The youngest lady of the Ornfell house, Genevieve, sat back down in anticipation, her leg crossed elegantly without retracting her noble posture as the maid began to drag the unconscious butler to the infirmary. Her eyes lingered briefly on him.
He had been one of her original attendants, assigned by her father when she was just a child. Her father believed it wise to appoint commoner attendants her age, giving her the opportunity to mold them herself and secure their loyalty—a great exercise in leadership.
As she recalled, he had always been obedient, like an eager little Borzoi that followed her every command— even before she began disciplining them. But, it seemed that he'd gone awry from such a small incident.
She sighed. Commoners were truly too fragile. She mentally noted to request new attendants—this time, planning to give them mental and physical conditioning. After all, she couldn't allow herself to fail a second time.
Feeling the tension in her face, she relaxed her expression. Even if no one of importance was present, she still had to maintain her image. Her gaze drifted to the window, taking in the carved stone arches, vibrant stained glass, and rich velvet drapes that contrasted with the swirling snow outside. Her father had sent her to the northern estate to undergo her coming of age. Though he hadn't said it, she knew it was also to prepare her for the Academy.
Genevieve's thoughts faded as she stared relaxingly into the pit of the fireplace, not letting go of her noble posture. Yet, as time dragged on, the warmth of the fire and the quiet of the room began to lull her into a state of drowsiness.
Before she realized it, her eyes fluttered shut, and sleep overtook her, losing all sense of control. When she finally stirred, a start of panic jolted through her. She quickly became aware of the small trail of drool on the corner of her lips, and her unrefined and improper posture. Mortified, she swiftly straightened herself, wiping her mouth and smoothing her dress.
She coughed awkwardly, trying to shake off the embarrassment as if anyone could have seen her. Just then, as luck had it, the orb flickered to life, and her father's imposing figure materialized within it.
"Father," she greeted, her voice steady despite the slight flush that had yet to leave her cheeks.
"Genevieve," her father's voice boomed, its usual weight cutting through the room's stillness. "How is it so far?"
Genevieve's spine straightened instinctively, her chin lifting ever so slightly as she composed herself. "As expected, Father," she replied, her tone measured, just on the edge of controlled arrogance. "The northern estate is.. adequate for its purpose."
Her father raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
"I handled the responsibilities as instructed. The training was... appropriate. I've made necessary adjustments where I saw fit," she continued, her eyes briefly flickering to the brief lapse that had occurred. Her cheeks warmed as she felt the slight dry drool on the corner of her mouth, but she shoved the thought aside, forcing her expression to remain cold and composed.
Her father's gaze narrowed, sensing the brief moment of distraction. "I see," he muttered. "Though it seemed to be unnecessary."
Genevieve blinked, unsure of what he was referring to until he clarified.
"The whole ordeal of sending you north," he said, his tone softer now. "I know what you're capable of… So just think of it as a nod to tradition."
Her father's gaze remained steady on her. A moment passed before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "You've done well. You've upheld the Ornfell name admirably."
Genevieve's chest tightened with relief, though she kept her expression unchanged.
"You're allowed to return to the capital," he continued, his voice now carrying a rare warmth. "To celebrate your fifteenth birthday."
A small smile appeared on his face—rare, but unmistakable. Genevieve felt a surge of pride swell in her chest, though she only gave a graceful bow of her head in response.
"Thank you, Father," she said softly. Inside, however, her thoughts raced back to the fire, to the embarrassment she still felt gnawing at the edges of her composure. She would never allow such a lapse in her etiquette again. Never.