The grand gates of House Devain loomed before him, their intricate silver filigree catching the moonlight. Arin stepped down from the carriage, his boots meeting the smooth stone path with a muted thud. The night was quiet, save for the faint rustling of leaves in the wind. Yet, as he walked through the grand entrance of his family's estate, he could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon him.
House Devain had always been an imposing sight—tall marble pillars, gilded archways, and sprawling corridors adorned with paintings of ancestors long past. Yet to Arin, it had never truly felt like home. He had lived within these walls, dined at its lavish tables, and trained in its courtyards, but warmth had always been absent.
As he crossed the main hall, a familiar voice stopped him.
"You're late."
Duke Alistair Devain stood at the base of the grand staircase, arms crossed over his chest. His steel-gray eyes scrutinized Arin as if assessing something newly unfamiliar. The Duke was a man of precision, a figure of discipline and control, his presence alone demanding obedience.
Arin met his father's gaze, masking his inner thoughts. "I had matters to attend to."
Alistair raised a brow. "Matters concerning the Valmont girl, I presume?"
Arin kept his expression neutral. "Yes."
A moment of silence stretched between them. Then, Alistair's eyes narrowed slightly. "You've changed."
Arin felt a chill in his spine—not from fear, but from the sheer perceptiveness of the man before him. "Have I?"
The Duke descended a step, his presence looming. "You used to avoid confrontations, avoid responsibility. You would accept decisions as they were made for you. Yet tonight, you stand before me with the air of a man who has made a choice."
Arin clenched his fists at his sides, but his voice remained calm. "Perhaps because I have."
Alistair studied him for a long moment before speaking again. "I care little for sentiment, Arin. The engagement was arranged to strengthen House Devain. Whether you choose to see the girl as an asset or something more, that is your business. But if you deviate from what is necessary, you will face consequences."
There was no anger in his tone—only cold certainty.
Arin held his father's gaze. "Then I will ensure my decisions remain necessary."
Something flickered in Alistair's eyes, a mix of intrigue and warning. "See that you do."
With that, the Duke turned and strode up the stairs, disappearing into the depths of the manor. The weight in the air remained, but Arin exhaled slowly, his heartbeat steady. He had expected resistance, but this was only the beginning.
A soft rustle of fabric drew his attention.
"Impressive."
Lady Helena Devain stood near one of the side corridors, watching him with an unreadable expression. Unlike Alistair, his mother carried an air of quiet elegance—soft-spoken but far from weak. Her violet eyes, so unlike his father's, held secrets Arin had yet to understand.
"You are not wrong, you know," she said, stepping closer. "Your father sees change as both a threat and an opportunity. You intrigue him now, but you also make him wary."
Arin tilted his head slightly. "And what about you, Mother? Am I an intrigue, or a threat?"
A small smile played on Helena's lips, though it did not reach her eyes. "I have always known you would not remain a mere shadow in this house."
There was something unsettling in the way she spoke, as if she had expected this all along. Arin frowned slightly. "Then tell me, what do you expect of me?"
Helena's gaze lingered on him, then she placed a hand on his shoulder—light, but firm. "To survive."
Before he could respond, she turned away, her silhouette vanishing into the dimly lit corridor. Arin stood in place, absorbing the exchange.
The pieces were shifting. The game had truly begun.
And in this house of gilded masks, he would have to ensure his own did not slip.