Mornings were always the best days in London, with the warm sun shining rays from the east, some soothing rhythmic sounds from the awaking birds, and most especially, the little talks near the room... I loved it. Next to me was Henry, and the flashbacks of the previous night came to me like an overnight forgotten beat. 'scandal', the word alarmed, and from the view through the glamorous window, I would love to state it was around seven or eight in the morning; no one had yet quested for my audience; maybe I was still safe. I lazily left the bed, leaving Henry lying alongside, wore my prestigious, elegant cardigan, checked my face on the old reflection on one of the walls, and left the house. "Hello, Lord Willock " The first guard greeted checking on the paper he held 'London Times' I knew that publishing company so well, A great company indeed. Repling was not the matter at the moment, and so I asked, "What's on your hand?" I knew it was not a polite language but I needed him to tell me. "A paper from London's times." He stated, in a rather fearful and worrisome manner, that of course I knew, I had intimidated him; maybe or the paper had some worrying message. "anything of my interest?" I questioned, disregarding his feeling of inappropriateness, or rather, nervousness. I waited for the answer anxiously, but no response. Anyway, this was still the best response anyone in my position would ever get: "Can I see... please?" I stated. Politeness was never a sound of nobles to their servants, but I wanted to see what was in the news, what was published, and what was set to accompany me in this land. He embarked, or rather stopped, as if rethinking the action he was about to take, and then gave me the paper. A brown, perfectly edited paper with the bolded words of the publishing company, 'The London Times'. I was anxious and nervous at the same time. My eyes grazed at the headline of the paper, one that even that individual who disengaged himself from societal rumors would never refuse to look at. Words written in the most glamorous and storytelling perfection. Words of all perfection: 'Maybe the Duke' It was simple. Maybe a little simple, very simple… Why wouldn't it be? But reading, in an overthinking manner, thoroughly onto the words, through all the parts of the scenario, brought up ancient stories, even those left hidden and buried deep in the greatest and most secretive lands in the nation. Word by word, sentence by sentence, I read... It was not the best reading. It started out as a statement from my father. The Duke of Bravdon, how much he hated marriage until he was forced to inherit the household of his brother. Father hated this story; he always held my hand firm and told me the words in so much pain. I still remember the day when we left the lake and how much of a drunk, wasted man he had turned to become; he barely ate at home, to the extent that I was scared he would one day die and leave me alone with one of my favorite nannies, who never set out to see my father as a duke, for she passed away before father was officially handed over his rights. The story was not any nearer to finishing exposing the naked truth; no... Today it was the Duke, and father, in a better term... A man who always taught me how to be the best man in this harsh society. A man whom I watched drift and change from his love for wrestling to his love for money and family, A man whom I saw drastically shed his black hair and be left with some baldness on his bright white face, a man whom I heard his voice change from the sharpness and toughness of youthfulness to the slowness of old age, was now on the headlines of London. The greatest publishing company had not yet uttered my name, but I knew soon they would. I was still reading the paper; it seemed not to have enough, or rather state enough; it just added and added and added, but my eyes stopped when the words Lady Isla and His Grace Vikings became the next subject. As I was starting to read, a firm hand gripped my left shoulder and snatched the bunch of papers off my hand. "WH…" I wanted to question, but when I turned and saw the eyes of the very owner of this house, Lord Hirvington, "Sir," I stated with a slight bow, showing some respect. I had not realized the little tear that had formed on my eyes as I was reading the quite overwhelming words that exposed my father until I felt the wetness on my cheeks and wiped as fast as I could. A man was never to cry, words every boy grew up knowing. "What did you tell the princess?" The viscount asked in the most, or at least not ranging, voice. I wanted to say nothing, but God knows why, I was never born as the best of liars. I wanted to speak, but for the time being, my throat was dry. I just stared at the aging man in front of me. What would his part of the scandal be? What is it with him that I still don't know? As if debating with himself, he cleared his throat and stated, "Don't you have some work in Lake Tigris?" "Yes, some ships work, but Jaykim is to sort all that out." I replied as fast as possible. "Jaykim is …" "Father's most trusted employee." I stated since I quite understood what he wanted to ask. "I heard you live with some other people." He stated and continued, "Who are they?" "They are father's friend's children; it's a long story. A typical type of deal..." I knew talking about the wrestling father did undercover, especially to the viscount, would be a rather bad deal. "Never knew of Vikings being a deal breaker." I wanted to chuckle after the statement, but I couldn't when we realized we were in the corridor upstairs speaking, when he stated. "Can we go to my library?" The Viscount stated. His library was his working place, that, I knew. I walked fast downstairs as I headed into the room, but I still felt something was up. Something that I did not know, the stares in the room, and the way the viscontess scanned me in a ruthless manner as if wishing I would just leave her sight. Walking in, my eyes fixated on the person seated at the edge of the table, and in one minute, my walls crumbled; father! It was. As I walked towards my father, who was deeply reading the paper, I heard the door shut behind me when I stated, "Father... I meant no harm with my statements. I wasn't sure." I was blurting things out; I wasn't even sure of what I was saying when he looked at me. Those eyes—those eyes that showed me my past and present in a moment—he was sad, truly sad. I heard him breathe deeply as the viscount sat himself on his royal chair, which was separated by the large table from our seats. I sat next to my father and waited for words. I was scared. Maybe scared would be a very light word to use, but I could feel my heart race and beads of sweat form on the palms of my hands. And as you all know, all wizards, royals, peasants, and members of higher social classes have one thing in common. They all had a fear—not a fear of debts or of God, but a fear of shame. I had brought shame to the Duke's name, one that father set down all his businesses to attend to. I would lie if I said I did not let him down. "Willock, what is it? What were your utterance to the princess?" Father asked the same question the Viscount had asked me earlier. "I told her we might be of the same blood." I stated, looking down without facing my father. "Am I of a king's reign?" Father asked, in a more cold tone, that my mind would not understand his emotions. "I did not mean that, father, the Viscount... "As I tried speaking the viscount cut me off, "…and what were my utterances son?" In one word, the viscount's utterances had left me utterly alone. My own words deserved to be taken back, I wanted to, so much… a part of me urged me to but I still remained speechless, as I felt tears try forming on my eyes... "What did the viscount say…?" Father pushed, and this was the moment I couldn't answer. I just felt lost. "What did you tell my boy, Lord Hirlvington?" Father asked, and now I felt the rage; his rage was increasing. I knew this man. Father, in his utmost rage, was the type who would turn into an animal; if killing were to be, he would not even think for a second, "Father, my words..." "Shut up, Vikings!" Father sighed, trying to control his anger. "Is he now going to be your boy?" The viscount stated this, and I felt the temperature of the room change. Father's face turned slightly red, and his bloodshot eyes glared at the viscount; the viscount had touched the most untouchable part of him. I needed to do something, but what I did not understand was how this conversation had already turned into two. They seemed to have an unbearable pat that they were not through with. "Isn't he my son?" Father asked, still staring at the relaxing Viscount. "He deserved the truth, Vikings." The viscount stated, and father retorted, "Which truth is greater than what he already knows?" "Why didn't you tell him about us?" "What for, Lord Hirlvington?" "We were family too." "He had a full family; he needed no other; your wife contempts him." "Leave my wife out of this!" "Aren't we talking about the family's brother?" "And you think yours loved him?" "Why? Didn't it?" "Should there be more in these London times than there is written today, my dear Vikings? Wasn't he the boy who was always scandalized about his roots?" "Are you questioning my roots?" "No. He does not belong to your roots." "Well, who does he belong to? Yours?" "He is my sister's child. My nephew, for Christ's sake, Duke of Bravdon." "Did you ever treat him like a nephew or like a servant? Did you take him to such...?" As the father was about to reveal something, the viscount grabbed one of the books and threw it to him, and suddenly this turned into a fight between two aging men. My small body would not take the weight of stopping the two, and so I ran out as fast as I could to call the nearest guards. Father was once a great fighter; he easily made the Viscount tremble and enjoy his fists beneath him when the Viscontess shouted in a cry, "Please stoooooppp." And with that, he stopped, looked at me and the door, and I knew what he meant, and then stated, "The London Times is to be next. And everyone respects him, for Willlock becomes the Duke of Bravdon." And with that, we left, as I gave my father my cloth to wipe the blood off his bruises.