She nervously pulled at the sleeves of her dress, her heart pounding as she hesitated at the edge of the bustling hallway. "Um... excuse me, miss..." she began, her voice barely rising above the hum of activity. "Have you seen my father? I think I'm lost, and... I don't know where to go..."
The maid glanced at her, offering no more than a fleeting look. "Look, kid, we're already drowning in work for this party. Why don't you go play somewhere else?" she snapped, her attention already drifting back to her duties, oblivious to the trembling in the little girl's voice.
The sting of rejection hit her like a physical blow. She froze, her vision blurring as her eyes began to well with tears.
The hallway, once alive with hurried footsteps and the hurried flow of instructions, now felt cold and distant. Without a word, she stepped back, retreating to the quiet refuge of a marble column.
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, attempting to comfort the ache in her chest.
She didn't allow herself to cry out loud—not here, not in this place, where it didn't feel like she had permission to show any weakness.
Silence settled around her, punctuated only by the muffled voices and sounds of distant activity. Then, a voice—low and commanding—cut through the noise.
"Prepare the chamber for Lord Aldric's departure. I will join the assembly shortly."
The grand doors of the meeting hall creaked open.
A tall figure emerged, clad in dark ceremonial robes adorned with a falcon crest. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his crimson eyes—sharp and analytical—scanned the hallway with quiet authority.
It was Everard Gyrfald.
His gaze swept across the servants and the columns lining the hall before it landed on her, a small figure hiding in the shadows.
Without a word, Everard shifted his course, his steps purposeful as he approached her. Each stride was steady, unfaltering, and he came to a stop just a few feet away.
He adjusted his cuff, then looked down at her with an unreadable expression.
"Kid... What are you doing here?" His voice, though not unkind, was heavy—too much gravity in his tone for such a small girl.
She flinched, her body stiffening in response. She didn't answer. She couldn't. The weight of his presence was too much, and she couldn't find the words.
Realizing how imposing he was, Everard knelt, lowering himself so that one knee touched the polished stone floor.
His gesture reduced the physical distance between them, making the gap between their worlds feel smaller.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, his voice softer now, more gentle, though still carrying the calm of a man accustomed to being obeyed. There was no pretense in his words—only a quiet sincerity tempered by years of restraint.
She blinked, the corners of her eyes still wet with unshed tears. Slowly, almost cautiously, she met his gaze.
"I... I got lost," she whispered, her words barely audible. "I was looking for my father, but... the maid was too busy..."
Everard didn't respond immediately. He studied her, his eyes taking in more than just her words.
"What's your name?" he asked softly.
"S-Sylvia," she stammered.
A faint nod came from him. Without further ceremony, he extended a gloved finger toward her, an invitation to follow. "Come. The Grand Hall isn't far."
Sylvia hesitated, her gaze flickering between his outstretched finger and his calm, unwavering presence. Then, slowly, she reached out and placed her small hand in his, her fingers wrapping around his.
They walked side by side, Everard adjusting his long strides to match her pace.
As they neared the Grand Hall, murmurs began to rise in the air. The sight of Duke Everard escorting a child was enough to silence the room. Servants and nobles alike paused, their conversations halting as they observed the unusual pairing.
Sylvia, feeling the weight of so many eyes on her, faltered.
She shrank behind his larger figure, clinging to his hand as if it were the only thing anchoring her in a world that suddenly felt overwhelming.
Everard didn't flinch. He didn't speak to reassure her, nor did he shield her from the gazes of the onlookers. His mere presence seemed to push back the scrutiny, allowing her to remain unnoticed amid the crowd.
The clattering sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence as Baron Orion approached, his voice trembling as he called out.
"Y-Your Grace!" he stammered, bowing low in front of Everard. "A thousand apologies! I must've—"
Everard tilted his head slightly, his expression shifting into a subtle smirk. "Baron Orion, I wonder if you lose track of your ledger as easily as you lose sight of your daughter."
The baron, flustered, dropped to his knees, sweat beading on his brow. "Of course, Your Grace. It won't happen again."
Without offering a word of further reply, Everard turned on his heel, his cloak swirling as he walked away, leaving behind a heavy silence that spoke volumes.
Baron Orion immediately knelt beside Sylvia, his hand gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Sylvia, are you alright?"
She nodded, still too dazed to speak, the rush of emotions from the encounter still swirling within her.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "That must've been frightening for you."
Sylvia didn't answer, but she leaned slightly into his embrace, seeking comfort.
"You were brave," he whispered, his voice soft with admiration. "You walked beside Duke Everard. Not many can say that."
.
Years later, I found myself seated quietly in a gilded carriage, gazing out at the pristine grounds of Falcon Castle. The pathway stretched before me, glimmering under the soft light of the morning sun.
Flowerbeds, their vibrant colors unfamiliar to me, lined the edges of the walkways. Soldiers, their armor polished to a shine, stood at attention along the marble paths.
The carriage slowed, then came to a halt.
A soldier opened the door with practiced efficiency, bowing slightly as he did so.
My father stepped out first, exchanging a few brief words with a person whose voice was steady and composed, yet surprisingly youthful. There was a subtle command in the voice—one that didn't demand respect but made it effortlessly given. I knew at once. This must be Lord Everard's son.
I hadn't expected the heir to greet us himself. The heirs of dukes rarely did such things, especially not for foreign nobility. Was this gesture calculated, or was there something else at play here?
Their conversation continued for a few heartbeats before fading into quiet murmurs as footsteps approached.
Moments later, a tall figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the light. His golden hair caught the sunlight, and his expression was unreadable. His crimson eyes locked onto mine with an almost unnerving calm scrutiny.
Lord Hugo.
For all the whispers I'd heard about him—"the Lazy Lord," they called him—there was nothing lazy about the way he held himself.
Pride radiated from his posture, while his gaze was calm yet discerning. His lips bore the faintest trace of amusement, as if he were enjoying some private joke that none of us understood.
He looked every bit the enigma I'd heard him to be—dangerous, far more dangerous than any rumor gave him credit for.
He met my gaze with a mixture of curiosity and something I couldn't quite place. Then, without a word, he extended his gloved hand toward me. The gesture was steady, polite, as if it were part of some unspoken ritual that only those of noble birth truly understood.
Surprised, I hesitated only for a moment before placing my hand in his. His touch was gentle but firm. He greeted me with a formal tone.
I replied with a practiced bow "your concern honors me, my lord. The roads were accommodating enough, and the company made the journey more bearable." With a smile he led me across the path toward where my father stood waiting.
His grip was neither too tight nor too loose—it was careful, deliberate, as if he was mindful of every detail. A glance toward the soldiers standing nearby was enough to send them into motion, while the maids who had been following us immediately fell into formation, quietly arranging themselves around us.
As we walked, Lord Hugo began speaking, his voice calm and practiced.
He described the various features of the castle grounds, pointing out the statues of past heads of the Gyrfald family, which lined the central path.
I'd seen them from the carriage window, but now, walking beside him, I could finally hear their history, each one connected to some part of the family's legacy.
My father spoke occasionally, asking questions out of courtesy, but it was clear that Hugo had captured our attention.
Each time he pointed out an architectural feature or a symbolic crest carved into the walls, one of the maids would discreetly bring it closer for both of us to examine. I hadn't realized how coordinated it all was until I noticed their movements—perfectly timed and executed.
Finally, we arrived at the castle entrance.
The grand doors opened with a soft, powerful grace, and a gentle breeze swept in, cool and refreshing. I blinked in surprise. How was it colder inside?
As if sensing my confusion, Lord Hugo glanced at me and answered the unspoken question. "There are temperature control artifacts embedded into every main chamber," he explained. "They regulate the warmth during winter and cool the air in summer. I believe they're imported from the Alvan Enclave."
His explanation was casual, almost absentminded, yet it revealed a depth of knowledge that caught me off guard. These artifacts were rare, often found only in royal palaces.
He didn't boast or make a show of it. The castle itself spoke volumes.
We continued through a long, high-ceilinged corridor, the floor beneath us a rich stone mosaic that seemed to pulse in rhythm with our steps.
Hugo explained the purposes of the various chambers we passed—strategy rooms, a gallery, the council archives, and guest salons. Even the courtyard garden was being prepped for the evening's gathering.
His tone never grew tiresome. It wasn't too much or too little—just enough to keep me intrigued. Despite all the rumors, there was no trace of laziness in his manner. He was composed, attentive, and refined, like someone who had nothing to prove, yet somehow did anyway.
At last, we stopped before a pair of large silver-inlaid doors, their sheen faint in the soft light of the corridor. Two knights stood guard on either side, their armor gleaming and eyes focused ahead.
"This," Hugo said, his voice taking on a subtle shift, "is the High Chamber. The Duke will receive you here."
Those words hung heavy in the air. The moment we'd been waiting for had finally arrived. We would meet the legendary Duke Everard Gyrfald.
Hugo stepped aside, and the guards, without a word, opened the doors. Inside, the chamber was vast—tall vaulted ceilings supported by marble pillars etched with gilded runes. A throne stood upon a dais of obsidian stone, its dark surface gleaming in the dim light.
And there, at the far end of the room, sat Duke Everard.
He rested his face against his closed fist, his elbow braced on the throne's arm. His crimson cloak cascaded like blood across the obsidian steps beneath him. Though his posture seemed relaxed, there was a heavy stillness to the room—as if the very air bent to his will.
He didn't rise. He didn't need to.
Hugo's voice cut through the silence. "Father. I have brought the guests."
He spoke as if it were nothing more than a routine task, as though introducing dignitaries to one of the continent's most feared men were as casual as discussing the weather.
I glanced at my father. His steps were measured, his face neutral, but I caught the briefest hesitation, a slight dip in his chin before he took his first step forward to speak. For a man accustomed to diplomacy, that brief moment said more than words ever could.
"My Lord Duke," my father began, inclining his head with the proper respect. "It is an honor to be granted an audience in your home."
With his voice steady once again, my father introduced himself and motioned gently toward me.
"This is my daughter, Sylvia."
I took a breath, standing tall and properly curtsying in the way I had been taught. The moment felt different than I expected. I wasn't just meeting a noble. I was standing before Duke Everard Gyrfald.
The Duke finally spoke.
His voice was low, measured, yet somehow carried the weight of thunder muffled by velvet.
"I trust the journey wasn't too burdensome?" he asked, his gaze flicking between my father and me before returning to my father. It wasn't warm, but neither was it cold. A strange balance of courtesy that was given because it was deemed appropriate, not out of any obligation.
"We made good time," my father replied smoothly. "The roads were well-maintained, and the escort was most generous."
The Duke nodded slightly, his expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, he leaned back slightly, allowing the tension in the room to ease.
"I imagine you must be tired," he said, his voice carrying a touch of consideration. "The heat can be unbearable in this season, even here."
A brief conversation followed—nothing too casual, but nothing overly formal either.
Everard inquired about the state of our viscounty, the health of my father's estate, and made some polite inquiries about crops and trade routes. His questions were polite and refined, as expected, but beneath the surface was a keen awareness of every detail.
Though his presence remained distant, there was nothing dismissive in his demeanor.
He looked at people when they spoke. He listened.
But there was no forgetting who he was—a man capable of commanding cities with a mere gesture.
Eventually, Everard rose—not fully, but enough to indicate the meeting was coming to a close.
"You'll be shown to your quarters," he said simply. "Rest well. We'll speak more tonight—at dinner."
With that, he gave a final nod to Hugo, who stepped forward without being prompted.
"Father," Hugo said quietly, acknowledging his father with only a single word.
Everard nodded once more and returned to his throne.
As we turned to leave, I caught sight of another figure entering the chamber—a tall, pale man with ash-blonde hair neatly tied at the nape.
He was not dressed as a noble, but with the precision of someone who understood his role perfectly.
He took his place beside Everard without a word.
I realized then—he had been here the entire time, observing silently. Sebastian. Everard's personal attendant.
As my father and I made our way out, my mind was still heavy with the weight of the chamber, and the man who ruled it—not alone, but always with vigilant eyes by his side.
Phew.
I sighed as the door shut behind me. The High Chamber's air still clung to my coat—thick with ceremonial tension and that loud kind of silence only nobility can perfect.
I leaned against the cold stone wall, glancing up at the chandelier. It glittered smugly, like it had watched generations of awkward noble pleasantries and somehow never got bored.
Clara followed, composed as always. She moved with that effortless grace, like she'd been raised on ballroom floors.
"So," I said, stretching my arms like I hadn't just walked the castle's length like a showpiece. "What do you think?"
"You did splendidly, my lord. Your posture, cadence, command of timi—"
I waved her off. "Not me. Them. The guests."
Clara paused, calculating. "They were courteous. The Viscount chose his words carefully. His daughter was... observant."
I sighed again, less theatrically.
"Anyway, glad that's over. If I had to recite one more historical fact about some guy with a statue and a fancy beard, I'd have hurled myself into the fountain."
Clara stayed silent, though the judgment in the air was almost tangible. Or maybe that was just how she breathed.
I ruffled my hair and flopped onto the couch like a man who'd just dodged public execution—which, in a way, I had.
A moment passed before Clara asked, "Shall I prepare your attire for the evening gathering, my lord?"
Ugh. That was still a thing.
"Yeah, yeah. Let's get it over with. One formal dinner closer to death."
Clara offered a graceful bow, a soft, pleasant smile gently curving her lips..
She turned to leave but paused mid-step.
As I wondered why, a blue window blinked open. My inspect screen. Juli's stats?
Wait, no, please no....Not now...
knock knock.
"Brother, I'm here. Are you free to talk?"