Chapter 17 - Nobles and Nudges
Liam leaned against a banquet table, a half-eaten chunk of bread in one hand, a fresh goblet of wine in the other. The hall was a riot of sound—lutes strumming, voices overlapping, the clatter of plates as servants found their way through the crowd. The king's speech had kicked things off, and now the place buzzed like a kicked hive, nobles swarming him like he was the honey. He took a swig of wine, the sharp bite grounding him, and scanned the room—silks flashing, armor gleaming, eyes moving his way.
"Hero, huh?" He smirked. Felt good.
First up was Lord Brant, a barrel-chested man with a beard like a bird's nest, stomping over with a grin. "Hero!" he boomed, clapping Liam's shoulder hard enough to slosh his wine. "I have only heard about you up until now. Good to see you in the flesh!"
"Yeah, thanks," Liam said, steadying his drink.
Brant's wife trailed behind, a plump woman in green velvet, her smile tight but polite. "A pleasure, Hero," she said, curtsying stiffly. Their son lingered too—a gangly kid, maybe fifteen, staring at Liam like he'd sprouted wings. "Is it true you've got magic?" the boy blurted, eyes wide.
Liam chuckled, scratching his neck. "Something like that. More sweat than spells so far."
Brant laughed, a big, barking sound, and dragged his family off, promising to send a cask of ale to Liam's place later. Nice guy, Liam thought, popping the bread in his mouth.
Next came Lady Elira, a wiry noble with sharp cheekbones and a voice like a bell. She glided over alone, her silver gown shining, and offered a hand dripping with rings. "Lord Carter," she purred, her grip lingering a beat too long. "The stories don't do you justice."
"Just Liam," he corrected, grinning as he shook her hand. "Stories, huh? What're they saying?"
"Oh, heard you were a skinny fellow..." Her eyes flicked over him, slow and deliberate, a wink flashing as she pulled back. "But that is quite far from the truth. We're lucky to have you." Her tongue grazed her lip, quick but blatant, and Liam's grin widened. Okay, then. She sauntered off before he could reply, hips swaying like a promise.
He barely had a second to breathe before Lord Harrow lumbered up, a stout man with a sweaty brow, towing his wife and daughter. "Hero!" Harrow puffed, mopping his face with a handkerchief. "A fine day, eh? Victory and all."
"Damn fine," Liam agreed, nodding. Harrow's wife, a quiet woman with dark curls, smiled softly and murmured a greeting. But the daughter—fuck, she was trouble. Tall, maybe nineteen, with auburn hair spilling over a low-cut dress. She stepped forward, brushing his arm as she leaned in. "I'm Cressa," she said, voice low, her green eyes locking on his. "Heard you're... impressive."
"Did you now?" Liam raised a brow, catching the way her fingers lingered, the quick flutter of lashes. She smirked, subtle but loaded, and stepped back as her father rambled about trade routes. Liam nodded along, half-listening, his mind snagging on Cressa's stare.
Lustbound's working overtime, he thought, sipping his wine to hide a smirk.
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The parade kept coming. Lord Tyman, a wiry old coot with a cane, brought his whole brood—wife, two sons, and a daughter who couldn't stop giggling.
"A hero in our midst!" Tyman crowed, shaking Liam's hand like he was pumping water. The wife, a stern matron in blue, just nodded, but the daughter—blonde, freckled, barely twenty—kept sneaking glances, biting her lip. When Tyman turned to grab a servant, she leaned close, whispering, "You're cuter than they said," and flicked a wink before moving back. Liam coughed into his goblet, heat creeping up his neck. "Shit, these women."
Then Lady Morna hit, a widow draped in black silk, her husband long dead. She sidled up with a smile that was all teeth, her perfume sharp and cloying. "Hero," she cooed, resting a hand on his chest—too long, too firm. "Such a strong young man. You must visit my estate sometime." Her eyes glittered, a slow wink as she squeezed his arm, and Liam laughed, caught off-guard.
"Maybe I will," he said, playing along. She smirked and drifted away, leaving him shaking his head. "They're not even subtle."
The crowd thinned for a moment, giving him a breather. He snagged a chunk of roast pork from a platter, chewing as he watched the room—nobles laughing, kids chasing each other, wine flowing like a river. The wives and daughters kept it coming—little glances, sly smiles, one brushing his hand "by accident" as she passed with a tray. His lust points weren't climbing yet, but fuck, he could feel the tension, like static under his skin. Three days since that night, and now this—attention everywhere, a hero's glow he hadn't earned yet but sure as hell enjoyed.
Lord Drenn was last, a plump man with a gold chain and a wife half his age. "Hero!" he wheezed, waddling over. "A toast to you, eh?" His wife, a curvy brunette in red, didn't say much—just stared, her lips parting as she twirled a lock of hair. When Drenn turned to flag a servant, she leaned in, breath hot on Liam's ear. "Come find me later," she whispered, a wink flashing before she pulled back, all innocent smiles. Liam's grin turned wolfish. Noted.
He was mid-sip, still buzzing from her words, when a horn blared—sharp, commanding, slicing through the noise. The hall froze, heads turning, chatter dying fast. A guard stomped in, helm gleaming, voice booming: "The warriors of Mytheris have returned! Victorious and whole!"
The room erupted—cheers, stomping, cups banging tables. Liam's heart kicked hard, wine forgotten as he set the goblet down. They're here. Lysandra, Selene, Erynn—back from the fight at Mytheris. He straightened, brushing crumbs off his shirt, a grin splitting his face. The doors swung wide, and he craned his neck, pulse racing. Time to see his girls.