"Leon's heart surged with joy when his father finally granted permission to attend the academy. At last, the world beyond the barony lay within reach. But the words that followed shattered his excitement, leaving his hopes in ruins."
Leon's father folded his arms, his voice steady. "Leon, you'll be traveling with George Brown, the eldest young master. He's bound for the academy this year."
Marie, who had been quietly listening, lifted her gaze. Her brow furrowed as she thought aloud. "Wait… the young lord is eighteen now, isn't he? Does that mean he's entering through the exam too?"
Leon's heart gave a hopeful leap at her words. The exam was the path of merit, the one he had dreamed of proving himself through. For a moment, he imagined standing shoulder to shoulder with nobles, his place earned by skill alone.
But his father's reply cut through the fantasy. He shook his head firmly. "No, Marie. He's taking two knight candidates with him — that's how he fills his noble quota."
The words landed heavy. Leon's brief spark of pride dimmed, replaced by the familiar weight of reality. George Brown wasn't competing for a place; he was guaranteed one by blood. Leon pressed his lips together, swallowing the sting. The academy was opening its gates to him at last, but not in the way he had once envisioned.
Allan leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting between his wife and son. His tone carried the weight of years spent navigating the world's rules.
"Listen carefully. There are four ways into the academy, each shaped by birth, coin, or favor."
He raised a finger. "First, the path of gold. Those with wealth simply pay the fees merchants and ambitious commoners buy their children's futures, no matter the cost."
A second finger joined the first. "Then comes the trial of merit. Thousands sit for the entrance exam each year, but only the brightest earn their place as commoner students. It is the hardest road, but also the proudest."
His hand shifted, a third finger extended. "The patron's hand. Some are lifted by powerful sponsors or knightly orders. A letter of recommendation opens the gates, but every word is written in invisible ink — promises of service owed in the years to come."
Finally, his hand closed into a fist, save for one finger. "And last, the noble's right. Bloodlines alone secure this path. Even struggling houses can send their heirs without paying the crushing fees. But the quota is strict: two knight candidates per noble, no more. It keeps the halls from overflowing with private retinues, while still protecting the dignity of lesser houses."
Allan's voice softened as he lowered his hand. "These are the four doors, Leon. Each one opens differently, but all lead to the same place — the Royal knight academy."
Listening to his father's words, Leon's thoughts drifted back to George Brown and the days he had spent at the baron's mansion as a butler-in-training.
George Brown, the baron's eldest son, was an heir in name only — a failure by every measure. Where the baron ruled with warmth, treating his people as family, George ruled through fear. He strutted through town with two sycophants at his side, men who cheered his every foolish whim. The townsfolk endured his petty tyranny only because he clung to one shred of restraint: he never harmed children, nor did he harass women.
Even so, Leon wanted nothing to do with George or his family. To him, the baron's estate was a nest of madness. Two years earlier, his grandfather had brought him there to train as a future replacement, but the entire endeavor had collapsed into disaster.
At the time, Leon was drowning in grief. His master had died from an old, lingering injury, and the loss had hollowed him out. He withdrew into himself, listless and broken, barely leaving his room. Hoping a change of scenery might mend him, his parents sent him to stay with his grandparents. His grandparents doted on him, and life was peaceful—until the incident.
One afternoon, Leon's grandfather appeared with a bundle of clothes the baron had long since outgrown. For a commoner, second-hand noble wear was a treasure beyond measure, finer than anything stitched from rough homespun. Leon hesitated at first, but curiosity won. He shaved away his scruff, dressed, and turned to the mirror.
The reflection startled him. Silver hair framed his face, his deep blue eyes gleamed, and the tailored fabric sharpened every line of his noble features. He looked less like a village boy and more like a young lord stepping straight from the capital.
His grandfather's eyes lit with pride. "You see? You were born for more than this," he declared, already plotting. Without delay, he marched Leon to the baron's estate, determined to groom him as his successor.
From the moment Leon stepped through the front gates, he had become an unwilling spectacle. Maidservants lingered in hallways just to steal a glance, whispering behind their hands. Far worse, Evelyn, the baron's daughter, had taken an instant liking to him — relentless, unshakable, and loud enough for the entire estate to hear.
Three days of this had sharpened Leon's instincts into a sixth sense. He could feel her presence before she appeared, a prickle at the back of his neck whenever she was near.
Now, as he hurried down the grand arched corridor, he ducked behind a stone pillar, heart pounding. Two maidservants passed by, giggling, and he smoothed down the cuffs of the baron's second-hand jacket — the cursed jacket that had ruined his life. He peeked around the marble edge. The corridor was clear.
He exhaled, took two cautious steps forward—
"There you are, my future husband!"
Leon flinched so hard his elbow cracked against the wall. Evelyn emerged from behind a decorative suit of armor, her silks whispering as she clasped her hands together. Her eyes gleamed with predatory affection, sharp as an imperial hawk sighting prey.
"Lady Evelyn," Leon stammered, backing up until the cold stone pressed against his spine. His hands rose in surrender. "I was just… looking for your father. Official business. Successor duties. Very dry, very boring—"
"Oh, let Father wait," Evelyn waved a dismissive hand, stepping closer. "I've been reviewing the estate's registry. Since you look like a prince from the capital and carry yourself with such quiet dignity, I've decided we should have three children. Two boys and a girl. Or three girls! I'm flexible."
"Three—" Leon choked. "Lady Evelyn, I am a commoner! Two weeks ago, I was hauling sacks of barley in homespun linen!"
"And now you're wearing my father's velvet coat better than he ever did," she countered, leaning in to study his face. "Silver hair, deep blue eyes, cheekbones carved by the gods… Honestly, Leon, it's irresponsible of you to look like that. It's practically an invitation."
The clank of armor echoed down the corridor. Sir Thomas, the lead apprentice knight, rounded the corner with a bouquet of blue roses. His eyes froze on the sight: Evelyn leaning dangerously close, Leon pinned against the wall like a gilded hostage.
The roses trembled in his grip. Jealousy thickened the air.
"Leon," Thomas growled, hand sliding toward his sword. "What… are you doing to Lady Evelyn?"
Leon's eyes darted between Evelyn and Thomas's white-knuckled grip. "Thomas, I swear on my life, I am being held here against my will. Please, challenge me to a duel, win her honor, take her away. I'll even write your victory speech."
"Quiet, Thomas," Evelyn snapped without turning. "The grown-ups are discussing wedding color schemes. Go polish a shield."
Thomas's jaw dropped. The roses fell with a pathetic thud.
"You heard her, Thomas," Leon pleaded, voice cracking as Evelyn adjusted his lapel. "She wants you to polish a shield! Run! Save yourself while you still have your dignity!"
Evelyn tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. "You know, Leon," she whispered loudly enough for the entire hallway to hear, "the more you resist, the more handsome you look."
Leon closed his eyes, cursing his grandfather, the baron, and whoever had tailored the jacket that had doomed him.
And then, as if fate itself wanted to mock him, another suitor appeared — a young noble carrying a lute, strumming a ballad he had clearly rehearsed for Evelyn. He stopped mid-song, staring at Leon with horror.
"Wait… who is that?" the bard demanded, pointing at Leon.
"My fiancé," Evelyn declared proudly.
"Her hostage," Leon corrected desperately.
The bard dropped his lute. Thomas picked up his sword. The maidservants gasped. Evelyn clasped Leon's arm like a prize she refused to surrender.
As if Evelyn's relentless pursuit wasn't enough, Leon had somehow managed to corrupt the baron's youngest son, Peter Brown.
Children absorb everything around them, picking up bad habits far faster than good ones. To young Peter, Leon wasn't just a guest — he was the ultimate role model. Leon's uncanny ability to dodge work, charm his way out of trouble, and redirect chores onto others seemed like wizardry to the boy.
Within days, Peter was a miniature Leon-in-training. He faked coughs and fevers to skip knight drills, fluttered his lashes at his older sister until she reluctantly took over his duties, and even began accepting "bribes" from her in exchange for promising to put in a good word with Leon.
Leon, horrified, tried to undo the damage. "Peter, you can't just pretend to be sick to avoid training. Knights don't skip drills."
Peter grinned, clutching his stomach dramatically. "But Maste Leon, I feel faint… only chocolate cake can restore me!"
Leon buried his face in his hands. "I swear, I didn't teach him that. He just… learned by observation."
The worst came when Peter strutted into the courtyard, puffing out his chest. "I am Leon the Second! From now on, all chores must go through me!"
The servants exchanged looks, half amused, half exasperated. Evelyn, of course, found it adorable. "Oh, Leon, he's just like you! Isn't that precious?"
Leon groaned. "No, Evelyn. It's a disaster. One of me is already too many."
Noticing the chaos brewing in the mansion, Leon's grandfather wasted no time. He packed Leon's bags with the efficiency of a seasoned soldier, muttering under his breath about "mad nobles and their cursed estates." By dawn, Leon was standing at the edge of the village road, his grandfather's hand heavy on his shoulder.
"Two rules, boy," the old man said firmly, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "First — never step foot in that estate again. Second — never shave your face."
Leon blinked. "Never… shave my face?"
His grandfather jabbed a finger at him. "That silver hair and smooth jawline nearly got you married off to a noble girl and murdered by jealous knights. Grow a beard, look ordinary, and stay alive."
Asha, standing nearby, stifled a laugh. "He's right, Leon. You looked like a prince in that velvet coat. No wonder lady Evelyn was ready to plan your children's names."
Leon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "So my punishment for surviving the baron's madhouse is… eternal scruff?"
"Better scruff than scandal," his grandfather retorted. "Besides, a beard will make you look respectable. No one ever fell into romantic chaos because of a beard."
Leon muttered under his breath, "I'll be the first, then."
And with that, he was sent home — banished from the estate, condemned to a lifetime of stubble, and forever haunted by the memory of Evelyn's predatory gleam and Peter's mischievous grin.