Masks and Murmurs

There's a special kind of torture that comes from wearing a three-layer formal outfit on a summer afternoon. The collar chokes you like it owes you money. The boots weigh as much as small anvils. And don't even get me started on the buttons—so many buttons.

I'd been dressed by two different servants, one of whom seemed personally offended by how uneven my cuffs were. The other one kept calling me "young master" in a tone that sounded suspiciously like, "you poor, doomed child."

So yeah. Big day.

Noble dinner.

The kind with crystal glasses and seven forks and conversation that feels like navigating a minefield. The kind where every smile hides a sharpened edge. The kind where I had to be perfect.

Perfect posture. Perfect etiquette. Perfect silence.

I'd rather fight Calden again. At least he hits me in ways I can block.

Nareva had tried to reassure me earlier.

"You'll be fine," she said, adjusting my collar. "Just eat slowly, speak less than you think, and don't let Lord Harthmoor bait you."

"Which one's Harthmoor again?" I asked.

"The one with the mustache that looks like he glued it on while drunk."

"Got it."

And now here I was.

Seated at the long dining table beside my mother. Across from me sat three unfamiliar nobles, all with the kind of practiced expressions that said, We know you're watching, and we want you to know we know. The air smelled like wine, roasted game, and subtle judgment.

I kept my eyes low. My fork in the right place. My thoughts buried deep.

But beneath it all, the unease simmered.

Because today I wasn't just pretending to be Kaelen Selkareth.

I was hiding something much worse.

Something alive. Something warm.

Something magical.

And if they found out?

This dinner wouldn't end with dessert.

Noble dinners were supposed to be civilized affairs. Polished, rehearsed, quiet.

But this one felt like a funeral with expensive napkins.

I sat at the long table in the western hall, hands folded in my lap like some delicate statue on display. Fork on the left. Knife on the right. Napkin in my lap. Smile somewhere above it all—faint, unbothered, fake.

I was surrounded by men who drank too much wine and women who wore silence like perfume.

The nobles talked in circles. About taxes. Borders. Crops. Storms that ruined the vineyards. A scandal involving a merchant's daughter and a bard with loose morals.

I didn't understand most of it. But that didn't matter.

Because none of them were really talking to each other.

They were talking around each other. Over each other. Through each other.

And sometimes, I caught their glances.

At me.

I wasn't the guest of honor.

I was the experiment.

A Ghostborn heir. The clean slate. The pure bloodline.

No mana. No aura. No magic.

Just a perfect, noble son.

Right?

My spine locked tighter with every sip of soup I didn't want. Every soft clink of cutlery. Every breath that felt like I was swallowing a lie.

Across the table sat Lord Harthmoor, his mustache waxed into something that looked like it belonged on a villain in a bad play. Next to him was Lady Felmina, who wore jewels that could've bought three villages and eyes that had already decided I was disappointing.

And beside her—Lord Revalis.

Young. Too young. The kind of noble who smiled like he knew where the bodies were buried because he buried them himself.

"Kaelen," he said suddenly, voice smooth as oil, "I hear you've begun sword training."

My stomach twisted.

I nodded. "Yes, my lord."

He smiled. "At five? Impressive. My own nephew couldn't hold a blade until he was seven. Cried every time he got a splinter."

A few nobles chuckled.

I did too. Quietly. On cue.

"But then," he added, "your family's always been... exceptional."

There it was.

Not a compliment. A test.

My mother smiled politely. My father didn't smile at all.

Revalis tilted his glass, watching the wine swirl.

"I suppose your father's teaching you Dragon Style?" he said.

"Under Instructor Calden, yes," I replied.

He nodded.

Then glanced—casual as a dagger—toward Calden's empty seat at the end of the table.

"Funny," he said. "I always thought Calden specialized in more... practical styles. Less tradition, more survival."

No one moved.

Even the candles seemed to burn quieter.

I kept my expression blank. "I'm learning what I'm told."

Lord Harthmoor chuckled. "Obedience. A rare trait in children."

Another noble—Lady Ashwyn, I think—sipped from her cup and said, "Rare in adults too, these days."

More laughter. Forced. Measured.

My throat felt dry. My skin prickled. I didn't know if they were mocking me or admiring me.

And honestly?

I didn't know which was worse.

"Ghostborn children always were... delicate," someone said. I didn't even see who.

The word hung in the air.

Delicate.

Not strong. Not capable. Not normal.

I gripped my fork until my knuckles went white.

I wanted to leave.

I wanted to vanish. Dissolve like shadow. Fade through the floor and never come back.

But instead?

I smiled.

And ate.

One bite. Then another.

Slow. Mechanical. Like a clockwork doll on parade.

Halfway through the second course—roasted quail with honey-pear glaze—I felt it.

A tickle.

A hum.

That damn pulse again. Right under my ribs.

The magic. The pressure.

It always came when I was stressed. When I felt cornered.

When I felt seen.

I shifted in my seat. My fingers curled under the table. My nails dug into my palms hard enough to leave crescents.

No. Not now.

I focused on the pattern in the tablecloth. The way the embroidery curved. Thread by thread.

I clenched my jaw until it ached.

It didn't help.

Something warm flickered at the edge of my fingertips.

Shit.

Across the table, Nareva moved.

Just a little.

A tilt of the head. A small blink. Barely perceptible.

But I caught it.

And I knew—she'd seen it.

I held my breath until the flicker faded.

Until my pulse stopped screaming.

Until I could sit still without vibrating out of my skin.

Nareva didn't say anything.

She didn't have to.

Her presence said enough.

I'm watching.

Not in warning.

In protection.

She turned the page of her wine list and didn't look at me again.

But my lungs loosened, just a little.

Dessert was spiced pudding in silver cups. I barely touched mine.

And when the nobles rose to leave—slowly, one by one—I didn't stand until my father did.

He gave me a look. Not approval. Not affection. Just… calculation.

Like he was ticking off a box in a ledger.

Kaelen: survived dinner. No outbursts. No blood. Good.

He said nothing as he escorted the guests to the parlor.

And I?

I sat there for a moment longer.

Alone.

A candle guttered low beside my half-eaten pudding.

I could still feel it.

The pressure.

The weight of all their stares.

Their doubts.

Their expectations.

The part of me that wasn't supposed to exist… wanted to scream.

But I didn't.

I stood.

Smiled.

And walked out like a good little noble son.