’ll be cut off with no allowance, no inheritance, no right to use the family na.
Your brother Kristoff will be my successor instead. You’ll have nothing."
The words struck Henrik like hamr blows.
"And if I so much as hear a rumor that you’ve been anywhere near a brothel again, if I hear so much as a whisper of so drunken scandal, so kind of misconduct on your part. I won’t wait for you to fail the competition. I will disown you imdiately."
Lord Bjornson straightened up.
"The competition begins in two weeks. You will spend that ti preparing. You will study, you will train, you will do whatever is necessary to win. Because this is it, Henrik. Your last chance to prove you’re worth the na you carry."
"I understand, Father," Henrik said quietly.
"Do you? I wonder." Lord Bjornson resud his seat. "Now get out of my sight. And if you value what little future you have left, you will not disappoint again."
Henrik bowed and quickly left the study.
Being alone, Lord Bjornson leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.
His son was an idiot, but he was still his son. And maybe, just maybe, the possibility of losing everything would finally make Henrik co of age.
If not, well, at least Kristoff had potential.
----
anwhile, in the market district, totally oblivious of the scene that had just unfolded at the Henrik manor, Alex walked peacefully with Lucy and Nathan.
Lucy had finally made up her mind about the blue silk which had first attracted her notice and was eagerly deciding on a dress design that could be made from the material.
And Alex, for his part, simply appreciated the normalcy of it all.
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