The lessons no longer bruised. Not visibly anyway. And now, Zane stood perfectly still in the courtyard, snow falling and melting on his shoulders, his shirt clinging to his skin as one of the estate’s martial instructors circled him with a cane in hand. Not to strike, but to measure. To gauge his progress, his poise, his restraint. A month ago, this same man had called him ornamental. Now, he addressed him as "Sir." Not everyone liked it. Especially not the ones who’d served the family long before Zane arrived—men loyal to blood and dynasty. But they didn’t protest. Not openly. Fyodor had allowed Zane’s ascension, and in this house, silence was its own command. “Again,” the instructor barked. Zane moved with precision, pivoting and landed his strike, disarming and holding his blade to the man’s throat in swift precise motions. The instructor gave a nod. Not praise just acknowledgment. Zane lowered the blade and stepped back. He wasn’t ornamental anymore. By midday, he
Last Updated : 2025-05-22 Read more