Mikhail's posture was impeccable as he sat alone in the grand dining room with the morning light spilling over him like liquid gold. The spread before him was simple yet meticulously arranged—porcelain plates bearing thin slices of exquisite Kubota ham, two perfectly fried eggs, and a scattering of fresh berries glistening like little gems. A solitary figure of aristocracy, he brought the fork to his lips with an elegance born of blue blood.
Without warning, a sharp pain lanced through his frontal lobe mid-bite, and his utensils clattered against the porcelain, a stark dissonance in the tranquil morning as food tumbled to the floor. Mikhail leaned forward, a grimace carving through his composed façade.
Pascal, ever watchful, was at his side in a heartbeat, concern creasing his otherwise impassive features. “Your grace,” he uttered, only to be silenced by Mikhail's swift, dismissive gesture.
“I am fine. Just a passing migraine, is all,” Mikhail asserted, though the tremor in his voice betrayed the lie. Pascal hovered a moment longer, the storm of worry in his eyes clashing with his usual stoic demeanor.
Mikhail picked up his fork again, and with each poised bite, the discomfort lingered like a shadow draped over his shoulders. He was raised to conceal any ailment, to dine with the seamless choreography taught to those of noble birth, yet the ham lost its flavor, the berries their sweetness. Despite the duke's stoicism, Pascal knew Mikhail's performance was for an audience of duty alone.
Finally conceding to his body's protests, Mikhail dabbed at the corners of his mouth with an ivory napkin, its edges adorned with an intricate blue embroidery of roses. Standing with a grace that belied his inner turmoil, he acknowledged Pascal with a nod, and he walked out of the grand dining hall.
The journey from the dining hall to his study was like a trek through time. Each step echoed against the ancient stone walls, resonating with the weight of centuries. The portraits that hung on the walls seemed to watch him, their stoic expressions a testament to the strength and resilience of the North.
The Northern Territory was the final piece in the war against Elirius and his horde. Its allegiance with Lumicrestia secured their victory, and because of this, the North could retain a level of independence not known by the other conquered lands. Though the King of Lumicrestia still ruled them, they were allowed to handle any concerns however they wished, without royal involvement.
As Mikhail continued navigating through the maze of corridors, a burst of distant chatter broke his contemplation. Laced with excitement, two maids' voices reached him from around the next corner.
Mikhail halted in the grand corridor, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the ornate carpets that cushioned the stone floors. He lingered just shy of the corner, the murmur of the maids' voices a delicate intrusion.
“Good looks must be hereditary,” one of them whispered, the admiration in her tone clear even at a distance.
Mikhail's gaze instinctively drifted upward to the line of ancestral portraits that graced the walls. They were more than mere images; they were a gallery of history, each frame heavy with the burden of legacy. The painted eyes of the previous Northern Kings and eventual Dukes of the North watched over him, their features chiseled and striking even on canvas. He acknowledged silently, if only to the hush of the hallway, that the maids were right. Although vanity was not in his nature, Mikhail was not blind to his reflection nor to the stir his presence—and Belmont's—caused when they strode through any room. It was an unsettling sort of theater that played out each time and was one of the many reasons they shunned the incessant pomp of the capital, returning only when they received a royal summons that they could not ignore.
The Aster brothers were used to it, especially when Pascal hired new staff and brought fresh-faced maids. They would often halt mid-step, their tasks forgotten, as they gawked at the brothers while they roamed the vast estate. With time, though, their infatuation would bloom into a fierce loyalty. The maids became their silent sentinels, ensuring that the Aster brothers were insulated from the often unwanted advances and awkward intrusions of visiting noblewomen who found their way to the estate's doorsteps.
The maids’ voices dwindled to nothingness as they disappeared into another wing of the sprawling mansion. Their departure ushered back the silence, a stark contrast to the warm murmurs of before, and Mikhail stepped away from the wall of ancestors. He proceeded down the hall, the opulence around him a mere backdrop to his thoughts. Heavy velvet drapes hung from the tall windows, the morning light filtering through and casting dancing patterns on the floor, the air perfumed with a subtle blend of beeswax and the soft scent of fresh flowers.
The heavy oak door to Mikhail's study creaked open as he entered. Theo, perched like an erudite raven upon one of the plush, blue velvet couches, did not bother to lift his gaze from the red leather tome cradled in his hands.
"Finished with your breakfast so soon, your Grace?" he quipped, the words leaping off his tongue with a casualness that contradicted the formality of his title.
Mikhail, crossing the threshold, allowed no response to escape his lips. He advanced toward his desk, an imposing slab of mahogany that had borne the weight of many ducal decisions. The air around Theo seemed to vibrate with unspoken knowledge. Mikhail understood that his earlier discomfort at breakfast would not have gone unnoticed by the man who always seemed to catch whispers before they became rumors.
Theo had a peculiar knack for being the first to know anything that transpired within the mansion's walls. It was a trait that, when Mikhail had ascended to the role of Duke, had prompted him to delve into the secrets of the estate, probing into the network of hidden passages and concealed alcoves he suspected Theo of utilizing to his advantage.
Ever meticulous, Theo had documented these mysteries with the precision of a cartographer, producing a portfolio replete with maps and notes that divulged the mansion's most clandestine corners. Out of curiosity and a need to measure his steward's efficiency, Mikhail poured over these revelations, pacing the corridors and passageways himself, stopwatch in hand, gauging the span it took to traverse the arcane shortcuts of the mansion.
In those silent walks, trailed by the whispers of his ancestors, Mikhail had come to understand the depth of Theo's dedication. The man was not just a steward but a silent guardian, an ever-present wraith gliding through the shadows of the mansion with a loyalty that was as much a part of him as the blood that coursed through his veins.
Conceding that Theo's omnipresence was not solely borne of secret routes but of a sheer commitment to his duties, Mikhail could not help but admire the steward's devotion. Theo was indeed a man who lived for his role, ensconced in the fabric of the mansion, always a step ahead, perpetually everywhere, yet unseen, a master of the art of silent observation and unspoken understanding.
The silence between them hung briefly before Mikhail sank into his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “It was a brief migraine,” he confessed, “Normal after the convergence spell.”
Only then did Theo look up, his gaze sharp and questioning, but Mikhail deflected with a weary hand gesture. With the book closed, Theo rose and traversed the room to return it to its rightful place among the myriad spines lining the shelves. The bookcase was a towering structure, its shelves a vault of knowledge that Mikhail often thought mirrored the complex inner workings of Theo's mind.
“Is there some news that you were delivering, Theo?” Mikhail’s tone was laced with a hint of confusion as the young man lingered by the shelf, his fingers trailing over the titles as though he were in a public library.
“Lady Granville wishes for you and Lord Belmont to visit her,” Theo finally responded, his back still turned.
“When does she want us to visit?”
“At your earliest convenience, your Grace.”
Mikhail waited, his intuition telling him there was more to the message. Theo adjusted his glasses—a telltale sign of forthcoming elaboration—and the corners of his mouth quirked up in an almost imperceptible smile.
“Her ladyship's exact words were, ‘Tell those two to come when they deign it is time to visit their poor lonely mother. If they are too busy to visit their only family, then I will come to them.’”
A soft chuckle escaped Mikhail. That was precisely the dramatic declaration he'd expect from Lady Granville. The sort of remark painted a vivid picture of the woman behind it: formidable, fiercely loving, and with an endearing and exasperating theatrical flair. The chuckle was a brief surrender to the warmth of family ties, a momentary lapse in the Duke's usually impassive façade, and it echoed softly in the grandeur of his study.
The rhythmic tapping against the window pane drew the attention of both men to the unexpected visitor. The raven, with its feathers a glossy black, was perched with an almost regal air on the other side of the glass.
Why is the raven back so soon?
Mikhail's brow furrowed in puzzlement, and with a fluid motion, he rose and opened the window, allowing the bird to swoop inside gracefully, settling upon the mahogany desk with an air of importance.
With a practiced motion, Mikhail pressed the hidden sigil nestled within the raven's head. The bird remained eerily still as its back feathers unfurled like the pages of an ancient tome, and Belmont's unexpected and urgent voice echoed from within. Theo's usually composed demeanor slipping mirrored Mikhail's shock at hearing the younger Aster brother's voice emanating from the creature.
The message was a litany of requests for herbs and tinctures, each item spoken with an undercurrent of haste. Theo, ever the meticulous one, scribbled the list onto a notepad pulled from the depths of his suit pocket, his pen dancing across the paper with a sense of urgency.
"They're preparing sleeping draughts," Theo observed as the message concluded. The raven, its task completed, retracted its feathers in a fluid motion and returned to its ordinary appearance.
Mikhail remained silent; the earlier pounding in his head had returned at the raven's sigil's touch; a throbbing echo clouded his thoughts. With a keenness that missed little, Theo noted Mikhail's subtle grimace of discomfort.
"I'll procure the items and ensure their swift delivery," Theo offered with a blend of concern and efficiency.
Mikhail's response was a mere nod; his words were lost in the tide of pain that washed over him. As Theo departed, the door closing softly behind him, Mikhail sank back into the embrace of his leather armchair. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose to alleviate the relentless pressure.
What is happening to me?
The question circled in his mind like a persistent moth. His eyelids grew heavy, and he surrendered to the exhaustion that enveloped him. Mikhail slowly drifted into a fitful slumber at his desk, the raven standing sentinel in the quiet room.
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