I Died and Became a Noble's Heir-Chapter 339: Let’s make an entrance

A wine glass slipped from Lord Hemwick’s fingers. The crystal shattered against stone, red liquid spreading like blood across pale marble.

The portly noble didn’t notice. His eyes were locked on the entrance.

Lady Rosalind’s fan clattered to the ground. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound emerged from her mouth.

A young baron’s hand froze halfway to his mouth, a grape suspended between fingers that had forgotten their purpose. The fruit dropped, rolled across the table, and disappeared into the grass.

The musicians’ instruments fell silent mid-note. A violinist’s bow scraped to a halt. A flutist’s breath caught in her throat. Even the drummer’s hands stilled, hovering, wondering if playing was the best idea right now.

Words hung suspended in the air like ghosts, half-formed thoughts that would never reach completion.

The Stormblood family was legendary. Chiron himself was widely regarded as the strongest warrior in Erebon, a title he’d earned through decades of demonstrating exactly why challenging him was a form of creative suicide. His presence at any gathering commanded attention.

His presence at a celebration for a young duke’s son was unprecedented.

Chiron’s white hair fell past his shoulders like a silver waterfall, and his animal-pelt cloak made him look more like a barbarian king than a refined nobleman.

Charlotte followed, elegant in storm-grey silk that complemented her coloring perfectly. Dark blonde hair coiled down her back in a long braid.

Garrick brought up the rear, his posture carrying that particular brand of arrogance that came from being born powerful and never having it seriously challenged.

He was evaluating whether anyone present was worth his attention.

Octavia moved forward to greet them, her mind racing through possible reasons for their presence.

"Lord Stormblood," she said with a respectful bow. "What an unexpected honor. Welcome to Sorne."

"Lady Octavia," Chiron’s voice boomed so everyone could hear him. "Your hospitality is appreciated. I hope our unannounced arrival doesn’t cause difficulties."

"Not at all," Octavia lied smoothly. "Any friend of House Kaiser is welcome. Please, enjoy the festivities."

She caught sight of her mother gliding through the crowd with the grace of someone who’d spent decades navigating noble politics. Lady Genevieve’s expression was charming, but Octavia recognized the slight tension around her eyes that meant she was calculating rapidly.

"Chiron," Genevieve greeted him with a warm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "This is a surprise. I wasn’t aware you had plans to attend."

"Plans change," Chiron replied easily. "I found myself curious about the young lord who’s been so busy."

His pale eyes gleamed brightly. "Tell me, Lady Genevieve, how is your old fox? I heard he’s been letting his beast stretch its wings recently."

The question hung in the air for a moment, its meaning clear to anyone who understood the subtext. Genevieve’s expression remained charming, but Octavia recognized the slight tension in the air.

"Observant as always, Lord Stormblood," Genevieve replied smoothly. "Alaric does enjoy his... training exercises. Though I’m surprised you noticed. I thought you kept your own beast on a tighter leash."

Chiron’s smile sharpened. "My beast requires no leash. We have an understanding."

"How charming." Genevieve’s smile matched his smile. "Perhaps one day we could arrange a proper introduction. I’m sure Alaric’s companion would appreciate meeting yours."

"Careful what you wish for, Lady Genevieve," Chiron’s voice carried a hint of amusement. "Not everyone appreciates that particular brand of entertainment. Dragons have a tendency to redecorate landscapes when they meet."

Their exchange had attracted attention from nearby nobles, though most were pretending very hard not to eavesdrop.

The implications of both Duke Alaric and Lord Stormblood having dragons, or at least access to dragons, were the kind of information that could shift the political hierarchy.

A figure emerged from a carriage near the estate’s side entrance. No herald announced his arrival. No fanfare accompanied his presence. Rhys Luffiel appeared, flanked by a bodyguard whose face remained shadowed beneath a deep hood.

Rhys wore expensive yet understated clothing: a dark blue coat with silver threading, and boots so polished that one could see their reflection.

His face was a blank slate, the mask of someone who’d learned early that showing emotion was showing weakness.

He crept through the gardens, accepting a glass of wine from a passing servant and positioning himself near one of the ornamental hedges where he could observe without being observed.

His eyes tracked across the assembled nobility with cold assessment. Lady Mistfang is attempting to network with merchant princes. Lord Arydn is examining the garden’s defensive positions with military precision. Lady Starfell laughed at something Lord Dustpire had said while her amber eyes cataloged every face in attendance.

’So these are the powers that swore fealty to Kaiser,’ Rhys thought, sipping his wine. ’Impressive collection. But did the boy really earn their loyalty, or did circumstances align favorably?’

His gaze found Lady Veyra near the fountain, and Rhys felt his heart stop. One of the Six Flowers of Elysium. Even he, who prided himself on maintaining emotional control, couldn’t help but appreciate the sheer aesthetic perfection she represented.

The bodyguard beside him remained silent, eyes scanning the crowd with professional paranoia. Rhys hadn’t informed him they’d be attending the Kaiser estate. The confusion mixed with trained vigilance kept the man’s hand near his concealed weapon.

Before the conversation between Genevieve and Chiron could continue, a sound split the air.

A streak of wind so powerful it screamed like a missile overhead.

Wine sloshed from tilted glasses. Napkins flew from tables like startled birds. A nobleman’s carefully arranged toupee lifted fractionally before he slammed both hands atop his head to hold it down.

Everyone in the gardens froze, heads tilting upward as instinct overrode social propriety. The sound was unmistakable, something moving at speeds that made the air itself ripple.

And there, visible against the darkening sky, were streaks of red lightning.

They crackled through the air like captured thunder, leaving trails of crimson light that burned against the retinas of everyone watching. The electricity carved out the heavens.

"What in the name of..." someone started to say.

The shape descended rapidly, growing larger with terrifying speed. It was massive, with feathers that caught the dying sunlight and reflected it in shades of black and deep purple.

A giant raven. Moving at speeds that should have been physically impossible.

And standing on its back, perfectly balanced despite the velocity and altitude, was Jack.

His coat whipped behind him like a banner, red lightning crackling around his body that made it clear the electricity wasn’t coming from the bird but from him.

His hair stood on end from the static charge, and his eyes blazed with power that was visible even from the ground.

The raven dove toward the center of the gardens with the precision of a predator striking prey.

The descent was controlled chaos. Wind roared around them, pressure building as air was displaced by something moving faster than it should. The red lightning intensified, creating a corona of electrical fury that made the gathered nobles scramble backward in terror.

At the last possible moment, perhaps ten feet from impact, Jack simply stepped off.

He moved with casual grace, as if stepping off a platform rather than a creature traveling at Mach 2.

His boots hit the grass with barely a sound. Absolute control.

The chaos arrived a heartbeat later.

Lord Hemwick’s toupee finally lost its battle with gravity and aerodynamics, spinning away into the evening sky.

Elaborate hairstyles collapsed into tangled disasters. Lady Rosalind shrieked as pins scattered, her carefully constructed coiffure tumbling down her back in a cascade of blonde chaos.

Dresses shot upward, causing some men to blush. Lady Starfell caught her skirt, laughing behind one hand while her other hand pressed the pale blue silk back into submission.

The carefully manicured shrubs bent at perfect ninety-degree angles, their branches straining against forces that made them look like they were bowing to an invisible king.

Servants dove for cover. Nobles grabbed at their clothing with varying degrees of success. Wine glasses tumbled from tables and shattered against stone, creating a percussion section that accompanied the wind’s roar.

And through it all, Corvin continued his flight, banking sharply upward and executing a loop that would have made professional acrobats weep with envy.

At the apex of the arc, the massive raven began to shrink.

The transformation was fluid, almost beautiful.

Compressed down to three and a half feet. Within seconds, a small black raven with purple-tipped feathers descended from the sky and landed gracefully on Jack’s shoulder.

The bird’s purple eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and it croaked once, a sound that somehow conveyed smugness despite coming from something the size of a large pigeon.

Jack stood in the center of the gardens, red lightning still crackling faintly around his fingers, his expression perfectly calm despite having just caused absolute pandemonium.

Rhys Luffiel stared, his carefully maintained neutrality cracking. His wine glass hung forgotten in his hand, and his bodyguard had actually drawn a weapon halfway before remembering where they were.