The first thing Silas noticed was warmth.

Strange, given the estate’s drafty halls and crumbling windows.

He blinked, stirring on the battered sofa in the reading room.

A blanket, thin but surprisingly soft, had been draped over him, warding off the chill of night. An actual plush, velvety blanket, was surprisingly clean and definitely more comfortable than the old couch.

He rubbed his eyes and sat up, he felt confused and the lingering ache of stiff muscles.

Who…? Then it hit him.

“Good morning, young master.”

Boneregard stood at the edge of the couch, a tray balanced perfectly in his bony hands. The skeletal butler’s suit and monocle were immaculate, despite the half-collapsed condition of the lounge.

“Breakfast,” he announced, voice calm and formal.

Silas blinked again. After everything that happened, holy water, scythes, spectral arms, he hadn’t expected breakfast in bed from the same skeleton who’d tried to add him to the “garden bones” pile.

“What, what is this?” Silas asked.

Boneregard stepped back with the breakfast tray. “Breakfast, as I said young lord, I took the liberty of rummaging through the manor’s pantries. A small courtesy. I trust you slept tolerably?”

Silas glanced around.

The lounge looked the same as before: ruined shelves, dusty floor. But the air felt less oppressive in the daylight streaming through the cracked windows.

“I guess,” he said. “Did you put this blanket on me while I was out?”

The skeleton butler inclined his head. “I found a trunk of leftover linens in a storeroom and thought you’d appreciate not freezing to death in your own estate. I may not need warmth, but you do.”

Boneregard set the tray on a low table, one of the few that wasn’t collapsed. “Please, help yourself. The tea may be slightly subpar, but I managed to unearth a few fresh leaves in the pantry. The kitchens are not as derelict as one might fear, my lord. Some stores remain sealed by preservation wards. And I found a stray beehive in the courtyard for the honey. As for the biscuits, they’re, ah, an old supply. I reheated them ."

Silas eyed the biscuits, noticing a distinct shape to them, slightly rough around the edges, but otherwise normal. “A beehive in the courtyard, huh.”

Boneregard nodded. "Though the bees did not appreciate my collecting techniques, but I assured them it was for the rightful owner.”.”

Silas eyed the plate. The biscuits looked suspiciously intact, golden-brown and drizzled with glistening honey. They smelled delicious, which was at odds with everything else in this decrepit place.

Silas tugged the blanket around his shoulders, taking a biscuit warily. The honey smelled rich and sweet after days of living off crusts and whatever he could scrounge in the outer ring.

He bit into the biscuit.

Flaky, a touch stale, but the honey drizzle covered up for it and it was certainly better than the hard bead he'd eaten before, or even the foodless days in Dolan.

His stomach growled, reminding him how long it had been since his last real meal.

He shut his eyes, and enjoyed the moment. When he looked up, Boneregard poured tea, steam rising in the cold morning air.

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Silas took the offered cup, testing it with care.

The tea was darker than the weak brews he knew from street vendors, likely some aged blend from the estate's stores. Still, the hot liquid soothed his raw throat.

Silas stared ahead and blinked.

A skeleton butler serving breakfast, honey-drizzled biscuits, and proper tea - all in a half-ruined estate filled with murderous creatures. The contrast felt jarring after years of fighting for scraps in Dolan's streets.

He took another bite of the biscuit, savoring the sweetness.

"My deepest apologies, young master, but I'm afraid we're rather limited on accompaniments," Boneregard said, adjusting his monocle. "The bees only had so much honey to spare, and I fear our sugar stores have long since spoiled. I shall endeavor to restock the pantry as soon as possible."

Silas nearly choked on his tea. Here he was, eating the first real breakfast he'd had in years, served by an undead butler who was apologizing for not having enough condiments. In a manor where something had tried to kill him less than a day ago.

He couldn't help it - he laughed.

"Trust me, Boneregard, this is better than anything I've had in a long time. The honey's perfect."

The skeleton's skull tilted slightly, as if processing this response. "I, I see. Nevertheless, proper tea service should include options. Perhaps we could negotiate with the bees for a more substantial arrangement."

Silas set down his cup. "Let's leave the bees alone for now. Once we sort out the finances, we can get proper sugar and honey from the market." He took another bite of the biscuit. "In Dolan, breakfast was whatever you could steal or scrounge up. Most days it was nothing at all."

The memory of those hungry mornings hit harder now, sitting in this fancy room with actual tea service. Back then, he'd counted himself lucky to find half-eaten bread in tavern trash.

"Sometimes the baker would sweep out burned crusts before dawn. If you got there first and the rats hadn't found them, you'd have breakfast." Silas shrugged. "Never had anything like this. Tea was for rich folk."

Boneregard's shoulders drooped, the first break in his perfect posture Silas had seen. The skeleton's head bowed slightly, monocle catching the morning light.

"I am sorry, young master, that you went through that."

The genuine sadness in the butler's voice caught Silas off guard. He hadn't meant to make the skeleton feel bad, it was just how things were.

"Young master," Boneregard cleared his throat with an odd, rasping sound. "I would speak with you about a pressing matter."

Silas lifted an eyebrow. "More pressing than the immediate debt or feral monsters?"

"In a sense." Boneregard set the empty teapot aside and picked up Silas's Summoner Orb from near the sofa. "That orb from the Magistrate is borrowed," he tapped the surface with a bony finger. "It offers you E-rank creatures only, many of which you've used rather creatively. But out there, beyond these walls, your challenges will grow."

The orb's faint mana pulsed in Silas's palm. He'd grown oddly fond of the Grey Owl and Salamander, but it was the truth, they weren't that strong. -

"I managed so far," Silas said.

"Yes, you did. But the city brings bigger enemies than back-alley tamers. And as caretaker, I cannot leave the estate's wards unguarded to follow you."

Silas frowned.

He remembered how he'd been chased through the city, and even the way he made enemies in the gambling den. If he planned on surviving outside of the estate, a handful of E-rank summons wouldn't cut it.

"So what do you propose?"

Boneregard clasped his hands together. "We must secure you a companion worthy of your bloodline. The estate's Summoning Chambers hold advanced contracts and potential creatures far beyond that orb's capacity. If you intend to survive, and repay these dreadful debts, you'll need something stronger, and far more worthy."

Silas drained the last of his tea. "These summoning chambers, that's where the bigger summonings happened?"

"Yes young lord." Boneregard nodded. "Though portions remain unstable since your grandfather's passing. We'll need to watch our step."

Silas set the cup down and pushed off the blanket. His muscles ached from sleeping on the old sofa, but he felt sharper after actual food and rest. "Show me."

"Finish your breakfast tea first, young master. There's no need to-" Boneregard's voice caught as Silas crammed the remaining biscuit into his mouth.

Silas grabbed the teacup, lukewarm now, and downed it in three quick swallows. Crumbs stuck to his chin. The butler's skeletal hands trembled, his monocle quivering in apparent distress.

"Young master, that's not... one must savor..." Boneregard's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I see table manners will need to be addressed at a later date."

Silas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. In Dolan, you ate fast or didn't eat at all. Someone bigger or meaner could snatch food right out of your hands if you weren't quick enough. He'd seen plenty of people get stabbed over half-eaten apples.

"Food's food," Silas said, brushing crumbs from his shirt. "And we've got work to do."

The butler's jaw clicked in what might have been a sigh. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it out. "At least clean your face properly, sir. There are standards to maintain, even in our current circumstances."

Silas took the cloth, and dabbed at his face, careful not to tear the delicate fabric.