As Vyan's consciousness slowly emerged from the abyss of darkness, he felt as though he had been adrift for an eternity.
When his eyes fluttered open, he found himself huddled in the corner of a barnyard. His surroundings were unfamiliar, and he was no longer the grown man he knew himself to be; instead, he was a trembling child, his tiny frame adorned with tattered clothing and bearing the stark evidence of abuse in the form of purple bruises marring his fragile arms.
This couldn't possibly be a recollection of his time in the orphanage.
The creaking of the barnyard doors shattered the eerie silence, causing Vyan to flinch instinctively.
A shadow loomed ominously in the doorway, accompanied by deliberate footsteps that echoed with a menacing rhythm.
"Vyan? O dear Vyan? Where are you hiding, my little lamb?" The voice dripped with sinister sweetness. "You can't hide from me forever, my precious little lamb."
A chilling laugh echoed through the air, sending shivers down the boy's spine as he curled into himself.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," the man sang, his voice drawing closer with each step. "Let me bask in the sight of your innocent face."
Just as Vyan dared to hope the man would pass him by, a rough hand snatched him violently by the collar.
Vyan shot up in bed, gasping for air.
"Master, you are finally awake! Thank goodness," Benedict exclaimed in relief.
Vyan glanced at Benedict and found him hovering at his bedside, a glass of water in hand like some kind of hydration superhero.
"Water, please," Vyan croaked, snatching the glass and downing it faster than a parched camel at an oasis.
Running a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, Vyan tried to shake off the remnants of the nightmare that had left him feeling like he had wrestled a dragon in his sleep. But maybe he did; he couldn't remember anymore.
"What in the world happened to me?" he rasped, his throat feeling as rough as sandpaper.
"You were—" Benedict began, only to be cut off by the dramatic entrance of an unexpected visitor.
"I knew it. My protégé sensors were tingling," Clyde chimed in cheerfully as he strolled into the room. "How are you feeling, my lord?"
"Alright," Vyan replied with all the enthusiasm of a sloth on a Monday morning, his tone as dry as a desert. "So what happ—"
"That's great. Feeling alright? Then get up, lazy bones. No time to lounge around. You have been out cold for three whole days already."
"Three days?" Vyan echoed, feeling like he had just been hit with a reality check the size of a castle.
Ignoring the nearly-comatose patient, Clyde yanked Vyan out of bed and turned to Benedict with an authoritative air. "Get him dressed in his finest Lord of Ashstone attire, as soon as possible."
"What? Why? What's going on?" Vyan interjected, utterly bewildered by the sudden rush.
"But Lord Clyde, Master just recovered—" Benedict began in concern.
"Oh, come on, we cannot coddle him forever. It's time for a crash course in politics," Clyde explained with a dismissing wave of his hand. "And as for you," he turned back to Vyan, "just let yourself get dolled up. I will spill the beans on the way."
As Clyde made for the door, Vyan couldn't help but protest, "Can you at least give me a hint about who I am about to impress in this fancy getup?"
Clyde grinned mischievously and shrugged. "Just all the vassals of Ashstone. No biggie."
"Okay, hold up— What?!" Vyan's jaw practically hit the floor, but Clyde simply flashed him a carefree smile and skipped out of the room, leaving Vyan to contemplate his impending doom in formalwear.
———
"Are you out of your mind? Summoning all the vassals? What on earth am I supposed to babble to them?" Vyan blurted out in a panic the moment he caught up with Clyde outside his bedroom.
"Wow, my lord. Looking sharp there. Good job, Benedict. Thanks to his magic, even someone like you manages to exude a hint of authority," Clyde complimented, completely ignoring Vyan's existential crisis.
"Hey, that's not what—But do I at least look like I have a clue what I am doing?" Vyan glanced down at his ensemble, unsure whether to be impressed or horrified.
He was decked out in a doublet that could probably fund a small kingdom, crafted from luxurious burgundy velvet and embellished with enough gold embroidery to blind a dragon. A waistcoat of shimmering brocade hugged his torso, while a silk cravat threatened to strangle him into submission.
Diamond-studded brooches and cufflinks twinkled in the dim light, and to top it all off, he was draped in a cape that screamed 'absolute power and authority,' lined with enough ermine fur to make even a polar bear jealous.
"Yes! Your outfit is compensating for any lack of actual authority you may possess. It will have to do for now," Clyde declared, ushering Vyan towards the destination. "Now, let's skedaddle to the meeting hall."
"But you still have not explained why we are herding all the vassals together," Vyan protested, feeling like he was being dragged into a madman's scheme.
"Oh, that's just because we are going to confront my old man for attempting to off you with poison," Clyde chirped, as if discussing the weather.
"What? I was poisoned? By Lord Magnus?" Vyan's eyes widened in horror.
"Nah, not really. He failed. But we are going to pretend the opposite," Clyde clarified with a casual wave of his hand.
"What do you mean, pretend?" Vyan's voice rose several octaves in disbelief.
"Don't worry about it. You will figure it out when we get there," Clyde reassured him with all the sincerity of a shady salesman.
"I cannot believe you are just dragging me off to meet the entire vassal squad when I am not even fully prepared," Vyan grumbled as they made their way to the meeting hall.
"It's all good, it's all good. Sure, they are important and all that jazz, but let's not forget who the big cheese around here is. The only folks higher up the food chain than you are the emperor and empress themselves. So relax," Clyde reassured him with a hearty pat on the back. "Sure, those people might judge, but that is all they are capable of, right?"
Vyan chuckled. "Lucky for me, I have never given a rat's tail about what people think."
"Exactly. That's the spirit," Clyde agreed, leading them to a stop in front of the meeting hall doors.
"Are we fashionably late, or fashionably on time?" Vyan inquired.
"We are right on time, because you know the drill—the big cheese always waltzes in last," Clyde remarked. "Alright, last-minute pep talk time. Remember the drill: saunter in like you own the place, lounge back in your chair like a throne, cross those legs like you are their boss, which you are by the way, and don't let anyone step on your parade or hog your spotlight."
"Got it," Vyan replied, taking a sharp breath.
"Good. Now let's show them who is the boss," Clyde announced, leading the way into the hall with all the swagger of a seasoned ringmaster.
With a flourish, Clyde signaled the guards to swing open the double doors of the meeting hall, granting Vyan entry.
Straightening his spine and schooling his features into a mask of icy indifference, Vyan strode into the room, ignoring the nods of acknowledgment from the vassals as if they were mere peasants beneath his notice.
He made a beeline for the head of the table, Clyde trailing behind him like a loyal lapdog.
As Vyan prepared to address the room, Clyde's voice echoed in his mind, a sarcastic mentor angel on his shoulder.
"Don't be a sucker. Let them sweat it out first. And if they don't extend the courtesy first, don't waste your breath."
"Good afternoon, my lord. It's a pleasure to have you here. We are thrilled to see you up and about," the vassals chorused in rehearsed unison, their smiles as genuine as a snake's.
"Don't be fooled by the smiles. Remember, they are the ones who hung the late Grand Duke and Grand Duchess out to dry."
"Good afternoon, everyone," Vyan replied, his voice as frosty as a polar bear's nose, leaving no room for warmth or pleasantries.
"I cannot help but notice the striking resemblance between My Lord and the late Grand Duke," Olivia Adams remarked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Yes, you are practically a spitting image of him. You might as well start practicing your grand wave, Your Grace," Arthur Harrison chimed in with a conspiratorial wink. "I cannot wait to see you adorn that title."
"Absolutely! I have already got the confetti cannons primed and ready for the new Grand Duke's celebration," Lincoln declared with a fake grin, seething with jealousy beneath the surface as he thought, I will be the one to wear that title.
He continued, "Lord Vyan's progress has been nothing short of miraculous. It will not be long before we are all toasting to his success."
Meanwhile, Arthur was not about to let Lord Magnus off the hook. "Oh, spare us the innocent act, Lord Magnus. We all know what you have been up to," he accused, shooting daggers with his eyes. "Trying to pull a sneaky move like that? Absolutely despicable."
"I am sorry, Lord Harrison, but I am afraid I don't quite follow," Lincoln feigned ignorance, sweat dripping down his back as he scrambled to maintain his facade.
"Don't play dumb with us. You tried to slip Lord Vyan poison," Colin James interjected, pointing an accusing finger in Lincoln's direction.
Lincoln's eyes widened in a panic, his mind racing a mile a minute. How on earth could I have been caught red-handed? There has to be a mistake!