Vyan's eyes practically popped out of his head as he gawked at the spread laid out before him. Seriously, was this a feast or a culinary coup d'état?
It looked like enough grub to feed the entire city—twice over!
"Am I supposed to eat all of this alone?" he blurted out, his brain still trying to process the sheer abundance of food.
"Eat whatever strikes your fancy, Young Master," Benedict assured. "In celebration of your return, our chefs went all out, whipping up every delectable dish they could summon from their culinary arsenal."
Sure, the dishes looked like they could be a masterpiece painting for sheer aesthetic appeal, but Vyan wasn't about to let himself get too comfortable.
He knew as soon as he was booted from this plush paradise, it would be back to scraping crumbs off the streets for sustenance.
"You used to be such a chocolate fiend back in the day," Benedict remarked casually.
"Did I now?" Vyan responded, his tone lacking enthusiasm.
Sneaking into the kitchen for midnight chocolate raids? Yeah, that sounded about as plausible as him sprouting wings and flying to the moon.
Benedict chuckled, clearly relishing the chance to spill some tasty morsels of Vyan's past. "That's why the head chef went out of his way baking all sorts of chocolate goodies for you. He is hoping to rekindle that sweet tooth of yours."
Little did they know, Vyan's closest brush with chocolate had been delivering a box of it from a well-wisher to Iyana, who had dumped it into the trash, because the smell of chocolate made her sick.
Chocolate was a luxury reserved exclusively for nobles. How was he supposed to tell them he had never even tasted the darn thing? It made him all the more sure that he was, in fact, not their young master.
"Ah, but of course, save the dessert for later. Let's start with something to whet your appetite," Benedict added.
Vyan surveyed the battlefield of appetizers before him, feeling as lost as a kitten in a yarn factory. His feeble pride stopped him asking what he should begin with after claiming earlier he was 'not illiterate.'
He swears he was a good student, but they sure as hell did not educate him on noble dining table etiquette.
It was a good thing Benedict was there to humbly play culinary guide, nudging him towards tiny, tantalizing treats.
With a begrudging sigh, Vyan dug into the feast before him, and damn, if those bites weren't like a party in his mouth. It was like the food gods had conspired to create the most mouthwatering spread known to man.
Just as he was about to take a sip of soup, a disturbing mental image crashed the party—the sight of a lizard doing the backstroke in his broth.
It dredged up memories of his days in the knights' quarter, where he was the favorite target for every bully within a fifty-mile radius.
In a split second, panic took the wheel and Vyan sent his bowl flying. The glass, caught in the crossfire, met its demise on the unforgiving floor, shattering into a million sparkling pieces.
Broke and now breaking stuff—nice one, Vyan.
Cue the dramatic music.
"Oh, I am so, so sorry about the glass," he stammered in a flurry. What if they billed him for it? He might as well start selling his organs on the black market to cover the cost!
Benedict, however, seemed unfazed. "No need for apologies, Young Master. Remember, this whole arrangement is for you. You could toss the whole table out the window, and we would still be okay with it."
Okay with it?
Vyan's eyebrows shot up so high, they practically made a break for freedom. If only things were that simple.
"But it's not okay. None of this is," he muttered under his breath, the weight of their misunderstanding threatening to crush him.
Living on borrowed time, pretending to be the heir to the Grand Duke—it was like balancing on a tightrope made of spaghetti.
But why should he go through so much mixed feelings of imposter syndrome and guilt? He did not ask to be here.
"Alright, listen up, I have been playing along with your little charade for way too long. It's time to cut the crap and let me go. I'm not the person you think I am," Vyan declared, his patience hanging by a hair.
But Benedict—bless his stubborn heart—wasn't having any of it. "You are who we say you are," he shot back, his tone as unyielding as a brick wall.
"No, I am not!" Vyan shouted.
Benedict released a sigh. "I was going to tell you the truth once you have had a chance to catch your breath. But I guess patience isn't your strong suit, Young Master," he said, his tone laced with slight disappointment.
"Me, impatient?" Vyan scoffed, incredulous. "Let's talk about the nerve of plucking a homeless nobody off the streets, plopping him into a mansion fit for royalty, and expecting him to play pretend like he is the lord of the manor.
"Newsflash: I don't have a silver spoon, let alone the stomach to digest this level of bougie nonsense. I have been biting my tongue and smiling through this whole circus act, but enough is enough. Don't you dare pin impatience on me when I have been the epitome of patience!"
Vyan was breathing hard by the time he was done getting everything off his chest, while Benedict and the rest of the staff stared at him like he just belted out an impromptu opera solo in the middle of dinner.
Damn, maybe I should have taken it down a notch.
But who fucking cares? If he was going to get kicked out, might as well go out with a bang, right?
"Um, please accept my sincerest apologies for, uh, not having considered your situation—" Benedict began, looking guilty.
"I don't want your apology!" Vyan cut him off, throwing his hands up in frustration. "I can't stand you treating me like I'm some lost prince when I'm just a regular person. So quit with the formalities and tell the truth. Why the heck do you all think I'm your young master? The color of my eyes sure as hell isn't the only reason."
Benedict finally seemed to understand he couldn't feed Vyan whatever made-up stuff he wanted and expected him to dance to the tune. So, with a nod and a wave of his hand, he dismissed the rest of the crew.
"Follow me, Young Master. I will explain everything to you," he said.
Here we go again.
Vyan couldn't help but roll his eyes.
I swear if he tries to feed me anymore bullshit, I will punch him in the eye and make a run for it.
However, as Benedict headed into a long corridor, a mixture of anticipation and dread knotted in Vyan's stomach.
"Please feel free to look at the portraits. They are your ancestors," Benedict's invitation to peruse the portraits hung on the walls went in one ear and out the other.
What did Vyan care about dusty old paintings of people he didn't even know?
He was going to ignore the pictures, but then, like a punch to the gut, one portrait caught his eye—a striking couple with their youthful faces beaming from the canvas.
Vyan's gaze lingered, his breath catching in his throat.
"That's..." he began, his voice barely a whisper as he locked eyes with the man in the painting.
The resemblance was uncanny—the same jet-black hair, the fiery red eyes that seemed to pierce right through him, the sharp angles of the jawline.
"That's the late Grand Duke Xandres Kevin Ashstone and the late Grand Duchess Natalia Audrey Ashstone—your parents," Benedict's voice broke the silence, weighted with sorrow that seemed to echo through the ages.
Vyan flinched, the cruel truth of his orphaned self crashing down on him once again. Even if, by some miracle, these people were his flesh and blood, he would still never know the warmth of a parental embrace.
Vyan shook his head. No, no, this is not the time to get sappy over family! What's important is, how do I look so much like the Grand Duke?
As Benedict led the way down the corridor, Vyan's mind raced, his thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a storm.
After that, another portrait loomed into view—a family portrait, the perfect image of domestic bliss frozen in time.
The man and woman from the previous portrait stood at the center, their features softened by time and the glow of parenthood. Flanking them were two boys—one a teenager, his expression a mix of confidence and kindness, the other a younger version of himself, grinning from ear to ear.
Vyan's heart skipped a beat as he studied the younger boy in the painting, his features mirroring his own in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.
Could it be...?
Is it possible that I have been wrong all along?
Doubt crept in like a whisper in the night, casting shadows across his certainty. Could he really be... Vyan Blake Ashstone?
But how is that possible? How did he end up in that orphanage if he had such a happy, picture-perfect family?
"The one cradling you in his arms is your older brother, Young Master Aster," Benedict murmured, a bittersweet smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"He adored you, cherished you more than anyone else in the world. He was like your guardian angel. Ready to take on dragons and demons if it meant keeping you safe. And you know what? In the end, he did." There was a wistful chuckle, tinged with sorrow, as memories flooded Benedict's mind.
Vyan's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.
'He was…'
That meant, his older brother, just like his parents, was also… dead.
And what did Benedict mean by Aster kept him safe in the end? His eyebrow furrowed in confusion.
"I'm guessing from your expression you have not stumbled upon the tragic tale of the so-called 'wicked and atrocious' Ashstone clan," Benedict mused.
"And I am guessing from your tone that this is not exactly a bedtime story with a happy ending," he quipped, though the truth was he was actually utterly clueless about the Ashstone family saga.
Knowledge about fictional dragons, absolutely. Real-life noble family drama? Not so much.
"It all went down when you were just a little boy of five," Benedict continued, his voice low and steady as they resumed their journey down the corridor. "The entire Ashstone family… was wiped out in a single night."