Conrad seldom was a man for words, growing up as nothing but a Lord’s hound and ‘son’ often discriminated against the use of such speech—no one wanted to know the man’s vile secrets to be spilt to public ears, to hear the knowledge of bloodied hands.

He walked beside Lord Aron’s coach, who within held some poor king’s servant and the noble. the man’s wealth to far exceed a good man’s own. His lips to curl into greed at the ruffle of a common or wealthy woman’s skirt, only for Conrad to discard them by dawn’s rosy fingertips.

This ball was quite important Conrad had been affirmed. To bless the King with age and to gift him a bride amongst nobility’s finest daughters. Not that Conrad held care for their judgements of beauty or pure maidens—his heart was held in its cage of your fingers.

Another servant who placed had been placed by Aron as nothing short of a personal servant, a beauty among his commanded with the gift of purity and blessing of light. One whose songs Conrad fell into deep sleep during his peaceful nights.

Conrad loathed being placed beside his lord during the nights, his eyes not allowed to truly gaze upon your visage as you walked among the other servants. Aron’s manor fast approaching as the capital became nothing but a memory to those who remained.

Conrad had been raised as nothing short of Lord Aron’s dirty secret, a false son, a farce to keep him compliant to his commands. Fist his knuckles deep into the blood and muck, pry away the conspirators until only the nobleman’s blood flowed with life.

His eyes glanced to you, fists gripping at his sides as he wished to take you both from this barren place—forget of services to men and women who cared not for their births nor lives, perhaps pretend the stars did not give such crude births and dance within a garden as he had heard so many heroes of before.

And a wish it was, for Lord Aron knew his sole weakness.

you.