As the young lady and the nobleman traversed the hallways, his eyes were drawn to the state of the walls and floors—spotless and clean, as though the mansion had undergone a recent renovation. The windows were pristine and unbroken. The walls stood durable and proud, defying the years that had passed. The absence of cobwebs and small creatures almost convinced the nobleman that this was a newly erected mansion.

He continued to gaze at the unbelievable cleanliness and condition of the estate, his mouth agape with incredulity. His mind was thoroughly bewildered by how a person of her calibre—with a small number of servants barely exceeding a hundred, could maintain such impeccable, almost unreal, cleanliness and order in the mansion. Everything seemed ethereal to his eyes.

The nobleman rubbed his eyes and halted his pace for a few seconds, composing himself to hide his envy towards the young lady. Even with his abundance of wealth and influence, he could never achieve such a level of hygiene in any of his own manors. He surveyed his surroundings once more, ensuring his vision was not playing tricks and that everything he had seen was indeed real.

Eventually, he found himself staring at a massive portrait hung on the wall, seemingly blending in with the layer of white paint. Ordinary and unremarkable, the painting appeared to hold little significance—yet it was the only one he had encountered during his time following the young lady.

The nobleman squinted, examining the characters within the portrait. A rectangular wooden frame with a layer of thin glass enclosed the piece of paper inside. Three humanoid figures were sketched on the paper: two adults and one child. The faces of the adults were somewhat blurry, almost as if the materials used to paint them had deteriorated. Yet the child's face remained pristine, unblemished, and untainted despite the relentless passage of time.

The two adults possessed brown-coloured hair and were dressed neatly yet humbly. Meanwhile, standing between them was the girl. A jovial smile etched onto her face, her lustrous blonde hair cascading down her and her pair of stunning blue eyes that seemed otherworldly. Although it was only for a split second, the nobleman felt as though the “emotions” the girl in the painting was conveying were genuine.

His right arm stretched forward in an attempt to probe this seemingly insignificant yet enigmatic painting. However, he hurriedly withdrew his hand away, trembling slightly to have been tricked by such stupefying creation. His breathing became unsteady as he chuckled inwardly—amused by everything he had witnessed so far. Such small manor, yet within it held secrets even he thought were impossible.

“The creator of this painting must have been someone with extraordinary skills.” The nobleman remarked, composing himself as he stared at the young lady who wore an indifference expression on her face.

“Yes…that person was the greatest painter I knew. Nevertheless, we are not here to talk about the painter now, are we? Let's not be distracted by other matters now.” She responded with a hint of aloofness in her voice before gesturing at him and resumed heading to their destination.

A few minutes passed by, and the both of them—including the guards accompanying the nobleman—soon entered a seemingly empty chamber with barely any furniture placed. In the middle of the room laid an old, wooden table with a pair of settees opposites to one another. The settees, once vibrant and brilliant, now looked dull and desaturated. The intense shade of crimson red that used to cover the seats—reduced to a mere shade of brown associated with filth. The excruciatingly delicate details inscribed onto the wooden parts of the settee were now barely noticeable, worn away by time.

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At the far left corner of the room sat an old, almost ancient-looking clock with its glass shattered to smithereens, yet the clock somehow remained functional despite its age and apparent deterioration. Wood flakes continuously fell from its frame and caused the clock to appear as though it was nearing its end. The long hand attached to the piece of machinery moved slowly, each movement accompanied by a sound that bore an uncanny resemblance to a rusty, decaying machine long past its usage.

Meanwhile, opposite to the timer—situated in the far right corner of the room was a withering, half-broken and unusable wooden closet that had succumbed to its inevitable corrosion. While the other half that had yet to be consumed—clung desperately to survive the cruelty of time. At the same time, positioned on the right side of the wall—a single, lonely candle was burning with a soft, reddish hue that gave vision to the people presented despite it hardly producing any source of light worthy of a noble to possess.

The nobleman scowled at the sight before him. He, a man of great calibre and clearly a superior being among all the citizens within the Chetiz Empire—apart from the emperor himself—felt utterly insulted to have been given this level of treatment, the same degree of comfort a slave would be granted if they were deemed unsuitable for combat or provide even the slightest value to him. This peculiar type of room, in the nobleman's eyes, was a place meant for people to rot alive—not a room designed for any form of verbal communication.

He glared at the young lady, hostility lingering in his eyes as his mouth began stretching wide open slowly. To his disbelief however, the words he wanted to let out, the desire he yearned to express—all came to an abrupt halt as he saw the young lady nonchalantly descended onto the old settee opposite to the nobleman. Her expression remained neutral yet there seems to be a hint of nostalgia as she stared down at the once soft and delicate cushions.

"You shouldn't judge certain things solely based on their outer appearance." She uttered in a serene tone, bringing the nobleman out from his shocked state before continuing.

"These settees might be old and worn-out... but they're still useable at the end of the day. Well, I suppose this idle talk of mine doesn't mean much to a man who treats people's lives like insects." The lady shot a glare at the seemingly unconcerned man standing before her.

He scoffed at her words. "Yes, you're right. I don't care about people's lives. Why should I? After all, those soldiers of mine are nothing more than mere pawns. Only us nobles and royalties should be allowed to govern the world. So I can't help but to hate the fact that you, a child with the blood of commoners flowing within your veins, dares to act like a proper aristocrat?

"You should've continued hiding, you should've abandoned your title. If it weren't for the fact that the previous duke hadn't adopted you, or died before they could conceive a son, you would've been crawling beneath my feet right now."

The nobleman stared daggers at the young lady, slightly infuriated by her still cool and composed expression she had.

"With that said, I'm not here to argue today, nor am I here to attack you. That's for another time. I'm here to...as disgusting it is for me, make a trade with you.”

The mistress’s pupils widened, her breathing erratic yet she desperately tried to compose herself in front of the man who saw her as nothing more than a pretender.

‘It couldn't be…no, it shouldn't’ She begged inwardly, silence ensuing momentarily before the man finally continued.

“You see, my ever so precious, and beloved daughter…found herself wanting…one of your most prominent jewels you have in your possession. And, as her father…I shan't fail her.”

The word ‘jewel’ struck deep into the young lady's heart. Emotions of despair, hopelessness and melancholy immediately surged forth. This was the situation she feared the most—more than being accused of treason, more than being beaten, more than being captured—the utterly, most terrifying, horrendous words she would rather die than to hear.

Her breath quickened even further, her mind racing with futile solutions—endeavouring to come up with a method, an answer that could pull her out of this unfortunate encounter of theirs. Alas, nothing proved to be even slightly useful, and all that she could do—was to embrace herself for that impending sentence he would let slip from his lips—those cursed words she feared greatly.

“My daughter…she yearns for that special, peculiar made of yours…Florin. Give her to me.”

...