Sophia is a blonde girl, not conventionally pretty, yet exudes remarkable gentleness.
Eighteen-year-old Sophia arrived at Shelby Manor when Artel was merely three years old.
In the blink of an eye, eight years have swiftly passed.
"Good morning, Master Artel."
Sophia entered the room, placing the clothes she carried onto the cabinet next to the bed. She then proceeded to draw back the curtains one by one, allowing the morning sun to stream in, filling the room with vibrant life.
"Good morning, Sophia."
Artel greeted her before heading to the bathroom to freshen up.
Sophia had prepared a fitted white shirt, a well-tailored grey vest, and a matching suit for him. The finishing touch was a delicate gold pocket watch.
Given that Artel had no plans to venture outside that day, Sophia omitted a hat from his ensemble.
The Shelby family's hats were always distinctive, boasting razor-sharp edges sewn into the brim—a source of family pride.
As Artel changed his attire, Sophia watched attentively. After all, she had cared for Artel for eight years, fostering a bond that sometimes made her feel as though he were her own child.
With Artel dressed, Sophia approached him, gently placing the pocket watch into his suit pocket and allowing one end of the watch chain to dangle from the button. She then assisted in adjusting his shirt collar.
"Handsome young man, I can only imagine how many hearts you'll capture as you grow up."
Sophia's sincere praise carried a touch of admiration. Though Artel was a mere eleven years old, there was an undeniable charisma about him that Sophia couldn't help but recognize.
Radiating an aura of elegance, composure, and nobility, it was almost surreal to believe he was still just a child.
With his Roman heritage from his mother, Artel's black hair and dark pupils represented a noble lineage within British society. These features harkened back to the ancient Romans, even reminiscent of the famed Julius Caesar.
To Artel, it was a continuation of his previous life, albeit with a slight variation—the deep brown hue of his pupils now verged on pure black.
Overall, Artel was content with this continuation. The familiar features reaffirmed his sense of identity.
The two exited the room and made their way downstairs to the dining area.
Shelby Manor was home not only to Artel but also to his two uncles and an aunt.
Beyond the immediate family, the manor housed a sizeable household, comprising nearly a hundred servants—housekeepers, cooks, gardeners, and maids. Security was bolstered by members of the Little Razor Party, responsible for safeguarding the estate.
Moreover, the Shelby family maintained dozens of hunting dogs, a hundred horses on the estate's horse farm, and numerous cows and hens on the ranch.
The sprawling grounds covered a vast hundred acres, approximately equivalent to 400,000 square meters.
Breakfast was a communal affair, a tradition that strengthened family bonds. History had underscored the connection between the decline of the Razor Party and the fracturing of the Shelby family.
"Uncle Michael, Uncle Jimmy, Aunt Fiona, Aunt Nancy, Aunt Kate, Cousin Paul... Good morning!"
Artel extended greetings to his extended family as they gathered in the restaurant.
"Thomas! Good morning!"
The collective response was harmonious. Artel took his seat at the table, and the restaurant's maids began serving breakfast.
The morning spread remained consistent—bacon, fried eggs, sautéed mushrooms, and sausages graced the plates. Toast took center stage as the main staple, accompanied by milk or black tea.
Given the food landscape in the UK, Artel had learned not to expect breakfast surprises.
"Thomas, after your morning class with Paul and Jenny, there's shooting practice in the afternoon, followed by the option to swim or play ball."
Michael, now responsible for Shelby Manor, managed the daily schedules for the young Shelbys.
The Shelby children didn't attend conventional school, a precaution against potential assassination attempts by rival gangs. Ever since that incident, Artel and his cousins rarely left the estate unless necessary.
"I understand."
Artel nodded, savoring his meal with grace. He refrained from mentioning Hogwarts, as the time wasn't right and the restaurant held too many ears.
The Shelby family harbored a wizard among them—a secret to be safeguarded, known only to a select few.
Post-breakfast, Artel joined his cousin Paul and Cousin Jennie for their classes.
Artel was an exception to the norm, attending classes even though he was only eleven. His role as the future leader of the Shelby family warranted an education that extended beyond his years.
The day's lessons encompassed Philosophy and Economics, delivered by a professor from Oxford. Artel engaged avidly, occasionally posing questions that impressed the professor.
"It's remarkable that you're just eleven, Artel. Your analytical approach and insights indicate a promising future."
Class concluded, Artel bid his cousins farewell and embarked on a dog-walking excursion with Sophia. Artel owned a Doberman Pinscher named Charlie.
"I guess I won't be able to bring Charlie to Hogwarts?"
Contemplating Charlie as he savored raw beef, Artel's thoughts wandered.
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