Lord of the realm

Chapter 181: A small respite in chaos

Jaenor’s aura flared, subtle but undeniable, like a storm pressing against the walls.

"I said this before those crappy nobles in that ball," he said bluntly, drawing a ripple of laughter through the hall.

"And I’ll say it again now, to the ones who actually deserve to hear it: I will return House Arkwright to its former glory. I’ll drag it back to what it once was—no matter who I must break, bury, or burn through to get there."

His last words struck like thunder.

The people rose to their feet instinctively, eyes wide, hearts beating like drums—

Then, as if pulled by one force, they all dropped to their knees again, deeper this time.

A wave of devotion swept through the hall.

Emma’s chest swelled with emotion. Morgana’s lips curved in a rare smile, proud and dangerous.

And Jaenor stood above them, not as a boy finding his place—

—but as the returning heir of a once-great house.

Corvina studied him for several more seconds.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she dropped to one knee.

"Lord Jaenor Arkwright. I acknowledge your claim. House Wolfhart renews its oath to your bloodline. Where you lead, we will follow. What you fight, we will fight beside you."

The formality of the words carried weight—this was an official oath, binding in ways that transcended mere politeness.

Jaenor placed his hand on her shoulder.

She stood, and something in her expression had changed. The skepticism was gone, replaced by cautious hope and determination.

Lord Danarry and Lady Curnow both rose as well, moving to stand before Jaenor and renewing their own houses’ oaths with similar formality. The three houses that had maintained loyalty through eighteen years of absence were now formally bound to the returned heir.

When the ceremony was complete, Emma allowed herself a rare smile.

"Well then," she said briskly.

"Now that that’s settled, we have practical matters to address. This duchy has been leaderless too long. There are decisions that need making, resources that need allocating, and preparations that must begin immediately."

"Preparations for what?" Danarry asked.

Jaenor’s expression grew grave.

"War. There are a lot of things happening in the realm, and we need to prepare for it."

He looked at each of them in turn.

"This duchy, this house, my bloodline—we’re going to be at the center of it whether we want to be or not. The question is whether we’ll be victims or participants. Whether we’ll be swept away or stand as a force that shapes outcomes."

"Then we prepare," Corvina said immediately.

"We can’t stand alone against forces that large. We need to coordinate with neighboring territories, with the Empire, and possibly even with the Covens despite their historical hostility to your bloodline."

"All of that and more," Jaenor agreed.

"This is our home. Our responsibility. And we’re going to defend it with everything we have."

He placed his hand on the table, and his merged energy flowed through the wood—not destructive, but present, a reminder of the power he commanded.

"The Arkwright bloodline has been fragmented and broken for too long. That ends now. We reclaim our place. We gather our strength. And when the storms come—and they are coming—we meet them standing."

The others placed their hands on the table as well, one by one.

A gesture of unity, of commitment to the path ahead.

The Arkwright heir had returned.

The old bloodline had awakened.

-

The tavern was called The Tiger’s Rest. It’s a place in the town of the duchy.

It was one of the older establishments in Drakenten’s town proper, built from dark wood and stone, with a reputation for good ale and better discretion.

Jaenor pushed through the door with Rena, Taeryn, and Baren following close behind. After days of meditation, political meetings, and world-shaking revelations, they all needed something normal.

Something simple.

They needed to drink and forget their troubles for a few hours.

The morning meeting had concluded with simple discussion for now, and they would meet again.

Jaenor was the one who brought them out, as he felt it was becoming too hectic and they didn’t get to sit properly and have a good talk.

The tavern was busy but not packed—perhaps two dozen patrons scattered across tables and booths, with a few more crowded around the bar itself. The atmosphere was warm and comfortable, lit by oil lamps and a fireplace that crackled in the corner. The smell of ale and roasted meat filled the air.

Conversation stuttered when they entered.

Everyone in Drakenten knew about the dragon by now and knew that the Arkwright heir had returned. And while Jaenor had changed out of his traveling clothes into something more casual—simple dark trousers and a loose shirt—there was something about his presence that marked him as different.

But this was a tavern in Arkwright territory.

After a moment of curiosity, people returned to their drinks and conversations. If the young lord wanted to drink with his friends, that was his business.

They claimed a corner table, somewhat isolated from the main crowd.

A serving girl approached nervously, took their orders, and hurried away to fetch drinks.

"This place is nice," Taeryn said, looking around with satisfaction.

"Different from the place we group. The streets, houses, and the people—everything is different here."

He looked at the rest as they stared at him. "What? It’s not bad different; it’s good different."

"Don’t sweat it, Taeryn," Jaenor said with a slight smile.

"A lot has changed since we left the village," Rena said, brushing her hair behind her ear as she looked around with quiet awe.

Taeryn puffed his chest. "Yes, it has. We aren’t the clueless teenagers anymore, are we?"

Rena raised a brow.

Baren chuckled.

"You certainly still are," Baren said.

Taeryn turned, offended. "Excuse me? I am a grown man, seasoned by battle, tempered by hardship—"

"You tripped over your own spear this morning," Rena cut in gently, expression flat.

"That was one time—"

"And last week you tried to talk to the knight’s horse, thinking it was an imperial beast."

"The horse looked magical!"

"It sneezed on you."

Taeryn inhaled sharply. "That sneeze was aggressive."

Jaenor laughed quietly, shaking his head. "See? Nothing changed at all."

Taeryn pointed a finger at him. "I expected betrayal, but not from you."

Baren clapped him on the back, nearly knocking the air from his lungs. "Relax. If you ever stop being clueless, we’ll all die from shock."

Taeryn groaned. "Great. My legacy—Taeryn the Shock Hazard."

Rena snorted.

Jaenor smiled at them, warmth blooming in his chest at the simple chaos.

For a moment, the world felt lighter—no looming war, no awakening powers, no ancestral expectations. Just friends teasing each other in a tavern filled with normal people.

Taeryn sighed dramatically and looked around again.

"Well... even if you all don’t appreciate my maturity," he muttered, "this place is still nice."

"You’re still clueless," Rena said softly.

"And that," Jaenor added, "is good different."

The drinks arrived—ale for Taeryn and Baren, wine for Rena, and something stronger for Jaenor. They raised their cups in an unspoken toast and drank.

The alcohol hit Jaenor harder than expected. His body had changed during the transformation, and apparently his tolerance had reset. Or maybe he was just more aware of sensations now, his enhanced perceptions making him feel the effects more acutely.

Either way, it felt good. Warm and relaxing, dulling the constant awareness of power and responsibility that had been pressing down on him.

"So," Taeryn said after his second ale arrived, "we’re really doing this. Taking on demon, standing against armies."

"Apparently," Jaenor agreed.

"We’re going to die," Taeryn said cheerfully.

"Horribly, probably. But at least it’ll be interesting."

"Your optimism is inspiring," Baren muttered, though there was dark humor in his tone.

The half-dragon was on his third drink already, and his expression had grown distant. Jaenor didn’t need his senses to know what Baren was thinking about—his wife who was still in the village. He didn’t even consummate his marriage. Alcohol always brought those memories closer to the surface.

"Tell us about her," Jaenor said quietly.

Baren looked up, surprise flickering across his weathered face.

"Who?"

"Your wife, you miss her, don’t you?"

For a moment, Baren’s face worked, emotion struggling against the walls he’d built.

Then the alcohol loosened his tongue.

His voice was rough. "She was... gods, she was everything. Smart and fierce, she could shoot a bow better than anyone I ever met. She’d laugh at my terrible jokes and call me an idiot, but she’d do it with such warmth that it felt like praise."

He took another drink.

"She’d be proud of you," Jaenor said.

"Maybe. Or maybe she’d tell me I’m being a stubborn fool, that I should be with her instead of following a cursed bloodline into probable death."

Baren smiled without humor. "But I can hear her voice in my head sometimes, and I think she understands. Duty matters. Protecting what we love matters. Even when it costs everything."

He raised his cup.

"To everyone we love."