The heavy thud of Athel's training boots echoed against the polished marble as he followed the unwavering silhouette of the head servant. Hamlet moved with a precision that bordered on the mechanical, his spine a perfectly straight line despite the decades of service he carried.
"Hamlet," Athel began, his voice still slightly breathless from the spar. "Why does the Lord want to see me? Did I do something wrong during the drills?"
The head servant didn't break his stride, but his voice carried a rare note of reassurance. "Do not fret, Young Master. The Lord appears to be in an exceptionally fine mood today."
Athel frowned, the title rubbing against his commoner sensibilities like coarse wool. "Why do you insist on calling me that? I'm not his son. I'm not even a distant cousin. I'm just a student from the fringes."
Hamlet let out a soft, dry chuckle that didn't disturb his perfect posture. "In time, you will understand, Young Master. Perspective is a curious thing."
They reached the familiar mahogany doors of the study. Hamlet knocked three times, a sharp, measured cadence, before announcing their presence. "My Lord, it is Hamlet. I have brought the Young Master as requested."
"Bring him in." The voice from within was as stern and resonant as a mountain bell.
The doors swung open to reveal Leyhwin standing beside his desk, illuminated by the soft glow of a mana-lamp. He was intently reading a scroll that looked far too expensive for common eyes, the vellum edged in gold leaf. He looked up as Athel entered. "How was your time with Orlo today?"
"The same as always," Athel replied, wiping a stray smudge of dirt from his forearm. "Though I did manage to land a solid blow before he overwhelmed me with that spinning technique."
The Count chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. He gestured for Hamlet to leave. The head servant bowed deeply to his master, but as he turned to exit, his gaze met Athel's. For a fleeting second, the stone-cold mask broke into a genuine smile. Athel stood frozen in confusion, in a year of living under the same roof, he had never seen the calculative Hamlet show such warmth.
Leyhwin noticed the boy's bewilderment and let out a hearty laugh. "Do not look so haunted, Athel. It simply means Hamlet deems you a worthy addition to this household. He likes you—a rare feat, I assure you."
"I see..." Athel murmured, though he still felt off-balance. "So, why have I been summoned?"
Without a word, the Count released the scroll. It hovered in the air for a moment before darting toward Athel, its edges shimmering with a faint, sapphire-blue layer of mana. Athel caught it mid-air, immediately noting the weight and quality of the parchment. The wax seal was intricate, bearing an emblem that looked suspiciously royal.
"Open it," Leyhwin commanded.
Athel broke the seal. The handwriting was elegant, a stark contrast to the rough notices he used to read on the village boards in Oaklands. He scanned the text, his lips moving silently as he processed the formal language.
"It's an invitation… from the Royal Academy?" He looked up, his feet pacing a small, nervous circle on the rug. "It says I've been admitted to the capital's academy as a ward of the Rodwell household. But I thought the Academy was strictly for the high nobility. And master… what does 'vassal' mean in this context?"
Leyhwin leaned against his desk, his expression softening. "I have no desire to cage you here forever, Athel. You need to see the world beyond these marshes to truly find your bearings. As for being a 'vassal'… it is a formal term of the court. In simpler words, it means you are a part of this house. You are family."
Athel scratched his chin, his face scrunched in a mask of confusion. "But Master, I'm a farmer. My origins are as common as the dirt in the cotton fields. The other students will know—"
The Count's hand snapped up, cutting the air to silence Athel's doubts.
"Enough of those spineless thoughts," Leyhwin said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute authority. "You are my student. That alone makes you the equivalent of any high-born brat in the capital. I have pulled the necessary strings. From this moment forward, your name is recorded in the royal registry as Athel Rodwell."
Athel stood perfectly still, the words echoing in his mind. The silence stretched until the realization finally crashed over him like a wave. "Wait… so I'm a noble now? A real noble?"
"Hahaha!" Leyhwin's laughter shook the bookshelves. "You catch on eventually, it seems! You have the talent of a genius but the common sense of a mule. Yes, Athel. This is your opportunity to build connections and find peers of your own age."
The Count turned to a high shelf, his hand glowing as he used his levitation magic to retrieve a particularly thick, leather-bound volume. It landed on the desk with a heavy thud.
"Take this. Consider it your final assignment before you depart. It is a comprehensive guide to the nobility of Rividia—their houses, their politics, and their etiquette. I have taught you how to swing a sword and weave mana, but I have neglected your tongue and your manners. You have one month before the new semester begins. Do not embarrass the name Rodwell."