Hamlet stepped forward, his gloved hands gripping the handles of the massive oak doors. With a silent, effortless heave, he swung them open, revealing the heart of the Rodwell estate.
"Inside, a small army of butlers and maids stood on standby, their heels clicking against the polished marble as they formed a perfect, symmetrical line. To a commoner like Athel, the foyer felt less like a home and more like a cathedral. A grand staircase dominated the center of the hall, spiraling upward toward the higher floors like a stone serpent. Beneath it, a plush red carpet bled out across the floor, stretching into the various wings of the mansion.
"Excuse me, Mister Hamlet," Octavia whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she looked at the empty, cavernous space. "But... why are we the only ones here? There were so many others in the wagons. Other children. Other families."
Hamlet stopped. He turned slowly, his expression as unreadable as a mask of porcelain. "My apologies, Lady Octavia, but such inquiries are beyond my station. That is a question intended for the Count himself, not for a humble servant like me."
He gestured for them to continue. They walked past the rows of servants, all of whom kept their heads bowed in a gesture of absolute submission. Despite his limp and the throbbing pain in his head, Athel kept his senses on high alert.
They ascended to the second floor, walking through a massive gallery filled with gilded furniture and portraits that seemed to watch them with painted eyes. Most were depictions of stoic men in armor, but one frame stood out. The canvas had been shredded, the paint hanging in jagged strips. Only the nameplate at the bottom remained intact. Igar Valeska.
Athel stopped, his gaze lingering on the ruined image of the former Baron, the man King Yvenius had executed in the capital sixteen years ago.
"Baron Valeska," Hamlet noted, his voice dropping an octave. "A man who chose the path of treason and met his end at the King's own hand."
The butler turned his attention to Athel's battered state, his eyes softening just a fraction, the first sign of humanity he had shown. "Once your audience with the Lord is concluded, we shall tend to your wounds properly."
"No, child. I insisted. You'll understand once you've met the lord." Hamlet cut his response but rather than his usual stoic presence, he have a tiny bit of warmth in his eyes when saying that.
"There's no need, Mister Hamlet," Athel grunted, wiping a smear of blood from his lip. "I'm used to—"
"No, child. I insist," Hamlet interrupted. The stoic mask slipped for a brief second, revealing a flicker of genuine warmth. "You will understand why once you have met the Lord."
They reached a set of rustic, heavy wooden doors at the end of the hall. Hamlet knocked three times, a sharp, rhythmic sound. "My Lord, the guests have arrived."
"Let them in," a voice responded. It was deep, calm, and carried a weight of authority that didn't need to shout to be heard.
As the doors swung open, the scent of expensive tea and aged parchment wafted out. The room was a scholar's sanctuary, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, and a massive window at the far end looked out over the Northern Marches. In front of the window sat a large desk cluttered with maps and scrolls. A silhouette sat behind the desk, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun.
"Sit down," the figure commanded.
Hamlet gestured toward two velvet-lined chairs before stepping back and closing the door, leaving Athel and Octavia alone with the master of the North.
The silence was suffocating. Athel felt the urge to protect, to strike, to do anything other than sit in this silent luxury. He stepped forward, putting himself between the desk and his mother. He dropped to his knees, bowing his head so low it hit the floor with a dull thud.
"Greetings, My Lord," Athel said, his voice thick with emotion. "I am Athel, son of Octavia. I don't know what we've done to be brought here, but please... if there is a punishment to be had, let it fall on me. Spare my mother. Let her go back to the fields."
A moment of silence followed. Then, the Count stood up. With a simple, casual flick of his wrist, a ripple of wave-like translucent substance swept through the room. Athel felt an invisible force catch his shoulders, physically hoisting him up until he was standing perfectly straight.
"I am not here to punish you, child," the man said.
The Count stepped out from behind the desk, revealing himself. He was a middle-aged man who exuded an aura of raw, masculine power. His hair was a striking shade of bluish-silver, and his pupils were a startling, pearly white. He was clad in a magnificent suit draped with a heavy fur robe, making him look even broader than the knights Athel had encountered.
Yet, despite his imposing size, his expression was soft.
"I am Leyhwin Rodwell," he said. His voice was a gentle contrast to the brutality Athel had expected from a man of his status. "As you can see, I am the Count of this territory."
He walked closer, his white eyes searching Athel's emerald ones. "Let us skip the pleasantries and speak of the truth. The reason I personally requested your presence here, the reason you were separated from the others, is because you, Athel, are very much like me."