Chapter 6: Young Master
Vyan lounged in the carriage, peering out the window as if he were starring in his own melodrama, all while draped in a shawl that probably cost more than a small kingdom.
Benedict, the ever-dutiful butler, had swapped out Vyan's grubby cloak for this posh cover, handling him like he was made of spun glass.
"I am aware this must be uncomfortable for you, Young Master. But please bear with it for a while. We will be home very soon," Benedict assured.
"Sure, sure. I'm as snug as a bug in a rug," Vyan muttered.
"I am glad you are feeling snug," Benedict smiled, Vyan's sarcasm lost on the well-meaning butler.
Vyan threw him a poker face and wanted to scream, 'No, of course, I am not comfortable!'
He might as well have been riding a unicorn for all the luxury in this carriage. Benedict had pulled out all the stops, summoning this chariot like it was a magical pumpkin carriage for Cinderella.
"Listen—" Vyan started to talk.
Just then, the carriage hit a rock and fumbled a little, causing Benedict to look at him in concern, as if he was just about to ask if the little bump on the road had delivered death blows to Vyan.
"Hey, I'm fine," he insisted, cutting off before Benedict could begin his flow of over-the-top concern. "I'm not made of porcelain, you know."
"Duly noted, Young Master," he said, giving a slight bow. "However, you should get used to telling me about your comfort and discomfort. It is my noble duty as the head butler of the Ashstone family to make sure you get the utmost care—"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Vyan grumbled, tightening the shawl around him like a safety net. "Speaking of discomforts, could you drop the 'Young Master' act? It's getting annoying."
Benedict's gasp was so theatrical, it could have won an award. "And deny centuries of butler tradition? Perish that thought, Young Master!"
"So that means you lied when you said you would cater to my comfort and discomfort?" Vyan challenged.
"No, definitely not. But I simply cannot oblige this. Please forgive me." He shook his head firmly, as if disappointed Vyan would even consider this.
Vyan rolled his eyes, ready to snap. "Seriously, just call me Vyan. It's not that hard."
"But, my dear Young Master—" Benedict began.
"I swear, if you call me that one more time..."
Benedict wisely decided to let the matter drop, but Vyan could see the twinkle of determination in his eyes. This butler was not going to be swayed.
Vyan let out a sigh and grumbled, "You don't even know for sure if I am your young master, to begin with, and yet, you seem like you are ready to dedicate your life to me."
"That's because I am," he responded, placing a hand over his heart, showing how deadly serious he was. "And pardon me for my rudeness, but it is not me who has doubts. It is you, Young Master."
Vyan shook his head hopelessly, irked at still being addressed like that. "You said you were taking me home. Where is this home anyway?"
"At first, we will be stopping by your secondary manor in the Cantace. After that, we will go to Ashstone by a magic portal. You see, Ashstone is located far in the west from the capital where the main manor is," Benedict informed.
"I am not illiterate, I know the map of our empire," Vyan muttered, offended that Benedict felt the need to explain where Ashstone was.
"Apologies, yo— ahem, apologies."
Vyan felt himself smile a little in satisfaction as Benedict didn't complete the title. "Anyway, if Ashstone is so far, why were you gallivanting out on the outskirts of Cantace?"
Benedict's smile turned rueful. "I have been looking for you, Young Master. For fifteen years now."
"So… you mean you have been on a scavenger hunt for me for that long?"
Benedict nodded solemnly. "Precisely."
Vyan scoffed. "If I am so valuable to your grand duchy, why hasn't my father hired a fleet of private detectives for me?"
"He would have, surely, if he were among the living."
Vyan froze, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, though he couldn't pinpoint why.
"Um, what about my mother?"
Benedict simply shook his head.
"This is funny." He couldn't help the bitter chuckle that escaped his throat. Perhaps, it was the realization that he was truly alone, or maybe it was the weight of the irony crushing down on him.
After all, what was a potential heir without a family to inherit from?
He was not particularly looking for gold, but did he somewhere in the corner of his heart hope that a warm family would welcome him back in, just like Benedict had done?
Seems like that was just another bucket of water on his hopes—another twist in the tragic-comedy of his life.
"I am sorry," Benedict uttered.
Vyan laughed bitterly. "Why are you sorry? I am not the Vyan you are looking for, anyway," he said the exact thing he consoled himself with. "So anyway, how did you happen to bump into me after all these years?" he asked in order to change the subject.
"The truth is, while your family wasn't able to do it, I took the initiative and hired detectives to look for you. An informant claimed he spotted you two nights ago at the debutante ball at the Imperial Palace."
"But I didn't have my signature red eyes then," Vyan interjected.
"Yes, I am well aware."
"Then, how come the informant recognized me?"
"It's a long story, Young Master. I will tell you all about it after you have freshened up and had something to eat." Benedict looked at the pale twenty-year-old man with sympathy and compassion. "I can see that you haven't been treated well, Young Master."
Understatement of the century.
Not being treated well did not even begin to describe what Vyan tolerated all his life, but he didn't want to go into the details about it just yet.
He just nodded and averted his eyes outside as he mumbled, "Just so you know, I am a fugitive, don't ask me why."
"Don't worry about it." Benedict gave him a warm smile. "You could set the entire empire of Haynes on fire and I would still not ask you why. Because come hell or high water, I am always on your side, Young Master."
"Hmph," Vyan grumbled, trying not to be swayed by the old man's sweet words.
As the carriage rolled to a halt in front of the extravagant manor, Vyan's jaw threatened to dislocate from its hinges.
This place made the Marquess' not-so-humble abode look like a shack in comparison. And to think, this was just the secondary residence of the Ashstone family! He couldn't even fathom what the main residence must look like.
Benedict's claim that he was heir to all these grand properties seemed more and more like a punchline to a bad joke.
Benedict ushered him out of the carriage, and they were greeted by a small army of butlers and maids, all bowing in unison and showering him with "Welcome home, Young Master Vyan."
If being called Young Master by Benedict was grating, this was a whole new level of cringe.
"Everyone, take the best care of our young master!" Benedict wasted no time in issuing orders, sending the servants into a frenzy of activity.
Before he knew it, Vyan found himself being manhandled by a squadron of maids, practically dragged into a room that could house a small village.
The invasion of personal space was bad enough, but being forcibly stripped down by a bunch of strangers was downright violating.
He managed to stammer out a request for male servants, but alas, it seemed gender was no barrier to their zealousness.
As they dunked him into the bath, scrubbing away like he was a filthy kitten in dire need of a good clean, Vyan couldn't help but squirm.
It was beyond awkward, this noble ritual of being bathed by servants. Who did they think he was, some pampered prince?
Yet, amidst the discomfort, he couldn't shake off the realization that these servants were just doing their duty. As intrusive as it felt, there was a strange sense of loyalty and care in their actions—something Vyan begrudgingly acknowledged—even if he could not quite appreciate it at the moment.
Emerging from the bath, Vyan felt like he had been cocooned in a warm cloud, only to be rudely jolted back to reality when he caught his reflection in the mirror, draped in a luxurious robe. His skin was positively radiant, his hair smoother than a silk ribbon, and not a single scratch in sight.
He half-expected to see a montage of scars and bruises from Lyon's torture, but all that remained was his trusty old scar on his forehead.
"Where did all the wounds disappear to?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
"We bathed you in the healing water, Young Master. It works like a charm," a male servant chimed in.
"Healing potion sort of, got it," Vyan replied, equal parts impressed and bewildered, as a fleet of maids paraded in, bearing an array of fancy clothes.
Surveying the options, Vyan couldn't help but feel a twinge of discomfort.
After a lifetime of tattered shirts and battered training gear, these garments were like something out of a royal wardrobe. Would he even be able to move in them without feeling like he was trapped in a suit of metal armor?
"Uh, quick question," he began tentatively, eyeing the fabrics with suspicion. "Will these make my skin itch?"
The servants exchanged nervous glances, beads of sweat forming on their brows. "Oh, no, Young Master! These are the finest threads money can buy! They will treat your skin like the baby's bottom, promise!" they chimed in unison, their panic evident.
"That's not exactly what I meant," Vyan interrupted with a sigh. Did they think he was going to serve them on the guillotine for this? "I am just not used to fancy attire. I am worried it might not suit my… uh, skin."
Understanding dawned on the servants' faces as they smiled sympathetically.
"Ah, we understand your concern now. Don't worry, Benedict specifically requested comfy threads for you. Take your pick, and rest assured, they won't cramp your skin."
"Good to know," Vyan muttered, still eyeing the clothes warily. Who knew being pampered could be so complicated?
With the grace of seasoned professionals, the male servants dressed him up, though Vyan couldn't shake off the feeling of embarrassment at being dressed like a doll.
But true to their word, the clothes felt like a warm hug from a fluffy bunny.
Admiring his reflection, Vyan noted his ensemble—a dapper blue-gray shirt paired with a sleek black waistcoat, topped off with gray pants and a stylish black coat slung over his shoulders. A pocket watch nestled in his left waistcoat pocket, as if they had read his mind about his dominant hand.
But when they reached for a tie, Vyan waved them off with a firm shake of his head and they backed down instantly.
It was a surreal experience, having people actually listen to him for once. After a lifetime of taking orders, being on the giving end felt downright bizarre.
Lost in thought, memories of Iyana flooded his mind—her delicate features framed by the dressing table, forever fussing over her appearance. The way she would seek his opinion on every outfit choice—every shade of lipstick and every piece of ornament.
"Young Master, are you alright?"
Startled, Vyan blinked back tears, realizing he had zoned out. His heart ached with the weight of Iyana's absence and how all of that had been nothing but a lie.
"Yeah, just a rogue dust particle in my eye," he lied.
The maids gasped in horror, launching into a frenzy of blame directed at poor Maya, who bore the brunt of their indignation.
"Maya, how could you not clean the Young Master's room properly?"
"Yes, we left you in charge with so much trust!"
"What if Young Master catches some diseases from all this dust, huh?"
"I have heard he has always been prone to sickness since a child!"
Vyan couldn't help but chuckle at their over-the-top concern.
"Seriously, you all, I'm not five anymore. A little dust is not going to kill me," he teased, a hint of warmth softening his tone.
Their worried expressions melted into smiles.
One of them remarked, "Your smile is just like your mother's."
The words struck a chord, a bittersweet reminder of the charade he was living in momentarily.
How long until they discovered he wasn't their beloved young master, but a mere imposter?
As laughter faded into the background, a pang of sadness settled in Vyan's chest, knowing this fragile facade would not last forever.