Their Mockery

Alistair clawed for progress. He devoured scraps of enchanted herbs from the kitchens, burned candle wax in secret to hide their absence, and felt the Devourer's power trickle into his veins—slow, insidious, but there. By the solstice banquet, his waist had shrunk by a finger's width, his breaths no longer whistling like a broken bell. Cecily eyed him warily as she laced his embroidered doublet. "They'll be vicious," she warned. Alistair adjusted his sleeves, hiding sinews slowly thickening beneath the fat. "Let them."

The great hall's doors loomed ahead, laughter slithering through the cracks.

A hush fell as Alistair entered. Nobles perched like carrion birds at gilt-edged tables, their jewels glinting in the chandelier light. Platters of peacock and sugared violets mocked him, but he took a seat with deliberate slowness, his plate empty save for a single apricot.

Edward materialized beside him, goblet in hand. "Brother," he drawled, voice syrup-sweet, "you're not eating. Are you ill?"

The room leaned in.

Alistair let his hand tremble as he raised the apricot. "Merely… savoring the artistry." He took a small, delicate bite, juices dripping onto his chin.

Laughter erupted—sharp, brittle. A baron snorted into his wine. "Artistry? The pig's learned aesthetics!"

Edward smirked. "Careful. He might start lecturing us on poetry next."

Alistair chewed slowly, savoring the fruit's magic—a faint pulse of vitality—before meeting Edward's gaze. "Poetry requires taste, brother. A trait our esteemed guests seem to lack."

The jab landed. Murmurs rippled. Edward's smile twitched, but Alistair turned away, staring at his apricot pit. Let them think me a fool. The feast is mine to devour.

Alistair waited until the laughter subsided, then slipped into the hall's shadowed periphery, his goblet clutched like a prop. The air reeked of wine and pastry.

He feigned a stumble, slurring, "Too much… savoring," and lurched toward a side corridor.

The nobles parted, their noses wrinkled in disgust.

Behind a moth-eaten tapestry, he pressed his back to cold stone, breathing hard—not from exertion, but fury. Distant footsteps echoed. His father's voice, sharp as a guillotine, cut through the din.

"—a disgrace." Duke Montfort's words dripped venom. Alistair froze, peering through a slit in the tapestry. His father stood with Baroness Veyn, her emerald gown swallowing the torchlight. "If that lump of flesh shows no improvement by the harvest, I'll petition the Crown to disinherit him."

The Baroness tilted her head. "And your son's… inclinations? The Devout King frowns on kinslayers."

The Duke's laugh was a dry rasp. "Edward is the future. Alistair will vanish—hunting accident, perhaps. A tragic end to a tragic life."

Alistair's grip tightened on the goblet, its metal groaning. The Devourer's hunger surged, a furnace igniting in his gut. His vision sharpened—suddenly, he could count every thread in the Baroness's gown, hear the scrape of his father's signet ring against his belt.

Vanish. Disinherit. Accident.

The Duke turned, and Alistair melted into the shadows, retreating on silent feet—feet that, for the first time, obeyed him without protest. In the hall's cacophony, no one noticed the goblet, crumpled like parchment in his hand.

The banquet's echoes chased Alistair into the dawn. He did not sleep. Instead, he paced his chambers, the Duke's words carving grooves into his mind. Vanish. Disinherit. Accident. By first light, he stood in the manor's derelict training yard, a wooden sword in hand. Frost clung to the dirt, and his breath hung in ragged clouds. Somewhere, a guard coughed—a wet, mocking sound. Alistair ignored it. He raised the sword.

The blade trembled as if caught in a gale. Alistair's arms burned, his shoulders screaming as he swung—once, twice. On the third strike, his knees buckled. He crashed into the mud, the sword clattering away. Laughter erupted from the battlements.

"Look at the Duke's heir!" sneered a guardsman, spitting over the wall. "Can't even lift a toy!"

Alistair clawed at the ground, his lungs heaving. His doublet clung to him, soaked with sweat and humiliation. Pathetic, he thought, staring at his blistered palms. But beneath the shame, the Devourer's hunger stirred, restless.

A memory flashed: the crushed goblet, the surge of unnatural strength. Use it.

He lurched upright, grabbed the sword, and swung again. The blade arced wildly, momentum nearly dislocating his shoulder.

He fell. Rose. Fell.

"Ten coppers says he pisses himself," another guard chuckled.

By midday, Alistair lay sprawled in the dirt, every muscle aflame. Yet his lips curled into a grim smile. They see a pig in the mud. Let them.

He'd counted three swings this time. Three.

Progress.

The guards' laughter faded with the sun, their japes exhausted long before Alistair's resolve.

He lay in the dirt, shivering as twilight painted the yard in bruised hues. Every breath felt like swallowing broken glass.

Footsteps approached—light, hesitant. He braced for another insult, but instead, a shadow fell over him, blocking the wind.

"My Lord." Cecily knelt, her voice steady despite the cold. She slid a wooden canteen into his hand. "Elmroot tea. For the pain."

Alistair gulped it, wincing at the bitterness. "Why?" he croaked.

She didn't flinch. "You're the only one who thanked me. When I first came here. Before… this." She gestured to his mud-caked clothes. "You said, 'Your hands are too gentle for scrubbing floors.'"

He stared. A flicker of memory—young Cecily, her fingers raw from lye, his drunken self slurring half-hearted kindness.

"I serve you," she said, "not the Duke. Not them." From her satchel, she produced a leather wrap. Inside lay a slim dagger, its blade dulled for practice, and a bundle of roasted venison glistening with herbs. "Eat. Train. I'll keep watch."

Alistair's throat tightened. The meat was unenchanted, ordinary—a test of trust. He took a bite. "They'll punish you if they find out."

Cecily's smile was a blade in the dark. "Then don't lose."

Weeks bled into a fragile routine: dawn training with Cecily's dagger, covert bites of enchanted herbs, nights spent poring over estate ledgers. Alistair's body remained a battleground—flesh stubborn, but his reflexes sharpening like a honed blade. When the summons came, he was ready.

"The Duke demands your presence in the great hall," a sneering steward announced. "Immediately."

Cecily tightened his cloak, her voice low. "Whatever happens, don't give them your rage."

Alistair nodded, the Devourer's hunger coiled in his gut. Give them nothing. Take everything.

The hall buzzed with nobles, their eyes glittering with anticipation. Edward stood at the center, rapier strapped to his hip, sunlight gilding his smirk. Duke Montfort loomed on the dais, silent as a tombstone.

"Brother!" Edward called, voice dripping with faux warmth. "How kind of you to join us. I've proposed… entertainment for the harvest festival." He drew his blade, the steel singing. "A duel. You and I. The loser surrenders his titles."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. A baroness tittered. "He'll faint before the first strike!"

Alistair wobbled forward, clutching his chest. "A duel? But I'm no swordsman, brother!"

Edward stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You'll be a beggar by month's end. Or a corpse."

The Duke finally spoke. "Do you accept, Alistair?"

Silence thickened. Alistair let his hands tremble, his face slack with fear. "I… I…"

"He accepts!" Edward declared, sheathing his sword. The nobles erupted in jeers.

Alistair shuffled out, head bowed. But not before catching Cecily's eye.

One month, her gaze warned.

One month, his smirk replied.

The jeers of the nobles faded as Alistair retreated to the manor's abandoned library, its shelves choked with dust and forgotten treaties. Moonlight sliced through cracked windows, illuminating a war table strewn with maps of Montfort lands.

Cecily followed, her lantern casting jagged shadows. "They mean to kill you," she said bluntly.

Alistair sank into a creaking chair, his façade of fear sloughing away. "No. They mean to erase me." He traced a finger over the duel's terms, scrawled on parchment. Stripped of titles. Disgraced. His stomach growled—not for food, but for the arcane.

Cecily stiffened. "You can't possibly win a fair duel."

"Who said anything," he murmured, "about fair?"

Alistair unfolded a ledger, its pages detailing the estate's hemorrhaging coffers. "Edward's duel is a distraction. The real battle is here." He pointed to corrupted stewards, embezzled taxes, dormant trade routes. "We purge the rot. Strengthen our coffers. Then…"

Cecily leaned in. "Then?"

From his pocket, he withdrew a withered elm leaf—once enchanted, now drained to a brittle husk. "The Devourer needs more than scraps. It needs feasts."

Her eyes widened. "The Duke's treasury. The enchanted arms meant for the royal guard—"

"—will vanish," Alistair finished, crushing the leaf to dust. "And Edward's 'certain victory' will falter."

A knock echoed. Cecily blew out the lantern, plunging them into darkness. Footsteps passed. When silence returned, Alistair stood, his silhouette sharp against the moonlit maps. "Send word to the merchants. We renegotiate their contracts at dawn."

"And the duel?"

He smirked, the Devourer's hunger glinting in his eyes. "Let Edward swing his sword at shadows. I'll be carving his future from the dark."