"Well... I can't remain passive."
His eyes darkened with resolve.
"The system's mission isn't just about surviving."
"It's about capturing the Duchy."
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
Renold stepped in, composed as always—followed by ten maids, each more polished and elegant than the last.
Kael straightened, smoothing his expression, hiding any trace of the cold plotting he'd been doing just moments earlier.
Renold bowed.
"Young Master.
It has been a full day.
A noble of your standing should not remain unattended."
He gestured with a gloved hand toward the line of maids.
"Please select one from these.
They are loyal to the House, Master."
Kael looked them over, slowly.
They were beautiful, yes.
Graceful, yes.
And completely forgettable.
'Loyal to the House', he repeated in his mind, lips curving in the faintest of smirks.
'Of course they are,' he thought.
'Loyal to the House. Not to me.'
Kael turned to Renold and said, quite plainly,
"I don't want any of them."
Renold blinked, caught mid-thought.
"You… don't?"
He glanced at the carefully arranged group before them—elegant, poised, practically glowing in candlelight.
The finest selection he could muster, and Kael dismissed them like overripe fruit at market.
"They'll remind me of Lana," Kael continued, voice distant.
"And her promise."
The moment Kael said promise, Renold went quiet.
Completely quiet.
Last night's memory rushed back.
He hadn't slept at all.
Not because of Lana's death—but because of what he had said.
'I'll give it to you myself, if I have to.'
That line kept repeating in Renold's head like a curse.
He had made a fool of himself yesterday, and the maids and butlers now cast him wary, curious glances.
Their silent judgment weighed heavily on him, making each step feel more burdensome than the last.
His life was far from easy.
Still, he pressed on, striving to maintain composure.
"Master," he began cautiously,
"The Duke will be displeased upon his return from the hunt—especially if your second brother accompanies him."
Kael sighed, the sound slow and heavy, betraying his weariness more than his words ever could.
"Then take me to the slave market."
Renold's breath caught.
"Master, but—"
Kael snapped sharply,
"Do you dare defy me?"
The sudden sharpness in his tone stunned everyone.
For the first time, Renold saw the Third Young Master differently.
The usual reserved, distant Kaelion—who never met anyone's gaze—was gone.
Instead, a new presence stood before them: steady, unyielding, and strangely unfamiliar.
The maids exchanged uncertain looks, sensing the change too.
A flicker of doubt crossed Renold's mind.
Was this really Kael? Or someone else wearing his face?
But he quickly dismissed the thought.
People change after loss.
Lana's death must have altered him—changed him in ways none of them could yet understand....
Kael, blissfully unaware that he was in the midst of an identity crisis, thought to himself,
'Come on, let's just go bastard'
At least the magic contract would be signed with him—and the slaves would be bound to him only, not the House.
Soon, Renold nodded quickly.
"Yes, Master. I will prepare the carriage right away."
Soon, Kael found himself sunk into the plush interior of the House's black-lacquered carriage, the kind that always smelled faintly of expensive leather and colder judgment.
Across from him, Renold sat stiffly.
Silent, of course.
Possibly rehearsing apologies for later or regretting being born into a life of aristocratic babysitting—who could say.
Kael didn't bother with small talk.
Instead, he turned to the window.
Outside, the city unfolded like a slightly cursed painting.
A tailor used thread that danced through the air by itself, stitching coats midair while he sipped wine.
A woman argued with a floating laundry basket that refused to release her underwear.
Nearby, a man accidentally sneezed sparks into his own beard and calmly conjured a bucket to extinguish himself—clearly not the first time.
Typical day.
His eyes landed on a familiar sight: a street magician performing for children—conjuring glowing doves, juggling orbs of fire, the usual low-budget sorcery.
The kids clapped and squealed.
One child inched forward, reaching for a floating spark.
The uncle smiled too widely.
....Then he grabbed the child.
And bolted.
For a moment, the scene froze—Kael blinked.
Then came the shouting.
Two guards, clearly not paid enough for this, tore after the man.
One tripped on a levitating chicken.
The other got clotheslined by the stolen child's enchanted backpack, which screamed, "Stranger danger!" in three languages.
Kael, expression unreadable, slowly reached up.
And shut the carriage window.
Firmly.
Then leaned back with a sigh.
"I swear to the gods," he muttered, "I'm never watching another free magic show again."
Renold didn't react.
Just the barest flicker of a breath.
Kael didn't need a reply.
He stared at the velvet ceiling and thought grimly,
And people wonder why I'm like this.
Soon, the carriage rolled to a halt with a soft whine of mana gears winding down.
Outside, the city's hum dimmed—replaced by something lower, heavier.
The kind of sound that stuck to your ribs. A place where sunlight came to die.
Renold stepped out first, every motion crisp, coat immaculate, gloves tugged with surgical care.
He turned back.
"Master."
Kael followed, boots clicking against stone slick with the memory of too many bad decisions.
The slave market yawned before him—wide, ugly, and unapologetic.
If the upper city was all gleaming towers and enchanted fountains, this place was the festering drainpipe beneath it.
Iron cages stretched in rows, some stacked, some chained to poles like livestock pens.
The enchantments etched into them flickered like tired candle flames—barely suppressing, barely containing.
And the smell—gods, the smell.
Smoke. Sweat.
And that acid tang of fear that had settled deep into the stones.
Kael walked slowly, hands in pockets, as if browsing a flower stall instead of wading through misery.
The stone underfoot was worn smooth, but stained black in places that whispered better-left-unknown stories.
The first vendor approached with the speed of a rat spotting a breadcrumb.
Short. Round.
Gold rings on every finger like a child playing merchant, and a smile like he'd sold worse things than people.
"Looking for muscle, my lord?" he wheezed, gesturing at a cage where something snored like thunder.
"Got a half-ogre in the back. Temper, sure, but a collar fixes that.
Strong as an ox. Dumber than one, too."
Kael didn't blink.
"Charming.
Does he come with a drool bucket, or is that sold separately?"
The vendor's grin twitched.
Behind him, Renold coughed.
Politely. Desperately.
Kael rolled his eyes and moved on, muttering,
"One vendor in, and I already need a bath."