In the confines of Marquess Estelle's estate, the atmosphere was so rigid, you could cut it with a butter knife and serve it as a side dish.
The marquess, who usually was as composed as a swan on a serene lake, looked more like a duck caught in a storm, his brow furrowed deeper than a plowed field.
As for the marquess's offspring, they were as stiff as starched collars, standing behind their parents like two particularly uncomfortable statues.
And who was the cause of all this familial discomfort? None other than the Grand Duke himself, Vyan Blake Ashstone—a man whom they now found so intimidating that even his shadow seemed to have demonic claws in their eyes.
Facing their former knight, err, the current grand duke, Edward finally found his voice, "Your Grace," he quivered, his tongue burning at having to lace respect for the person who he always treated as an insignificant bug, "what is it that you seek from us?"
Inside the collective cranium of the Estelle family, a unified prayer went out: 'Please, oh please, let it be our long-lost heirloom teapot and not our heads on a silver platter.'
"Why so tense, Lord Estelle?" Vyan let out, as if oblivious to the sweat stains blooming on their clothes.
He was enjoying every twitch of discomfort from the Estelle family, just like a cat toying with a mouse.
"Relax, please," he offered with a seemingly amicable smile, "I promise I am not here to redecorate your walls with your blood. At least, not today."
His eyes glinted with a sinister darkness, draining the color out of their faces faster than a candle snuffs out in a drafty hall.
"Just kidding," he added, his brief chuckle as sharp as a guillotine blade. "Lighten up, folks."
"Oh, hahaha," their forced laughter echoed like that of a dying hyena, well aware Vyan was, in fact, not kidding.
"I am just here for my mana aptitude certificate," Vyan continued, "You know, the one with my name on it."
"Yes, yes, we should have it," the Marquess babbled, already sending Lyon on a quest to find the document, eager to get rid of Vyan's ominous presence.
As Lyon scurried away like his pants were on fire, Sienna attempted a graceful exit, but Vyan's velvet voice stopped her in her tracks.
"Lady Sienna, why are you leaving so soon? Stay and enjoy some tea," he offered. "Unless, of course, you are busy with your hobby—oh, what was it again? Harassing knights, was it?"
Sienna's gulp was audible enough to wake the dead. She turned to face him and managed to force a brittle laugh, "Oh, Your Grace, surely you jest."
"Of course," he gave her a tight-lipped smile. "But please, do take a seat with us."
Sienna—the epitome of elegance and refinement, said no one ever but herself—slinked over to the couch, her fingers clenching the fabric of her dress like it was the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.
Peeking a glance at Vyan nervously, Sienna's memories flooded back.
You see, Sienna had a hobby, a rather revolting one at that.
She delighted in tormenting the poor knights stationed at the family base. They were sworn to loyalty, which obviously meant they could not so much as sneeze without her say-so. Most knights were honored by her attention, but not Vyan. No, he had the audacity to be loyal to her ruthless sister, like some sort of chivalrous knight with actual dignity.
Vyan's indifference only fueled Sienna's twisted desires. She would try to seduce him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Brushing his arms, chest, lower back, thigh—basically sexually harassing him at every chance. She was like a toddler exploring a forbidden cookie jar, and that toddler was also a serial groper.
It was a shame she lacked the brawn to force him into submission, but oh, she tried.
And one day, when Iyana finally released him from her clutches after departing for her work at the palace, Sienna pounced at him like a leopard. It was less a conquest of love and more a conquest of... well, petty conquest.
But before she could utter her unholy command, as luck would have it, Iyana swooped in, having forgotten something at home.
In a flash, Iyana held her sword to Sienna's throat, her divine energy practically crackling with righteous fury. Sienna could swear her life had flashed before her eyes at that moment.
Terrified of becoming a decorative wall hanging courtesy of Iyana's blade, Sienna wisely kept her distance from Vyan after that. But vengeance brewed in her twisted little heart like a pot of witch's brew.
So, what did our charming little sociopath do? She framed poor Vyan for the very thing she had tried to do to him.
The irony was thicker than molasses, indeed.
With Iyana conveniently absent on a long mission, Sienna snitched to her brother to dish out some justice. Days turned into nights, and Vyan suffered in a cell, sans food and water, thanks to Sienna's machinations.
Sienna could only dream of Vyan forgetting the whole sordid affair, but… haha, that indeed merely was a dream.
"Your hands—" Vyan began, and Sienna's heart dropped to her stomach, letting go of her teacup like it was a hot potato. "—are shivering, Lady Sienna," he continued, "is what I wanted to say. But I guess it's too late now."
Sienna glanced down at the spilled tea on herself, and her theatrical performance of the century began. As the scalding tea seeped through her dress, she let out a wail that could rival a banshee in distress.
"Ah! Ah! I'm burning!" she cried, her face contorted into a masterpiece of horror.
Attempting a graceful retreat, she stumbled over her own feet. Now, with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on roller skates, she lurched forward, her hand plunging into yet another cup of piping hot tea.
But wait, there was more! In a stroke of slapstick brilliance, her other hand sent the tray of sweets airborne, transforming her carefully coiffed hair into a nest of confectionery chaos.
"Oh, my God!" Carolina screeched.
"Ahh!" Sienna's cries of pain harmonized perfectly with the sugary rain shower cascading down upon her.
Carolina realized her daughter had reached peak embarrassment levels and sprang into action, dragging Sienna out of the room faster than a steed at full gallop.
Left to pick up the pieces of their shattered dignity, Edward launched into a frenzied apology, "Your Grace, please excuse us. We will make this right, I promise. I will have fresh tea brought in right away—"
"It's alright," Vyan declared, his tone clipped, showing his annoyance for the circus act just now. "I will just take my certificate and leave."
"But Your Grace—"
"You heard me, Lord Estelle," Vyan cut in. Over his dead body would he subject himself to any more hospitality from this calamity of a household.
"As you wish, Your Grace," Edward muttered, resigned to the fact that their chance at mending things with Vyan had gone up in flames—quite literally.
Vyan shot a quick glance at Clyde and initiated their silent mental exchange through telepathy. 'You are the one who tripped her, didn't you?'
'I have no regrets. That molester bitch had it coming,' Clyde's reply crackled, dripping with unrepentant sarcasm.
'You are so petty,' Vyan retorted, though a hint of amusement danced in his mind.
'Pettiness is fun. You should try it sometime, Vyan.'
Suppressing a chuckle at Clyde's unabashed pettiness, Vyan maintained his icy exterior, awaiting his precious certificate.
When Lyon finally delivered the coveted parchment through the hands of a servant as he was too afraid to show his face again, Vyan rose gracefully to depart.
But as they made their way out, Vyan's eyes landed on a rather tempting candlestick in the marquess's office.
A mischievous smirk tugged at Vyan's lips, and with a subtle flick of his wrist—or perhaps a whisper of telekinetic prowess—a gust of wind sent the candlestick tumbling, igniting the pristine white curtains in a blaze of glory.
The marquess nervously escorted Vyan and Clyde to their awaiting carriage, blissfully ignorant of the fiery chaos brewing in his very own office.