My Bratty Wife

The accusation hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating. "You sent a spy into your own brother’s household." Evan’s voice, usually dripping with amused condescension, had been sharp with astonished, delighted comprehension. He clearly thought he had cornered Byron, exposed a deep betrayal.

Byron, however, offered no immediate denial, no outraged defense. Instead, a chilling stillness settled over him. He turned slowly, his gaze shifting from the triumphant Evan to his aide, who stood ramrod straight, his expression unreadable.

"Elias," Byron said as he stood up from his seat, his voice remarkably even, almost casual, "be a good fellow and fetch the amber drink from my bedchamber. The decanter on the side table. I have a feeling Lord Evan’s enlightening visit may extend longer than he initially planned."

Elias simply inclined his head. "At once, My Lord." He moved silently, his footsteps barely making a sound on the polished wooden floor as he exited the study, closing the door softly behind him.

Evan stared, his mouth slightly agape. The sheer audacity of Byron, to request refreshments in the face of such a damning accusation, was baffling. It was as if they were discussing the weather, not an act of profound treachery. This calm, this utter lack of agitation, was more unsettling than any outburst would have been.

"So," Evan finally managed, his mind racing, trying to reconcile the man he thought he knew – Ryan’s overshadowed, somewhat passive ’brother’ – with this composed figure. The spy accusation was significant, but perhaps it was a symptom of something far darker. His thoughts latched onto the whispers his aide had been chasing, the shadows surrounding the Golden Goblet. "The spy... it almost pales in comparison, doesn’t it? To your other... activities."

He watched Byron for any flicker of reaction, any tell. There was none.

"So you were really behind the Golden Goblet incident?" Evan pressed, his voice regaining some of its characteristic sneer, though an undercurrent of disbelief remained. "You, Byron? You orchestrated the massacre of a tavern full of people? Nobles and Commoners true, but still... quite the body count. Interesting."

Byron remained calm, his posture relaxed, yet there was an undeniable tension coiling beneath the surface. He walked to front of his large mahogany desk, the movement unhurried, deliberate. He didn’t sit, but rather leaned against it, facing Evan. "An interesting accusation, Evan. But that’s all it is, isn’t it? An accusation. What proof do you have?" His voice was soft, dangerously so.