Tyrion made his way into the duke's dimly lit study, treading carefully to avoid any obstacles on the way. The stack of letters and the roll of portraits he carried made his journey all the more perilous, and he cursed under his breath as he nearly stumbled over an errant rug.
His arms were shaking with fatigue by the time he made it to the room. With the weight of the letters and portraits bearing down on him, he could feel his grip slipping. As he stepped inside, he knew he had reached his limit. With a sigh of relief, he let the stack of letters, and the roll of portraits slip from his grasp, dropping them unceremoniously onto the nearby table.
The room held its breath, an unspoken pact between stone walls and flickering candlelight. Shadows clung to the corners, weaving a tapestry of whispered confidences. The duke's face over the windowpanes, etched with lines of authority and concealed knowledge, bore the weight of centuries-old secrets. His eyes, sharp as the blade of a hidden dagger, pierced through the dimness as he drew from the cigarette in between his fingers.
In that hallowed space, where time seemed to slow, the air itself became a repository—a vessel for whispered oaths, clandestine alliances, and the echoes of long-lost intrigues. The flickering flames danced across the stern contours of the duke's countenance, revealing both power and vulnerability.
Tyrion cleared his throat, announcing his arrival and the purpose of his visit. "Your Grace, I come bearing important news," he said, drawing the Duke's attention to the stack of letters and the roll of portraits on the table. "I have received recommendations from several interested governesses, and their portraits are enclosed."
With a careful hand, he unrolled the portraits, revealing the elegant faces of the potential candidates. "Each of them comes highly recommended and possesses a wealth of experience in their field," he added, hoping that his efforts would not go unappreciated.
Duke Ansel, resplendent in his regal attire, stood by the ornate writing desk. The room exhaled the scent of aged leather and polished wood, its walls adorned with ancestral portraits—eyes following his every move.
With deliberate grace, he pressed the cigarette butt into the silver tray, the ember extinguishing like a forgotten star. The letters lay before him, each an enigma wrapped in parchment.
Duke Ansel carefully unfolded each letter, his eyes scanning the elegant curves of calligraphy. Tyrion, meanwhile, was in the midst of reading out the names of the recommended governesses when the duke suddenly cut him off with a serious question.
"That tutor!" he exclaimed. "Was the medication successful?"
Tyrion shook his head, a grim expression on his face. "Unfortunately, Your Grace, it appears that he was poisoned. There were toxins hidden within the tea he was served, and as a result, his body is completely paralyzed."
The duke sat back in his chair, his expression darkening. It was clear that this news had hit him hard, and Tyrion felt a sense of unease settle over the room.
Duke Ansel spoke with a stern tone, his hand rubbing his neck as he issued his instructions. "Make sure that this information does not reach the ears of those power-hungry officials. We cannot afford to let this knowledge fall into the wrong hands. Let it be buried like the rest."
Turning his attention to the matter at hand, he continued, "As for Bayard, I want you to seize his painting tools and materials. That should set his mind straight."
Tyrion nodded, his mind racing with the implications of the duke's words.
As Duke Ansel adjusted the pile of letters, his eyes fell upon a piece of old parchment bearing a familiar handwriting that caused his heart to skip a beat with a sense of trepidation. For a moment, he was transported to a different time and place, memories flooding his mind like a torrent of emotions. A wind of turbulences swarmed into his head and a picture of a memory whirled within his mind.
---
A beautiful lady entered a room. Her graceful entrance into Duke Ansel's study room was a sight to behold to the Duke. She lowered herself in a respectful bow, addressing him as "My Lord."
The weight of the day's stress seemed to lift from Duke Ansel's shoulders as he gazed upon his beloved wife - Coretta.
Without hesitation, he rose from his seat, closing the distance between them. His strong arms enveloped Coretta in a warm, tight hug, eliciting joyful laughter from both of them.
In that moment, the worries of the world melted away, leaving only the sweet embrace of love and companionship.
---
"Your Grace, are you unwell?" Tyrion asked tentatively, worried that something might be bothering his grace because he was spacing out, clenching the letter in his hands.
Duke Ansel escaped from his subconsciousness, shook his head, and looked up from his letter. "No, no, I'm fine. Just lost in thought," he said, trying to put his mind back on track.
Coretta was a past. There was just a little resemblance. That was all.
"Henrietta Rowand. She is qualified and she starts the first week of the following month."
Tyrion was relieved that there had been some progress in finding a suitable candidate for the position that the Duke had been trying to fill for months.
But as the syllables of that name echoed in his ears, shock replaced relief.
He couldn't believe it.
He subtly took the letter and accompanying portrait, and upon examination, he discovered that the person in question was none other than his stubborn sister. Tyrion felt a sense of unease wash over him.
What the hell!! When was her letter put?
Henrietta Rowand—the stubborn sister he'd clashed with countless times. Of all the women, it had to be her. Seriously!
---
A few hours later. Inside the Duke's Chambers.
Duke Ansel's coat slid off his shoulders, but before he could fully disentangle himself, a pair of slender hands intervened. The touch was familiar, and he didn't need to turn around to know who stood behind him. Annoyance crept into his voice as he inquired coldly, "What is it you want this time?"
The voice that answered was equally familiar, though its tone held a hint of defiance. "Oh, nothing," it said, almost dismissively. "My ears happened to catch the frequent gossip about you seeking a governess for Bayard. My lord, Bayard is my blood, and you are being unnecessarily harsh with him. So, what if he's been a little troublemaker or has hurt someone? He is the heir, after all. He owns them."
Ansel clenched his fists, turning to face the person who dared challenge him.
And there she stood—Lucille Loughty, the duchess.
Time had etched lines of maturity into her features, and her hips had filled out. Her lips, red as blood, curved in defiance. Her long blonde hair framed her face, and the corset dress she wore accentuated both her strength and beauty.
Lucille's words sliced through the thick silence like a knife. "Will you still long and wallow in the past, my lord?" she asked, her voice softening as she stepped closer to him. "The dead are long gone and buried. I understand the stress of leadership, but I am here as your relief. Don't you see?"
The Duke turned away from her, his expression guarded. He couldn't deny that her touch was arousing, but he didn't trust her motives. Lucille had always been a master manipulator, and he was not going to let her get the best of him.
He shrugged her off, his eyes hardening. "Don't touch me, Lucille," he warned her, his voice low. "I can't stand your constant need for attention and your attempts to manipulate me. You're the last person I want as a 'relief'."
Lucille's smile faltered, replaced with a look of hurt. "My lord, I only meant to help relieve your burden," she protested, hurt bleeding through her words.
Duke Ansel's voice crackled with frustration, slicing through the tension in the room. "Look here, Lucille," he began, his eyes flashing. "Remember why I married you in the first place and stop this craziness! It is you instigating that boy. Look at the attitude you acquire. Why wouldn't he be contaminated by such behavior? Stay away from him."
Lucille's response was unwavering as she followed his movement. "He is my son," she declared, her gaze steady.
Duke Ansel's retort was sharp, a plea wrapped in anger. "Then act like a reasonable mother."
"I won't let you spoil him with your foolishness. Bayard is the heir, and he needs to learn how to be a responsible ruler, not a pampered brat." his lips twitched.
---
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the northern part of the kingdom was shrouded in darkness. The only sound that could be heard was the rustling of leaves in the wind.
In a small village nestled in the woods, a group of men huddled around a campfire, their faces illuminated by the flickering light. They spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting around nervously.
"The Duke's taxes are too high," one man said, his voice shaking. "We can't afford to feed our families with what he's asking of us."
Another man nodded in agreement. "We need to do something about it. We can't just sit here and let him bleed us dry."
A third man joined in, his voice low and angry. "I've heard there are others who feel the same way. We should band together and fight back against the duke's tyranny."
"Still, we mustn't mess up with those Hungarians!!"
The group murmured their assent, their resolve strengthening with each passing moment. They knew the risks of going against the Duke, but they also knew they couldn't survive under such oppressive rule.
As they plotted their rebellion, a shadowy figure watched from the trees, listening in on their conversation. His eyes gleamed with malicious intent, and a sly smile crossed his lips.
This figure was Willian Estrawale, the village's crier.
"Excellent," he muttered under his breath. "Let the peasants rebel. It will make my work so much easier." With that, he vanished into the night, his plans carefully laid out in his mind.
Upon his return to the town, the man's eyes were met with a harrowing sight. Flames danced violently, consuming the thatched roofs and wooden walls of the villagers' homes. The once-nourishing fields lay in ruin, crops reduced to ash under the fire's wrath.
Amidst the chaos, the air was pierced by the sinister clangor of steel and the relentless echoes of gunfire, a grim symphony of destruction.
Amidst the turmoil, a voice rose above the terror, laced with fear and urgency. "The drums of war beat once more! The Hungarians return, their fury to be meted out upon us again."
William stayed rooted in shock. Looming ominously behind him was a figure of towering stature, casting a long shadow that fell chillingly over the man.
His features were carved with the hard lines of severity, a jagged scar trailing over his cheek like a grim reminder of battles past.
With a swift, predatory grace, he brandished a blade that glinted coldly in the dim light. A cruel smile curled the edges of his lips as he drew the weapon across the man's throat in one fluid, silent motion.
As the life ebbed away, he uttered with a voice devoid of emotion, "Lieutenant, the area is secure."
At the farthest end of the street, on the cobblestones, a man wearing a military uniform turned his head to the call, and with a frown, he threw the lighter on top of the dead bodies drained with gallons of petrol, and soon they were burning in flames.