Reborn As Papa Silva

Chapter 52: Their Story (2)

What is he doing? Acier inwardly questioned, casting an imperceptible side-eye glance at the figure in question from afar. She tuned out the bustling streets, the chatter of the crowd, and even the voices of her immediate company.

She and Hilda stood before one of the many wooden stalls lining the lively streets of Kikka, browsing—or at least pretending to, though Hilda was none the wiser. Trinkets of all kinds sprawled across the vendor's table: cute hairpins, waistband keychains, hair bands, necklaces, wristbands, earrings, and more.

The two examined the items, their fingers brushing against the cheap materials as they admired the designs. Hilda knew Acier wouldn't wear anything like this, no matter how much she liked it. Her mother and grandfather would never tolerate a "princess" adorned in such inferior goods on her "perfect" figure.

But Hilda believed otherwise. If her princess discovered something she truly loved, she'd likely buy it anyway—not to wear, but to keep hidden in her room and admire during quiet moments. That was why Hilda had coordinated with the stall vendor, a middle-aged woman in her forties with brown hair, hazel eyes, and a dull-colored kirtle. The woman eagerly presented her wares, her enthusiasm a mix of hope and calculation.

Though their brown cloaks concealed much of their figures, the vendor had glimpsed their faces beneath their hoods. Acier's delicate, pristine skin, tidy cheeks, and especially her enchanting eyes gave away their upper-class status. If that wasn't enough, the bulging pouches of coins tied to their waists—peeking out just slightly—sealed the impression.

The vendor could barely contain her excitement. She focused her attention entirely on the two girls, ignoring other customers and even shooing away potential distractions. With a practiced air of humility, she displayed her goods, offering a running commentary on each item.

The blonde-haired Hilda seemed genuinely interested, engaging with the vendor and even working to draw Acier's attention. The vendor quickly realized that Hilda was likely a servant and Acier the one in charge. Doubling down, she picked up a purple butterfly hairpin and held it out.

"This would look stunning in your hair," the vendor said brightly, glancing at Acier.

Hilda nodded in agreement. "It would suit you perfectly, my lady."

But Acier responded with only a half-hearted hmm or a distant, "I see." Her disinterest was plain, and the vendor's hopeful smile faltered before she forced it back into place and moved on to the next item.

Acier's lack of enthusiasm was starting to wear on Hilda. Although the maid played her role as the cold, indifferent servant that society expected, deep down she was still a ten-year-old girl thrilled to be out of the castle and spending time with her princess.

Acier's visible detachment dampened Hilda's spirits for a moment, but then her determination reignited. She wasn't giving up—not yet. Hilda continued her efforts, certain that, on any other day, Acier might have relented and purchased something. Even if she didn't truly want it, she might have done so out of kindness or as an excuse to support the vendor's livelihood.

But today was different.

Though Acier stood physically beside Hilda, her mind was elsewhere. Her attention lingered on a figure in her peripheral vision, far to the left. She was sizing him up, trying to determine what he was doing.

Across the street, she saw him standing over a street painter, who sat on a cheap tablecloth mat, painting something. The scene surprised her. From his disheveled appearance, he didn't seem like someone with money to spend on street art—or the sort to appreciate it, for that matter.

His dead fish eyes didn't exactly scream "art enthusiast," she thought wryly.

Still, she couldn't deny that he'd been buying quite a few things today. Maybe he isn't as poor as he looks, she mused, her curiosity piqued.

Though perhaps that wasn't entirely accurate. The void's clothes, though silk—a material worn only by nobles and wealthy merchants to flaunt their status—were far from pristine.

No, pristine wasn't the right word. In Acier's eyes, the blue-trimmed black ensemble he wore, paired with brown leather ankle boots, was visibly worn. Threads had come loose, small holes dotted the fabric, and faint stains marred the surface. It was clear to her that this outfit might very well be his only set of clothing.

If his attire wasn't enough of a clue to his poverty, the events leading up to this moment replayed in her mind, further solidifying her suspicions.

Shortly after leaving Clover Castle with Hilda, Acier had subtly—unknowingly to Hilda—steered their direction toward where she recalled seeing the void heading. It wasn't difficult to track him; she remembered his slow, deliberate path down the hilltop streets.

Even so, Acier worried he might have turned down another path while she was speaking with Hilda and that she'd lost him. Fortunately, that wasn't the case. She soon spotted him again, his sluggish movements making him easy to follow. His feet dragged against the ground, his back arched as though weighed down by some invisible burden. He barely seemed to make any progress from where she had last seen him.

That worked to her advantage. His pace gave her a perfect excuse to maintain her alibi: that she was simply out to enjoy the fresh air.

There were moments of panic, of course. Nobles along the streets occasionally recognized her and tried to approach, eager to strike up a conversation. Acier's heart raced at the thought of being detained long enough for the void to slip away. But Hilda, ever resourceful, intercepted them before they could get within five feet.

"The Princess is outside on the blessing of the Old Duke," Hilda would state, her tone cold and firm. "Do you wish to be the reason it is reported to him that his blessing was fruitless?"

The words worked like magic. Acier watched as they retreated, cowed by the mere mention of her grandfather. She had to resist the urge to embrace Hilda in gratitude, though her relief quickly turned to unease when Hilda pulled her into a clothing shop.

Acier froze. Noblewomen's clothing shopping was an ordeal that could easily consume an entire day. Was this her grandfather's plan all along? To dress up his "doll" in even more elaborate attire?

Thankfully, Hilda reassured her.

The visit lasted less than a minute. Hilda exchanged a wordless glance with the shopkeeper, who nodded and promptly produced two plain brown cloaks. With their new attire, they exited the shop and continued on their way.

The cloaks worked wonders. Even if people still recognized Acier beneath the hood, they seemed to understand the unspoken message: Do not bother me. Acier Silva? Never heard of her. I'm just a passerby. If you want to speak to her, write a letter to Castle Silva and hope for an appointment with the heiress.

The next time Acier's pulse quickened, it was for a different reason. The void was nearing the border between the noble realm and Kikka.

Though Kikka was a castle town, its geographical location placed it firmly in the common realm. Acier had never been permitted to venture into the common realm alone. Her sole visit had been as a child, accompanied by her entire family and flanked by a full contingent of House Silva guards, to witness a play.

She had been four years old then, Aurelia just a newborn. Her memories of the event were hazy at best. Since that day, her life had been confined to the noble realm, with Castle Silva as her gilded cage.

Even within Castle Clover, she'd been restricted for much of her life, allowed only in the Silva wing until her most recent birthday.

As they crossed the invisible threshold dividing nobility from commoners, Acier half-expected Royal Knights to materialize and drag her back to her grandfather. But no such thing happened. Even Hilda showed no reaction as they entered Kikka.

For the first time in her life, Acier found herself walking freely in the common realm.

They wandered into the marketplace—or in Acier's case, followed the void—and moved from stall to stall. Hilda pointed out various items, engaging Acier with small talk. But Acier only nodded absentmindedly, keeping the void in her peripheral vision, curious about his actions.

She watched him drift from vendor to vendor, wordlessly purchasing an array of items: needles, thread, bandages, ointments, lotions, knives, forks, ligatures, scalpels, clamps, hooks, and more.

Acier couldn't fathom how he managed to do it—how he obtained everything he wanted without so much as a word. Beyond the sharp cry he'd let out when she struck his jaw earlier, she had yet to hear him speak. He didn't even point to the items. Yet, at every stall, the shopkeepers seemed to understand his intent as if by magic. They would give him a silent nod, hand him the item, take his money, and he would move on.

The whole process left Acier questioning her senses. Was she deaf? Blind? She hadn't heard a single word exchanged, nor seen a single movement to indicate communication between the void and the vendors.

Time and again, she saw him repeat this strange ritual, his money pouch growing lighter and his knapsack swelling with goods. The sight was surreal. At any other time, seeing someone buy so much might have given the impression of wealth.

But Acier knew better. Despite the quantity of his purchases, the quality of the items was appalling. Aside from the bandages and thread, the goods were used—second or third-hand at best—rusted, dirty, and worn.

Even the coins he handed over told a story. Acier could just make out their battered condition: bent and chipped scraps of silver and bronze. They looked like something only a destitute peasant would possess. The common vendors he paid often grimaced, clearly disheartened by the state of the coin. But they accepted it anyway—because they had to.

In the noble realm, no store would have tolerated such coins, nor allowed someone dressed in his threadbare clothes to set foot inside.

And yet, despite all this, Acier's confusion grew as she watched him spend what appeared to be the last of his money on a piece of street art.

Her brow furrowed as she bit her lip, recalling the void's lifeless eyes. Does he just not care anymore? Or... is there some purpose to this?

The street painter handed him the finished piece, painted on a slab of wood. Acier strained to catch a glimpse of the artwork, but the void didn't even glance at it. He simply dropped it into his bag, handed over a handful of silver yule, and trudged away. His back hunched under an invisible weight, and his presence seemed to drain the air around him.

People instinctively parted to let him pass, avoiding him as though he carried a plague.

Acier turned back to the vendor in front of her. Without a word, she took the butterfly pin the woman had shown her earlier, dropped a gleaming gold coin—worth more than the entire stall—into the vendor's hand, and walked away.

The woman froze, staring at the coin in stunned silence.

Behind her, Hilda stood equally still, her jaw dropping before she hurried after Acier.

"P-Princess?!" she blurted, then clamped her hands over her mouth. Oops. I'm not supposed to call her that right now.

Acier stopped and turned, giving Hilda an appraising look that made the maid stiffen. Without a word, Acier pointed toward a stall across from the painter, where the aroma of freshly baked goods wafted through the air.

"Hilda, line up and get us some bread or something. I'm hungry."

Hilda blinked, her mouth opening slightly in disbelief. "Young Miss... you want to eat... street food?"

Acier nodded, frowning as she crossed her arms. "Did my grandfather forbid it?"

Hilda hesitated, then awkwardly shook her head. "No, he didn't." But inwardly, she thought bitterly, I doubt the Old Duke ever imagined the possibility of you eating such filth.

"Then what's the problem?" Acier raised a brow, her tone sharpening.

Forcing a smile, Hilda shook her head quickly. "No problem, Young Miss."

Hilda didn't curtsy—mindful of their supposed "disguise"—but gave a small bob of her head. She gestured toward the stall. "I'll line up. Please don't go anywhere far, Young Miss."

Acier gave a small nod of acknowledgment, watching as Hilda spun on her heel and took her place at the back of the relatively long line.

Acier turned and glanced to her right, her gaze following the void's retreating figure before heading straight for the painter.

Sensing her approach, the street painter looked up from his mat and offered a polite smile. "How may I help you, young la—" He cut himself off mid-sentence, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Acier's face beneath her hood.

She raised a brow and whispered, "You know me?"

The painter stiffly nodded.

Acier crossed her arms. "How?"

Straightening his posture, the painter replied cautiously, "Prince—" He stopped when she grimaced, then coughed and corrected himself. "I mean, young lady, I'm a Boismortier. A noble heir who fancies you hired me to paint your portrait for your upcoming birthday."

Acier shuddered inwardly, repulsed by the idea. Eww. How did he even describe me so vividly for you to recognize me at a glance?

Suppressing her disgust, she asked, "That must have fetched you a hefty sum. So why are you painting on the street like a beggar? Unless this is some eccentric passion of yours?"

The painter scratched his cheek awkwardly. "Former Boismortier is more accurate. I was caught... romancing his mother and barely escaped their compound with my life—naturally without any coin. I was then expelled from my house and now make a living as a street artist to survive."

Acier froze, fighting off the twitch of an eyebrow as she sized him up. I thought noble ladies having affairs with musicians and artists were just rumors and fairy tales.

Curiosity got the better of her. "Who was it? Which House did you defile?"

The painter cringed and shook his head. "Forgive me, young lady. If word got out that I spoke of this, I probably wouldn't even know how I died."

Acier pouted but then smirked slyly as a thought crept into her mind. No matter. I'll find out when I receive that portrait. If the heir was dumb and infatuated enough to have it made, he'll be foolish enough to deliver it—all for the chance of winning my heart.

Confident in her reasoning, she shifted her focus back to the painter's setup: the brushes, canvases, and paint trays spread neatly before him.

"You have painting magic?"

The painter shook his head. "No, just a derivative. I'm a branch descendant—I possess picture magic."

Acier cocked her head, intrigued. "What's the difference?"

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Picture magic is exactly what it sounds like—just pictures. I can draw or paint anything I want and even perfectly recapture a scene, unlike most painting magic users. But my art has no magical properties. They're just drawings and pictures that don't come to life."

He bit his lip, forcing a weak smile. "That's why I can only make a living as an artist and why my house kicked me out so easily."

"Oh." Acier gave a small nod, her expression softening slightly. She glanced at his setup again and moved on. "Well, originally, I was going to probe around, but if you already know me, I can be blunt." This makes things much easier.

"Young lady?" The painter frowned, clearly confused by her intentions.

Acier didn't keep him waiting. "The guy who was just here—what did you paint for him?"

The painter stiffened, his polite smile faltering. "Is something the matter, young lady? Did he offend you in some way? I have nothing to do with him and certainly don't know him personally—"

"No," Acier interrupted, shaking her head. "Just answer. What did you give him?"

He straightened up, meeting her gaze apologetically. "Apologies, young lady. Even if it's you, I can't disclose details about a client's commission. That would be unprofessional and unethical as an artist."

The painter looked resolute, his tone firm—a picture of honor unwilling to betray his conscience.

Acier fought the urge to roll her eyes. Yet sleeping with a client's mother wasn't unprofessional? And you already spilled the details of another client's commission unprompted.

She reached into her pouch and pulled out a gleaming gold coin, holding it aloft like a treat for a well-trained dog.

The painter's resolve crumbled instantly. "He had me paint a simple sign that read 'Medical Clinic.'"

Acier smiled, dropping the coin into his lap, suppressing the urge to say, Good boy.

She watched as he swiftly tucked the coin into his coat. "Did you catch his name?" she asked.

He looked up and shook his head. "No. He didn't say much, afterall he wasn't the very talkative type."

Acier's eyebrow twitched again at the painter's response, though inwardly, she screamed. To me neither of you spoke at all!

Suppressing her annoyance, she pressed on. "Do you remember what he looks like?"

The painter blinked, briefly confused, before nodding. "Yeah, of course. My magic gives me a vivid imagination and nearly perfect memory. I just saw him minutes ago—I could recall him down to the smallest detail."

Acier's eyes lit up momentarily, but she quickly masked her excitement, crossing her arms. "And you can put that on paper? Paint his portrait?"

"Of course!" The painter puffed out his chest confidently. "It'll be indistinguishable from the real thing."

Acier offered a faint smile before glancing over her shoulder at Hilda, who was now third in line at the bakery. She turned back to the painter.

"Then what are you waiting for?" she hissed. "Hurry up and paint him—on a small canvas, something that can fit in here." She lifted her cloak to reveal a small leather satchel at her waist, currently holding only the transponder Hilda had given her.

The painter stammered, "Oh—oh yes!" He hurriedly flipped through his stack of canvases, pulling out one barely larger than a photograph. His grimoire floated to his side, and a swirl of colors materialized around him. Brushes hovered in the air, dipping into paints and picking up hues of silver, blue, black, brown, white, and beige, all perfectly blended.

Positioning the canvas vertically, the painter took a pencil in hand and, within seconds, sketched the void's sharp features with eerie accuracy. Even the oppressive aura of despair surrounding the figure seemed captured in the lines.

Acier watched nervously, stealing a glance over her shoulder. Hilda was now at the front of the line, chatting with the baker as he filled a bag with bread and pastries.

Turning back to the painter, she saw the brushes working furiously, filling the outline with vibrant color. The scene was unnervingly lifelike, and as the painter added the final touches, Acier jerked forward and snatched the portrait from his hands before he could react.

Startled, the painter gaped at her, but any protest died as Acier casually tossed a gold coin into his lap. His face lit up, and he grinned foolishly, tucking the coin into his coat with delight.

Leaning forward, Acier whispered in a low, firm voice, "Keep this to yourself."

The painter hesitated before giving an exaggerated nod and an okay sign with his hand. The money she'd given him was more than enough to live comfortably for two months—lavishly, if he wanted. He had no intention of crossing the heiress of House Silva.

Satisfied, Acier turned just as Hilda approached, clutching a brown bag to her chest. The aroma of cinnamon, pastries, and fresh bread wafted from it. Hilda's expression was a mix of bewilderment and concern.

"Were you commissioning a painting?" Hilda asked hesitantly, glancing past Acier to the painter and his disorderly setup.

Acier's expression hardened as she shook her head casually. "No, nothing from his samples caught my interest or gave me any reason to commission something."

Her lips curled into a pearly smile—one she knew could blind and disarm Hilda. "Besides, if I wanted a painting done, I'd task our House's private artist with the commission, not some..." She glanced over her shoulder at the painter and wrinkled her nose. "...Street artist."

The painter froze but quickly caught on, lowering his head with an exaggerated, self-deprecating smile.

Passersby frowned at Acier's apparent rudeness, throwing pitying glances at the painter, but none stopped or interfered. They simply moved along with their day.

Hilda gasped softly, startled by Acier's uncharacteristic rudeness. The princess must be more upset with the Old Master and Mistress than I thought. This is so unlike her. She quickly forced a nod and lowered her head, unwilling to meet Acier's gaze and risk drawing her ire. Instead, she held out the bag.

"I've purchased a variety of baked goods, young lady," Hilda murmured.

Acier nodded coolly, her tone soft but commanding. "Well done, Hilda. Let's find a park or somewhere quiet to enjoy them."

She glanced up at the afternoon sun and added, "Then we'll return to the estate. I've had enough excitement for one day."

"Ah?!" Hilda raised her head in surprise, her thoughts racing. I thought the Princess would try to stay out past the Old Master's curfew, but to return so early... Princess must truly treasure and respect the Old Master. She must be afraid of worrying him.

A soft smile spread across Hilda's face, pride swelling in her chest. She beamed at Acier. "Excellent, Princess. I know just the place—the view is simply exquisite."

Of course you do, Acier thought, a wave of jealousy flaring within her. Because when you're not serving me, you're free to come and go from the castle as you please. She suppressed the thought, her expression smooth, and returned Hilda's smile. "Then lead the way, Hilda—"

"Oi!"

Acier's words were cut off as a loud, gruff voice drew her attention. She turned to see a hulking, obese man stomping toward them, his steps shaking the cobblestones.

He wore a savage grin that only accentuated the gruesome scar slashing across the left side of his face. Perversely licking his lips, he stopped mere feet from them.

The onlookers and passersby scattered like leaves in the wind, casting fearful glances at the man. Vendors ducked behind their stalls, and mothers scooped up their children, retreating into alleys. Only the painter remained unfazed, glancing at the man with a look of pity. That idiot.

Hilda mirrored the painter's disdain, glaring at the newcomer with unbridled disgust. Who does this pig think he is, dirtying the Princess's sight with his wretched presence?

The man's beady eyes scanned their faces beneath their hoods, his smile growing wider as realization dawned.

I saw right, he thought gleefully. These two will fetch a fine price. His gaze lingered on Acier. Especially this one. A pity virgin goods are worth more—I would've liked to have a go at her myself.

His grin turned grotesque, his tongue darting across his lips in anticipation. Extending a meaty hand toward them, he spoke in a tone dripping with false charm. "You two lovelies will be coming with me—augh!"

He didn't finish. Acier vanished from sight, and in the next instant, a silver gauntlet was buried deep in his stomach.

His pupils dilated in shock as the breath left his body. Cold sweat broke out on his brow, and he looked down in disbelief to see Acier's fist still pressed against his gut.

Her expression was dark, her tone colder still as she withdrew her arm. The man collapsed to his knees with a heavy thud, wheezing in pain. Before he could recover, Acier's foot slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling backward onto the cobblestones, unconscious.

"Bwah." A mix of saliva and bile splattered from his mouth as he lay still.

As the silver gauntlet surrounding her fist dematerialized from existence, Acier clicked her tongue in disgust, but before she could say more, Hilda's voice broke through her thoughts.

"Young Miss."

"Hm?" Acier turned to see Hilda standing beside her, an ornate dagger glinting in her hand and disapproval etched on her face.

"You needn't have desecrated yourself with this filth," Hilda said evenly. "I could have handled it."

Acier blinked, then chuckled softly. She often forgot that Hilda was more than a maid—she was a battle maid, trained to act as a discreet bodyguard. Despite being younger and weaker than Acier, Hilda could deal with most mundane threats on her own. It was this training that allowed her freedoms most maids could only dream of.

But as Hilda's frown deepened, Acier shook her head. "Forget it. My mood is ruined. Let's just go home."

Hilda hesitated before nodding. She turned toward the unconscious man, the dagger twirling deftly in her fingers. "One moment, my Lady." This pig needs to pay for ruining your day. I won't kill him, but taking his other eye should suffice.

"Hilda." Acier's sharp tone froze her mid-step.

Turning back, Hilda saw Acier's no-nonsense expression.

"I said, let's go home." Her tone brooked no argument.

Hilda paused, then gave a deep curtsy. "Of course, Princess."

The formal address caused nearby onlookers, already gaping at the scene, to gape further. But Acier ignored their stares, turning on her heel and walking toward the hill that led back to the noble realm and royal capital.

Hilda followed closely, the dagger slipping back into its sheath as she matched her young mistress's stride.

—

House Silva, Acier's Bedroom

"You wished to see me, Young Lady?" The head butler, Alfred, bowed deeply as he entered Acier's room. She sat perched on a stool in front of her ornate makeup stand, the large mirror reflecting her calm expression.

Acier had returned to the estate earlier than expected, in time for lunch. This unanticipated promptness had filled her grandfather with pride. He had even granted her permission to continue her trips to Kikka until her birthday ceremony—provided she always returned in time for lunch.

The unexpected blessing had left Acier overjoyed, though it came with certain restrictions. She had to cease her early morning and late-night training sessions, a condition she had agreed to—somewhat. While she planned to pause her early morning sessions, her late-night training would continue, albeit covertly.

With her coming-of-age ceremony fast approaching, she reasoned that postponing her grueling routine until after the event would suffice. For now, there was much to prepare.

After lunch, she had retreated to her room and instructed Hilda to summon Alfred. The seasoned butler now stood before her, awaiting her request.

Acier turned on her stool to face him and inclined her head. "Yes, Alfred, I did. Are you busy at the moment?"

The butler bowed again. "Princess, my duty is to serve the Silva main family before all else. As the heiress of House Silva, your requests take precedence over all but the Master. These are the Old Master's orders."

Acier's smile softened. She opened a drawer at her side and pulled out a small white canvas. "Thank you, Alfred," she said, handing it to him. "I have a task for you."

Alfred accepted the canvas, his practiced demeanor masking his curiosity. "What would you have me do, Princess?"

Acier leaned forward slightly, her silver hair shimmering as it caught the light. "I want you to use House Silva's resources to find everything you can about the boy in this painting. His name, age, ancestry, likes, dislikes—his entire story. Compile it into a folder and deliver it to me by tonight."

Alfred's expression froze for a moment as he turned the canvas to examine the portrait. His practiced composure faltered, his thoughts swirling in shock.

It's this child... How could Lady Acier have crossed paths with him?!

He lowered the canvas and glanced at Acier, whose nonchalant facade barely concealed the nervous anticipation in her eyes. She twirled a lock of silver hair between her fingers, her voice light yet probing.

"Will that be a problem?"

Alfred slipped effortlessly into his signature smile, the one that masked even the most unsettling of truths. "Not at all, Princess. I'll see what I can uncover."

Acier's face lit up with a radiant smile. "Thank you, Alfred!" She paused, fiddling with her thumbs, before continuing in a softer voice. "This is a private commission, understand? It need not be shared with anyone."

Her meaning was clear. This was not to reach the ears of her grandfather, father, or mother.

Alfred suppressed the churn of guilt in his stomach, his smile unwavering as he nodded. "Of course, Princess. This will stay between you and me."

The gratitude that flashed across Acier's face only deepened Alfred's sense of self-loathing. Yet he held firm, bowing once more before retreating from the room, the canvas clutched tightly in his hands.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Acier let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her heart still fluttering with a mix of excitement and apprehension.

—

House Silva, Nathaniel's Office

In the historical office reserved for the patriarchs of House Silva, Nathaniel sat at his grand mahogany desk, the weight of centuries of legacy etched into its surface. His gaze was fixed on the portrait in his hand, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he set the painting down and raised his steely eyes to Alfred, who stood upright before him, arms clasped behind his back.

Tap, tap, tap. The rhythmic sound of Nathaniel's knuckles against the desk punctuated the silence that hung heavily in the room. Minutes passed before he finally spoke, his tone cool and deliberate.

"How did my daughter become acquainted with this child?"

Alfred bowed deeply, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "Master, I consulted our loyalists among the barrier mages. They informed me that the Lady struck the boy on the jaw shortly after she stormed out of the manor during breakfast."

Nathaniel's expression remained unchanged, his voice just as devoid of emotion. "And then?"

Still bowing, Alfred continued. "Lady Acier attempted to respond, but the boy turned away without a word and left. It may be that his indifference piqued her curiosity, as she is unaccustomed to figures—particularly men—desperate to seek her favor."

Nathaniel's glare sharpened, silencing the butler mid-thought. "I do not need speculation, Alfred. Stick to the facts."

Alfred swallowed hard and resumed. "Forgive me, Master. Shortly after, the Princess's maid accompanied Lady Acier on a trip outside, with the Old Master's blessing. According to our spies in Kikka, the Lady used the excursion as a pretext to track and observe the boy. She commissioned a painting of him from the banished artist Boismortier, known for his scandalous affair with Lady Lugner. She then returned to the castle ahead of schedule after a sex trafficker attempted to capture her and her maid."

At last, a flicker of emotion crossed Nathaniel's face. His voice turned icy. "How was the pig dealt with?"

"Chopped into pieces and disposed of, sir," Alfred replied without hesitation.

A brief glint of satisfaction flashed in Nathaniel's eyes, only to be extinguished by Alfred's next words.

"Should I have the boy disposed of as well?"

Nathaniel's demeanor turned glacial, and his gaze pinned Alfred with a warning. "We have discussed this before, Alfred. Unless the boy acts against us, no harm shall come to him."

Alfred clenched his fists, his voice tinged with frustration. "Forgive me, my lord, but I must voice my concern. This decision is reckless. We have hidden his existence from the branch families for years, but they will eventually uncover the truth. If they use him as a political pawn, it could bring ruin upon your family."

His voice grew more urgent. "Master, that boy is a liability—he must be eliminated—"

"Pennyworth." Nathaniel's voice was a sharp blade, cutting Alfred off. He rarely used the butler's last name, and when he did, it signaled true fury.

Nathaniel pointed a finger at Alfred, his tone venomous. "Let me be perfectly clear: you are not to touch that boy. If any misfortune befalls him, I will hold you personally accountable. Am I understood?"

Alfred stiffened, bowing his head low. "Yes, my lord. Forgive me."

Nathaniel sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "My family is not so fragile that politics or one boy can topple us. And even if it were..." He trailed off, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling.

"...That is the punishment for our sins."

Alfred hesitated, his expression conflicted, but Nathaniel spoke again before he could reply.

"Acier is the heiress of this House. If she requests information—especially concerning someone who is, in essence, part of our House—then it is her right to have it. Provide her with what she seeks."

Alfred froze, his voice uncertain. "All of it, my lord?"

Nathaniel shook his head. "There are truths that cannot be spoken, particularly those tied to that incident. Exclude or obscure those details as necessary."

Alfred bowed deeply. "Of course, my lord."

Turning to leave, Alfred reached the door but stopped in his tracks as Nathaniel's voice cut through the silence once more.

"Do not inform anyone of this—not my wife, not my father. No one."

Alfred turned back and bowed again. "Understood, my lord."

As the butler exited, closing the door behind him, Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting to the window.

He rose, walking to the tall panes, and looked out over the sprawling estate. His eyes lingered on the distant edge of the property, where the forest blurred into the horizon.

He sighed deeply, his hands clasped behind his back, before returning to his desk. Lowering himself into his chair, he picked up his quill and resumed his paperwork, though his mind lingered elsewhere.

Author's Note:

[1] As always feel free to join the discord at: https://discord.gg/s3MME8X8ar