Augustus's sword slipped in his grip, his composure unraveling. Shock and awe warred upon his face as he whispered, then roared, "How… how is this possible?!"
Lancaster, still catching his breath, looked down at the wooden sword in his hand. His voice faltered, but honesty carried it. "I… I don't know. I only watched. The stance, the form—it was as if my body simply remembered what my eyes beheld."
A deep, resonant laugh filled the air. His father, watched with unconcealed pride. "So," he declared, eyes glinting with satisfaction, "my son inherits not only my blood, but my very passion for the blade."
Lord Castellan stepped forward, his laughter settling into a firm yet warm expression. Placing a hand upon Augustus's shoulder, he said with quiet conviction,
"Sir Augustus, I entrust my son to you. You have seen it yourself—from the very beginning, he was destined to walk the path of the blade."
Augustus bowed his head, still reeling from Lancaster's display, but his voice carried steady resolve.
"Rest assured, my lord," he replied. "I shall impart every technique I know and temper his body—not only in strength without, but in fortitude within."
Lord Castellan raised his hand, his voice carrying both command and joy.
"Enough for today. You two shall begin tomorrow at first light. For now—" his lips curved into a rare smile, "—we celebrate!"
Lancaster blinked, almost disbelieving the warmth in his father's tone. Celebration? For him? His chest stirred with a quiet, trembling pride. Is this… the first time Father has spoken so openly for my sake?
Augustus straightened and gave a respectful bow, though a small grin tugged at the corners of his lips. Even he could not deny the spark he'd seen today was cause for such a declaration.
That night, when the manor finally grew quiet, Lancaster sank onto his bed. The door creaked, and a familiar voice followed.
"Brother."
Leila slipped inside, closing the door behind her. She climbed onto the edge of the mattress, eyes narrowed.
"Father cannot stop smiling. At supper, in the hall, even when no one spoke—he just smiled. Has he gone mad?"
Lancaster sat up, startled. "What? Mad? Don't be ridiculous, Leila." He ruffled her hair, trying to hide his own surprise. "Father isn't losing his wits. He's… simply happy. That's all."
She frowned, unconvinced. "Happy? It looked strange. As if he were a different man."
"Strange, perhaps," Lancaster admitted, meeting her gaze. "But it's not madness. Tonight, he was proud. That's why he smiled."
Leila leaned into his hand despite herself, lips twitching as though she wanted to keep arguing but couldn't.
"Proud… of you?" she asked softly.
Lancaster hesitated, the weight of her words sinking in. "Perhaps," he whispered, more to himself than to her.
Leila's eyes softened, and she leaned closer.
"Then if Father is proud of you… then so am I," she said, throwing her arms around him.
Lancaster blinked, then let out a quiet laugh, returning her embrace. "Thank you, Leila."
"Don't die, Brother," she whispered against his shoulder, voice trembling ever so slightly.
He pulled back, placing a hand gently atop her head. "By the gods, Leila—must you already picture me on my deathbed?"
Her lips curved into a grin despite herself. "I'm only making sure."
"And I'm only making sure you stop saying such grim things," Lancaster replied, smiling faintly as he held her a little tighter.
"I'm not saying grim things," Leila pouted, her small hands tightening around his sleeve. "I'm just… worried, that's all."
Lancaster sighed softly, brushing her hair back with a fond smile. "I know, But the way you speak—well, it sounds the opposite of what you mean. You do realize that, don't you?"
Leila tilted her head, lips pressing together as if she hadn't thought of it before. "...Maybe."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Then let me hear the truth next time, not words that make me sound half-dead already."
A sharp knock sounded at the door.
"Young master," came the maid's voice.
"What is it?" Leila and Lancaster answered at once, turning toward the door.
The maid hesitated before stepping inside, her eyes darting between the two children. "O-oh… young lady Leila is here as well."
"Yes," Lancaster replied calmly, resting a reassuring hand on his sister's shoulder. "She needed someone to talk to, or simply to pass the time before sleep. Is there a problem? Did Father call for me?"
The maid's fingers fidgeted against her apron, her gaze lowering. "N-no, young master. It is not that. Rather… our lord commanded me. Because today you have turned ten, and you displayed a… most spectacular performance on your very first day walking the path of the sword…" She swallowed hard, cheeks coloring. "…the lord has ordered me to… to take care of you… tonight."
Lancaster blinked, stunned. "…What?"
Leila tugged at Lancaster's sleeve, her wide eyes blinking up at him.
"Brother… does she mean she's going to wash and bathe you?"
Lancaster's face flushed crimson at her words. "No! Of course not!" he sputtered, waving his hands as if to push the thought away. "Don't… don't think such things, and certainly don't listen to what we are talking about, Leila!"
Leila tilted her head, unconvinced, while the maid stood frozen by the door, her nervousness only deepening.
Leila's grip on his sleeve tightened, her little brows furrowing. "If she's going to take care of you, why not me too?" she asked, her voice laced with the earnestness only a child could carry.
Lancaster buried his face in his hand, groaning. "Oh, for the gods' sake…" he muttered, half to himself, half to the heavens, as if begging for rescue. His ears burned red, while Leila only blinked up at him, perfectly serious, perfectly unaware of the storm she was stirring.
Lancaster drew in a steady breath, forcing his voice to remain composed.
"Tell Father I am grateful," he said firmly, eyes never wavering from the maid. "But also tell him this— I am ten years old. I need training, not… such arrangements."
The maid bowed deeply, her cheeks flushed crimson, and all but fled the room.
As the door clicked shut, Leila tugged at his sleeve, her wide eyes shimmering with curiosity. "Brother… when she walked, her chest—"
"Leila!" Lancaster cut in sharply, closing his eyes as his face burned.
She blinked at him, lips still parted. "Oh…" she murmured, then brightened again. "Then what about her rea—"
"Not. A. Word." Lancaster raised a hand in front of her face like a shield, his voice tight with flustered composure.
Leila puffed her cheeks, muttering, "You're no fun, brother."
"And you," Lancaster groaned, dropping onto the bed, "notice far too much for a child of seven."
Outside the manor, beneath the silver light of the moon, the maid bowed low as she relayed Lancaster's words.
The lord of the house stood on the balcony, a glass of deep crimson wine in his hand. He listened in silence, the faintest smirk curling his lips.
"So," he murmured, eyes narrowing with quiet amusement. "That child refuses such things… Perhaps he does not think too deeply of it. Or perhaps he chooses not to think at all."
He swirled the wine in his goblet, the reflection of the stars breaking across its surface. Then, with a voice both calm and commanding, he added,
"Relay my words to him—after an hour."
The maid bowed again, retreating with hurried steps, while the lord sipped his wine as though savoring a private joke only he could understand.
Leila's eyes gleamed with innocent determination.
"Brother… when we have enough, I wish to become a mage. Will you take me to the church, so I may be blessed?"
Lancaster regarded her for a moment, then brushed her hair gently aside.
"Do not trouble yourself with doubt, Leila. The gods will see to your wish in time. But before that, you must first tend to your body. Even a mage must be strong enough to carry her own magic."
She frowned, thoughtful. "And how am I to do that?"
"By resting early," Lancaster answered with a small, knowing smile.
A yawn escaped her lips, soft and unrestrained. "Then I suppose it will help… for I am already sleepy." Her voice dwindled as her head rested against him. "Good night, brother…"
Her breathing soon steadied, the weight of her small frame warm in his arms. Lancaster watched her, quiet and still, a tenderness crossing his face.
"Wilfred," he called at last, his tone low but steady.
The loyal retainer stepped into the doorway, bowing. "My lord."
"Take her to her room," Lancaster said, passing his sister carefully into Wilfred's arms.
Once they departed, silence filled the chamber. Lancaster lowered himself against the bed, exhaling a long breath as though releasing the weight of the day.
"At last," he murmured, voice soft but resolute, "a measure of peace."
An hour later, Lancaster stirred at the soft knock on his door.
"Young master?" came the familiar voice.
Still half-asleep, he groaned, "What is it…?"
The door creaked open, and the maid stepped in, shutting it behind her with a quiet click.
She drew closer, her voice hushed yet steady. "Forgive me, young master. But it must be done. The lord ordered it."
Lancaster blinked himself awake, frowning. "What must be done?"
Her answer came not in words, but in the slow glide of her fingers down the front of her uniform. Button by button, the black fabric parted, falling away until scarlet silk clung to her form beneath.
Lancaster froze, heat rising to his cheeks. "W-What are you doing?!" He clutched the blanket closer, eyes darting anywhere but at her.
"The lord said…" she continued softly, stepping close enough that he could catch the faint scent of roses clinging to her skin, "if I fail to… take care of you tonight, my family will be cast out. We will have nothing left."
She stood before him now in her red undergarments, a picture of poise and quiet defiance.
Lancaster's breath caught; his heart pounded loud enough that he feared she might hear it. "I… I-I'm only ten…" His words faltered, lost between innocence and the overwhelming closeness of her presence.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile—sad, resolute, yet tender. "Then forgive me for making you see me like this. But I had no choice."
Lancaster pressed a hand over his face, his voice low but firm. "You need not heed Father's whims. This must be some twisted jest of his."
The maid lowered her eyes, though her steps carried her closer. "Young master… forgive me. The lord's words are not mine to question. If I defy him, my family will be ruined."
"Ruined?" Lancaster repeated, forcing a laugh that rang hollow. "And so you strip yourself before a child? Is that what duty has come to mean?"
Her fingers trembled only slightly as she loosened the final tie of her garment. Pale skin caught the glow of the candle, her long thighs revealed beneath the fall of fabric, framed by black silk that clung to her form.
Lancaster turned sharply aside, cheeks burning. "For heaven's sake," he muttered, "is this torment nothing more than the gods punishing me for lack of sleep?"
The maid exhaled softly, not quite a sigh. "It is not torment to me, young master. Only duty. And… perhaps, a kindness."
His heart stumbled in his chest at the weight of her words. He dared not look at her, for the silence between them felt more dangerous than any blade Augustus had ever shown him.