The night was dark, with only the light of the candles flickering in the grand study of the de Martel estate. Count de Martel sat in his high-backed chair, swirling a goblet of wine thoughtfully, the aroma of aged oak and dark fruit swirling around him. He was a man shaped by power and ambition, his years marked by both triumph and shrewd decisions.
Across from him, Tristan leaned forward, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in concern. They had just finished reviewing Dave's latest work, a breathtaking portrayal of their estate. The painting was so detailed and lifelike that it seemed almost alive, the vibrant hues capturing the essence of the sun-kissed gardens and the sturdy stone walls of the manor.
"I must admit," the Count began, setting the goblet down on the polished mahogany table, "the boy has a gift. This painting could rival any I've seen in the courts of the kings." His voice held a note of pride that made Tristan sit back slightly.
Tristan, ever the skeptic, frowned. "It's one thing to have skill, Father, but do we trust him?with aurora." His protective instincts kicked in; he had watched too many servants devoid of loyalty find their way into positions of trust, only to betray those who welcomed them.
The Count smiled knowingly, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "You are too cautious, my son. Yes, the boy is talented, but that does not make him a threat. It makes him an asset. There are few in this region—perhaps none—who possess such artistic ability. I imagine when our guests arrive for the feast, they will be green with envy."
Tristan's frown deepened, his concern growing. "And yet he remains just a servant. You're suggesting we elevate him?"
The Count took a deep sip of his wine, savoring its depth, before leaning back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Aurora will need to learn the finer arts, Tristan. We have discussed this before. It is unbecoming of a lady of her stature to grow up without skills in painting, music, or some other form of refined education. This boy's talent is undeniable. He could teach her."
Tristan's eyes narrowed, simmering with a mix of protectiveness and foreboding. "You would trust him around Aurora? She's... delicate. Impressionable."
The Count chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest. "You've always been overly protective of her. She is my daughter, yes, but she is also a young woman. A noblewoman soon to be sought after by many suitors. She must be prepared for the world she will enter. What better way than to have an artist reveal to her the beauty of life?"
A silence fell between them as both men contemplated their next steps, the dim candlelight flickering creating an almost ethereal atmosphere in the room. Finally, Tristan nodded, though reluctantly, the knight in him always wary. "Very well. But I will be watching him closely."
The Count smiled, his gaze steely yet warm. "Of course, my son. I wouldn't expect any less. A father must protect his daughter, even as she takes her first steps toward independence."
## The Morning Decision
The following morning, Dave was summoned to the Count's chambers once again. As he entered, he found not only the Count but also Tristan and Aurora waiting for him. The atmosphere in the room was tense, as if the air had thickened with unspoken judgments. Tristan's sharp gaze could cut glass, while Aurora stood to the side, her expression unreadable yet still beautiful.
"Ah, Dave," the Count said, looking up from his desk. He gestured to the canvas nearby, vibrant with colors. "You've impressed me. Your work is exceptional—better than I had expected. I've decided that I want you to create something more personal for my family. I want portraits of myself, Tristan, and Aurora." His voice resonated with authority, yet there was a glint of genuine appreciation in his eyes.
Dave's heart raced ever so slightly; he was well aware of the significance of a portrait in the eyes of nobility. "It would be an honor, my lord," he replied with a respectful bow, albeit his mind churned with the implications. This was the publicity he wanted—the chance to capture their essence on canvas.
The Count smiled broadly, clearly pleased. "Good. But there is also another matter. I've decided that you will teach Aurora the art of painting. She is of an age where she must learn the finer arts, and I see no reason to bring in a foreign tutor when we have someone of your skill already in our household."
Dave suppressed a surge of triumph, forcing his expression to remain humble. This was the opening he had been waiting for. "As you wish, my lord. I will teach her everything I know." He could feel sparks of happiness igniting in his chest, each promise of opportunity coursing through him.
Tristan, standing beside his father, crossed his arms tightly, his expression as hardened as stone. He had yet to fully let go of his skepticism but remained silent at the Count's insistence. For now, at least, Dave had earned his trust—or, at the very least, his tolerance.
As the Count turned to Aurora, his demeanor softened. "What do you think, my dear? Would you be interested in learning from him?" His voice took on a gentler tone, one that showed he cherished his daughter's opinions.
Aurora's gaze shifted to Dave. She had heard the whispers from the maids, the insistent gossip about the handsome young servant with piercing blue eyes. The rumors had sounded exaggerated at first, mere fabrications of idle minds. Yet now, standing before him, she found herself unexpectedly captivated.
He was indeed handsome, with black hair that framed his face and striking blue eyes that seemed to venture deep into her very soul. His posture was confident yet unassuming, and there was something in his demeanor—an aura, a presence—that made looking away feel almost impossible. The flickering candles cast shadows that danced across his features, making him appear almost ethereal.
Aurora's heart skipped a beat, the moment stretching in silence as she realized she had been staring for too long. She quickly composed herself, reminding herself that he was just a servant, nothing more. But the magnetic pull between them unsettling.