Chapter 158: The Steward’s True Lineage
Aldric’s hands tightened once, then loosened at his sides. He looked almost boyish for a moment, hesitant, as though weighing where to begin. Finally, his lips curved into the faintest smile.
"How did you figure it out?" he asked, quiet but edged with curiosity. Was he clumsy, or was Leroy simply as perceptive as rumor claimed?
For the first time since their exchange began, Leroy’s expression eased. Only slightly, but enough to be noticed. Aldric was being honest, and that was what mattered.
"The way you folded the towel," Leroy said simply.
Aldric blinked, then stilled.
"No one else does it for me," Leroy continued. His tone was level, but there was a hint of satisfaction, as though he’d caught a glimpse of the hidden man beneath the mask.
He simply leaned back in his chair, eyes steady on the man before him.
In truth, the signs had been there from the start. When he’d ordered the men to prepare his bath, it was Aldric who bowed first. The others had hesitated, awkward, unfamiliar with the task, but not him. They probably were in a position where they had never prepared a bath for themselves or others. Lords, perhaps.
But Aldric...He’d moved without pause, the ease of someone who’d done it countless times before. That was the first spark of suspicion.
Later, the towel had confirmed it. Not in its texture, not in its weight, but in the fold. The top layer tucked in, just enough for ease of access. No servant bothered with such a detail. No one except Aldric.
Even in the mansion, the man never delegated when Leroy asked for a bath. As a steward, he never had to prepare the bath of his lord himself, but Aldric prepared it himself, laid the towels down himself. Always with that fold. His signature, unspoken, unavoidable. That small little fold that always let Leroy know that Aldric cared for him.
Leroy’s gaze sharpened, silent, cutting into Aldric. He didn’t voice the explanation. He didn’t need to. The truth was already clear between them.
Aldric let out a breath, then, to Leroy’s faint surprise, bowed his head and laughed softly under it. "The towel..." he muttered, shaking his head. "Of all things."
Leroy’s eyes narrowed, curious. Then his next words cut through. "How did she not figure it out yet?"
Aldric’s laughter quieted, his smile lingering but touched with weariness.
"If I could find you in a single day," Leroy continued, "you’re telling me Lorraine hasn’t noticed? She must have. And yet she’s said nothing."
"I don’t stand before her," Aldric answered at last. His voice was steady, but there was a weight beneath it. "I’ve always kept my distance. This time... it was different. I was right in front of her. And she was..."
"Too distracted to notice," Leroy finished for him, his voice firm, certain.
Aldric’s smile deepened, rueful and knowing. He inclined his head, a small gesture of agreement. "Exactly."
Leroy’s eyes sharpened, a silent command. Aldric caught the cue and shifted, shoulders tightening as though bracing himself.
"By now, you have some idea about the Swan Oracle," he said.
Leroy leaned forward, elbows resting on the oak table, fingers interlocked, chin resting lightly against them. His silence pressed heavier than words.
Aldric’s gaze flicked to Sylvia, who still sat stiff with uncertainty, her expression caught between curiosity and disbelief. He gave her a reassuring nod, though his own voice was steady only by will.
"She was the wife of the Great Dragon King, the first of the Dragon dynasty."
Sylvia blinked, startled by Aldric talking about her. "The one who seduced him? The one who led him astray?" she asked, remembering the Dowager’s sharp-edged version of that tale.
The smile on Aldric’s face faltered. "The stories you’ve heard are shadows, twisted by those who wanted her name to rot. In truth, she was the kindest soul to walk the earth. Her eyes carried the stillness of deep waters, her being radiated the gentleness of the moon. She was no temptress. She was a bridge between gods and men, a demigod in her own right. Someone with great powers and an ability to foresee the future."
Sylvia frowned, unease curling in her chest. It sounded too much like the creed whispered by the Dowager and Prince Damian, the same half-mythical reverence, the same weight. Does Aldric belong to that cult too?How far does their reach extend?
she wondered, unsettled.Her gaze darted to Leroy, expecting him to scoff at the absurdity. Instead, though his mask shadowed much of his face, his eyes remained fixed and sharp on Aldric, focused, intent, and... believing.
He believes this? Sylvia thought, shaken. She swallowed her words and held her tongue.
Leroy, for his part, wasn’t swept by reverence. He remembered Lorraine, glowing, her voice slipping into tongues no mortal should know. Something was happening with her, something beyond reason. Aldric’s words rang too close to what he had already seen.
"And I," Aldric continued, voice quiet but steady, "come from the line of House Thalyssar, the house of the Swan Oracle."
Leroy’s brows furrowed, his patience taut. "You’re her descendant?"
Aldric’s words swirled with names, houses, lineages, and things Leroy had little patience for. He didn’t care for history lessons or tangled genealogies. What mattered was Lorraine: how Aldric tied to her and what intentions he carried toward her.
Aldric gave a wry smile. "No. That would make me of the Dragon King’s blood, and I’m not worthy of such honor. My line served instead. Faithfully, humbly. Always beside, never above."
Leroy cut him off, his tone sharp. "How did you find the tunnels?"
Aldric’s lips pressed together. He drew a breath before answering. "The tunnels belonged to House Thalyssar. They were loyal to the Dragon dynasty because they carried the Oracle’s blood. But when the dynasty fell, betrayed and slaughtered, House Thalyssar splintered into six smaller branches to survive."
The word betrayal snagged in Leroy’s mind. His people’s history named the Dragon King a tyrant who was brought down for the sake of the suffering of the people. To hear it twisted, no, inverted, sent a cold ripple through him. But he forced it aside. For now, Lorraine mattered more than old wars.
"In each generation," Aldric went on, "an heir, usually the first son, was entrusted with the uncorrupted lore. The true history."
"And you’re of House Varnholt?" Leroy asked, his tone flat.
"No." Aldric’s voice dropped. Then his eyes sharpened. "I’m from House Ashwynd."
Sylvia’s breath caught. Her eyes flew wide.
Leroy’s hands fell from his chin, hitting the table with a muted thud.
House Ashwynd. Lorraine’s mother’s bloodline.
Aldric’s expression softened, heavy with a truth too long kept hidden. "I am the Princess’s uncle."