Drawen could be seen sitting in a study room of the grand mansion, sunlight spilling through tall windows onto the polished floor. Across from him stood an old scholar, his long robe slightly frayed at the edges and his spectacles perched low on his nose. He held a thick book in one hand and a pointer in the other, as if the fate of the empire depended on whether Drawen was paying attention.
"Young master," the scholar began, clearing his throat, "have you understood what I taught you yesterday?"
Drawen straightened a little in his chair, affecting the air of someone entirely confident. "Yes, sir, I have."
"Then please repeat it for me."
Drawen exhaled and began, ticking off the points on his fingers as he spoke. "In the Aetherion Empire there exists a strict hierarchy among the nobility. At the very top stands the royal house—House Lumera. They carry the bloodline of the Human Sovereign himself and are blessed by Lumerus, the god of light."
The scholar gave a small approving nod.
"Because of this blessing, the royal house also has partial influence over the Church of Lumerus," Drawen continued. "Though, in truth, the church is an independent body. The Pope is not chosen by the royals but accepted by the will of Lumerus. The current Pope, if I recall correctly, is the younger brother of Duke Redwyke."
"Good, good," the old scholar said, his eyes twinkling. "Go on."
Drawen von veyrona tapped his fingers on the desk as he recalled the rest. "Below the royal house come the four great dukedoms, each guarding one direction of the empire. Blackmere in the west—the monster front. Veyrona in the east, who hold the border with the gnome empire. Rivershire in the south, guarding the coast and trade routes. And, of course, Redwyke in the north, facing the orc empire."
"Yes, excellent." The scholar smiled faintly.
"Then," Drawen said, warming up now, "beneath the dukes are the eight marquis houses. Beneath them, twenty-four counts and viscounts. Then the barons, and at the very bottom, the knightly families."
The scholar clapped his book shut, satisfied. "Very good, young master. You remember well."
Drawen leaned back in his chair with a grin. "Naturally. My memory is flawless. In fact, if you like, I can recite the names of all twenty-four counts and viscounts in alphabetical order."
The old man chuckled softly. "That won't be necessary." He set the book aside and straightened his glasses. "Now then, let us begin our next lesson—the art of speaking."
Drawen froze. "Ugh. Not this again." He slumped in his chair as though struck by an arrow. "It's so boring."
The scholar raised an eyebrow. "On the contrary, it is one of the most important skills for a noble. Words can sway kings and end wars."
"Yes, yes, I've heard it all before," Drawen groaned. "But every time you say 'the art of speaking,' what you actually mean is practicing how to smile politely while someone insults me and still pretend I don't want to stab them with a fork."
"That is part of it, yes," the scholar said dryly. "But there is more. Posture, tone, choice of words—"
"Posture, tone, words… I already have all three," Drawen interrupted, raising his chin proudly. "My posture is perfect, my tone is charming, and my words are unforgettable. What else is there?"
The old man's lips twitched as if holding back a sigh. "There is also knowing when not to speak."
Drawen blinked. "Not speak? What nonsense is that? Surely the world improves every time I open my mouth."
"Indeed," the scholar replied evenly, "though some might say the opposite."
Drawen squinted at him suspiciously. "Are you included in 'some'?"
The scholar smiled faintly, adjusting his glasses. "I would never say such a thing aloud, young master. That would not be proper etiquette."
Drawen slumped back, muttering under his breath. "Hmph. See? This is exactly why I hate this lesson."
And so, the hardest one hour for our three year old protagonist began.
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