Getting dressed for a mandatory family dinner was always a miserable experience, but having a highly trained operative do your tie certainly sped up the process.
Cora stood behind Kian, her hands moving with terrifying, silent efficiency as she adjusted the collar of his formal velvet jacket. She didn't speak. She didn't even breathe too loudly. Ever since their little "performance review" earlier that afternoon, she had treated Kian with the kind of absolute, terrified reverence usually reserved for dangerous wild animals.
A good executive assistant is worth their weight in gold, Kian thought approvingly, checking his reflection in the mirror. She hasn't gossiped, she brought me a fantastic steak, and she got this necktie perfectly symmetrical on the first try.
"I am heading to the dining hall," Kian said, turning to face her. "If Viscount Gillian's men ask you what I did today, what will you tell them?"
Cora bowed deeply, her eyes fixed firmly on the floorboards. "I will report that you stared at the wall for two hours, complained about a headache, and took a nap, Young Master."
"Perfect. Keep up the good work."
Kian slipped his hands into his pockets and strolled out of the bedroom.
The Roventia main estate was less of a mansion and more of an impenetrable fortress painted in gold. As Kian walked down the sprawling, candle-lit corridors, he passed priceless tapestries, suits of enchanted armor, and massive oil paintings of his ancestors looking incredibly stern. The sheer amount of wealth on display was staggering.
And Uncle Gillian is going to try and gamble all of this away on standard iron, Kian thought, shaking his head. Idiots. All of them.
He reached the towering double doors of the grand dining hall. Two armored knights stood guard. They barely glanced at the eight-year-old illegitimate son as they pushed the heavy oak doors open.
Kian stepped inside. He didn't bother hunching his shoulders or pretending to be invisible. He just walked toward the far end of the table, looking exactly like a man who had already mentally checked out of a meeting before it even began.
The dining hall was massive, dominated by a long mahogany table that could easily seat fifty people. Currently, it was set for only a few. At the far right side of the table sat Viscount Gillian, a thin man with sharp eyes, greasing his hair back and sipping from a crystal wine glass. Next to him was his pompous twelve-year-old son, Berris, who was currently complaining to a servant about the temperature of his water.
Kian pulled out a chair as far away from the head seat as physically possible.
The scraping of the wooden chair echoed in the quiet room.
Viscount Gillian's head snapped up. His eyes narrowed into slits as they landed on Kian. He immediately leaned down, hissing a furious whisper into Berris's ear.
"What is this boy doing here?" Gillian hissed, his grip tightening on his wine glass. "I thought I told you to make sure he stayed in his room."
Berris jumped, nearly spilling his water. He glared across the table at Kian, his face flushing with embarrassment. "I did tell him, Father! I swear!"
I can literally hear both of you, Kian thought, picking up his silver spoon and inspecting it for smudges. You are terrible at whispering. This is why your branch family is broke.
"Fix it," Gillian muttered harshly. "The Duke will be here any second. I am delivering my quarterly report on the western mines tonight, and I will not have this illegitimate rat ruining my mood."
Berris pushed his chair back, standing up with a scowl. He marched down the length of the long table toward Kian, his fists clenched.
"Hey, stupid," Berris snapped, looming over Kian's chair. "Are you deaf? I told you to stay in your wing. Get up and get out before I have the guards throw you out."
Kian didn't look up from his spoon. He didn't shrink back. He just let out a slow, tired sigh.
"Cousin Berris," Kian said, his voice completely flat. "If I skip this dinner, Grandfather will be annoyed. If Grandfather is annoyed, people lose their heads. I prefer mine attached. Now, please step back. You're blocking the bread basket."
Berris's mouth fell open. He looked completely thrown off by the absolute lack of fear in Kian's voice. "You... you little rat! Who cares if you get punished? Move—"
BANG.
The heavy doors at the front of the hall slammed open, hitting the stone walls with a deafening crack.
The temperature in the room instantly plummeted. It wasn't magic. It was pure, suffocating killing intent.
Berris froze, his hand inches from Kian's jacket. Viscount Gillian immediately leaped out of his chair, standing at rigid attention. Even the shadows in the room seemed to shrink back.
Footsteps echoed against the marble floor. Heavy. Methodical. Unstoppable.
Walking into the room was a man built like a siege tower. He wore a crisp, dark military uniform adorned with dozens of medals that clinked faintly with every step. His hair was stark white, pulled back severely, and his face was carved with deep, jagged scars from decades of warfare.
This was Duke Magnus Roventia. The iron-blooded Patriarch. The man who had single-handedly slaughtered an entire kingdom's army thirty years ago to secure his family's monopoly on the eastern trade routes.
Ah. The CEO has arrived, Kian thought, politely bowing his head while internally rating the old man's terrifying entrance. Ten out of ten on the intimidation factor. He really does have a great dramatic flair.
Duke Magnus didn't look at Gillian. He didn't look at Berris. He simply walked to the head of the table and sat down in the massive, throne-like chair.
"Sit," Magnus commanded. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through Kian's chest.
Gillian sat down so fast he nearly knocked his wine over. Berris, terrified of being caught out of his seat, scrambled back down the length of the table and practically dove into his chair.
For three agonizing minutes, no one spoke. The servants, moving like ghosts, brought out the first course—a rich, creamy mushroom bisque. The only sound in the massive hall was the faint clinking of silver spoons against porcelain.
Kian ate his soup happily. It was infinitely better than the watery garbage Cora had brought him earlier. He kept his posture relaxed, eating quietly but showing absolutely no signs of the nervous trembling the rest of the table was exhibiting.
"Gillian," Duke Magnus finally spoke, not looking up from his soup.
Viscount Gillian flinched, then quickly wiped his mouth with a napkin and sat up straight. "Yes, Father! I am here."
"The western iron mines," Magnus said slowly. "I gave you control of them three months ago. Give me your report."
Gillian's chest puffed out. This was his moment. This was exactly what he had been preparing for. He shot a smug, superior look at Berris before turning back to the Duke.
"The western mines are exceeding all projections, Father," Gillian boasted, his voice echoing in the quiet hall. "Production is up twenty percent. But more importantly, I have taken the liberty of making a strategic investment for the family's future."
Magnus paused his spoon. "Explain."
"I have used the branch family's treasury to buy up nearly seventy percent of the standard iron contracts in the capital," Gillian said, leaning forward with a greedy gleam in his eye. "I've heard highly reliable rumors that the Royal Army is preparing for a secret draft. When that happens, the demand for iron weapons will skyrocket. We will corner the market. Our profits will quadruple by the end of the month."
Kian took a slow, quiet sip of his water to hide his amusement.
He actually did it, Kian thought, mentally applauding. Berris ran straight to him with the fake rumor I planted, and Gillian swallowed the bait hook, line, and sinker. He dumped his entire treasury into standard iron.
It was the worst business decision in the history of the empire. In three weeks, when the new mana-steel vein was discovered, standard iron wouldn't just drop in price—it would become entirely obsolete. The Royal Army wouldn't buy a single standard iron sword ever again. Gillian wasn't buying a monopoly; he was buying a mountain of worthless rocks.
"Standard iron contracts," Duke Magnus repeated. His terrifying, scarred face gave absolutely nothing away. "You bet your treasury on a rumor."
"A highly credible rumor, Father!" Gillian insisted, desperate for praise. "Iron is the foundation of the empire. It will never lose its value! By this time next month, the Roventia family will hold the entire military supply chain in our hands. It is a foolproof plan."
Pfft.
The sound was tiny. Almost imperceptible.
Kian had tried his hardest to hold it in, but the sheer, blinding stupidity of the phrase "It is a foolproof plan" had triggered his corporate reflexes. A tiny, stifled snort of laughter had escaped his lips before he could stop it.
The dining hall went dead silent.
Viscount Gillian stopped talking. Berris's eyes went wide with horror.
At the head of the table, Duke Magnus slowly lowered his silver spoon. The massive, terrifying Patriarch turned his head, his piercing, cold eyes locking directly onto the eight-year-old boy sitting at the very end of the table.
"Kian," Duke Magnus rumbled, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet pitch.
Kian put down his spoon. He didn't shake. He didn't stutter. He simply picked up his linen napkin, politely dabbed the corners of his mouth, and met the terrifying Patriarch's gaze head-on.
"Yes, Grandfather?" Kian replied, his tone perfectly even.
"You find your uncle's financial strategy amusing?"
"Not at all," Kian said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "I just remembered a story my tutor told me about a merchant who bought a mountain of sand right before it rained. My apologies for the interruption. The soup is excellent, by the way."
Gillian slammed his hand on the table, his face turning purple with rage. "You arrogant little rat! How dare you mock my report to the Duke! Father, please, let me have the guards remove him. He is an embarrassment to this table!"
Duke Magnus didn't look at Gillian. He didn't blink. He just kept his heavy, crushing gaze locked onto Kian's small, unbothered face.
The old man was a monster who had survived sixty years of war and political assassinations. He could smell fear from a mile away. And right now, he was staring at an eight-year-old boy who had just insulted a Viscount's business plan and wasn't sweating a single drop.
"Leave him," Magnus ordered smoothly, finally breaking the silence.
Gillian choked. "B-But Father—"
"I said leave him, Gillian," Magnus snapped, his voice cracking through the room like a whip. He turned his attention back to his eldest son. "If you are so confident in your iron contracts, then I expect to see those quadrupled profits by the end of the month. If this 'foolproof plan' of yours fails, you will step down from managing the western mines. Am I understood?"
Gillian paled slightly, but his greed quickly overtook his fear. He bowed his head confidently. "You have my word, Father. You won't be disappointed."
Oh, he's going to be so disappointed, Kian thought, picking his spoon back up. You're going to be living in a cardboard box by July.
The rest of the dinner passed in tense silence. Kian happily focused entirely on a very excellent slice of roast pheasant. He had successfully planted the bomb. Now, all he had to do was wait for it to explode.
But as the servants cleared the final plates and the family stood up to leave, Kian felt a heavy gaze burning into the back of his neck.
He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Duke Magnus was watching him.
He noticed, Kian realized, keeping his hands casually tucked in his pockets as he strolled out of the dining hall doors. The old man noticed. When Gillian's market crashes in three weeks, Grandfather is going to remember exactly who called it a mountain of sand.
A small, lazy smirk tugged at the corner of Kian's mouth as he walked back to his bedroom.
The CEO had finally noticed the intern. Things were about to get very interesting.