Edric stood at the gates of the mansion, with Lyra by his side. Gathering his courage, he stepped forward and caught the attention of a guard.

The guard stepped closer, the iron bars still between them. “You there! Are you loitering, or do you have business here?” he demanded, his voice firm. He gave them both a sharp look, lingering a moment longer on her.

Can you make it any more obvious? Edric almost rolled his eyes. Before he could speak, Lyra tapped him on the arm.

“Good luck,” she whispered, then headed back down the path they had come from. All the grease from their magical experiment was completely gone.

“I’m here for the apprentice butler position… sir!” Edric finally managed, adopting the formal air he imagined people in this district expected. Damn, sucking up like this is humiliating.

The guard narrowed his eyes, clearly doubting Edric belonged here. Yet he opened the gate, leaving Edric standing there, stunned that this was truly happening.

“Get moving,” the guard barked, jerking Edric back to reality. Stepping inside, Edric tried not to stare at the perfectly trimmed hedges and marble statues.

“You’ll wait here until further instruction,” the guard ordered, pointing to a small square of gravel near the entrance. Edric walked over and settled into place, determined to prove he could endure even the dullest tasks.

Minutes stretched on. Edric tried not to fidget, but his legs began to cramp from standing so long. He didn’t dare ask how much longer; the last thing he wanted was to appear weak.

Just as he contemplated giving in, two figures emerged from the mansion. One was a well-dressed butler, the perfect example of elegance; the other, a man with downcast eyes who looked as if he had just failed a critical test.

The rejected applicant shot Edric a bitter glare, as if he was sure Edric would fail, just like he did. A guard briskly escorted the dejected candidate away while the butler turned his attention to Edric.

“My, how did a young man like you find his way here?” the butler asked, arching an eyebrow.

Edric straightened. “Pleasure to meet you! I’m Edric, here to be an apprentice butler,” he said, forcing an enthusiastic smile. He gave a short bow and offered his hand, remembering all he’d heard about fancy etiquette.

Though slightly puzzled by the gesture, the butler shook Edric’s hand. “Hoh! What a polite young gentleman,” he said. “You’ll make a fine butler… should you succeed.” With that, he turned toward the mansion’s entrance.

Taking the hint, Edric followed a few steps behind, doing his best to keep his head high and his posture straight. He could almost feel his heart hammering in his chest as the enormity of their plan crashed down on him. Easy. I’ve kicked drunks out of the tavern before—for extra drinks, this should be similar right?

The butler led him across polished stone pathways and meticulously trimmed lawns.

Edric followed the butler into a wide marble foyer, with high ceilings trimmed in gold leaf. He tried not to gape at the luxurious surroundings, reminding himself that a proper butler should look calm. The butler paused by a mahogany side table, where a crystal vase overflowed with fresh lilies.

“First impressions are vital,” the butler said, his voice crisp. He pointed toward a crystal vase perched on a nearby side table. “Carry that vase to the sitting room without spilling a drop.”

Edric stepped forward. The vase felt fragile in his hands, and the water within threatened to slosh over the rim with each step he took. Heart pounding, he advanced down a hallway, his eyes locked on the shifting water. Don’t drop it, don’t drop it. When he finally set the vase on a gleaming sideboard in the next room, he let out a silent breath of relief.

The butler strode in behind him. “Not terrible.” He brushed a speck of dust off his sleeve, then gestured to a set of silverware on a nearby table. “Next, arrange these utensils for a formal dining setting—knife, fork, spoon. Proper angles, no fingerprints, no smudges.”

Edric nodded firmly. He recalled what Lyra had told him, just in case he needed this—knife on the right, fork on the left, spoon placed just so. Hands trembling, he polished each utensil with a cloth and arranged them with painstaking care. When the butler returned, Edric straightened, hoping his work would measure up.

The butler ran one gloved finger over the silverware, checking for spots. “Adequate,” he said. “I see potential, but a butler must show unwavering composure. Let’s see how you greet a guest.”

Edric’s stomach twisted with nerves, but he squared his shoulders. Without warning, the butler stepped in front of him as if he’d just entered from outside. Edric bowed politely, introduced himself in a confident tone, and offered a courteous smile. It felt forced, yet he pushed his anxiety aside and held the pose.

“Better than most,” the butler said. “But your nerves betray you. A proper butler must show no uncertainty—no hesitation, no fidgeting. That can be learned, assuming you have the willingness to practice.”

Edric swallowed hard. “I do, sir,” he said. Even if I have to pretend every second.

Silence settled between them, broken only by the ticking of a nearby clock. The butler studied Edric for a moment, as though weighing the sum of his performance. Finally, he nodded firmly.

“Come with me,” he said, turning on his heel. “We will speak with the master of the house about your future here. I remain unconvinced, yet you possess a determination that may serve you well.”

His words were neither praise nor condemnation, but Edric took heart in them just the same. He followed the butler back through the splendid corridors and reminded himself with every step: if he remained steady, the rest of his plan could take shape. He inhaled once to calm his nerves, then lifted his chin and prepared for whatever came next. No messing up now—just keep playing the polite apprentice. Once we get what we need, we’ll vanish…

The two of them headed down the mansion’s corridor until they reached a door that seemed no more special than any other. Edric wouldn’t have given it a second glance, but the butler stopped and knocked in a way so refined that Edric couldn’t help but notice.

“Enter,” said a firm voice beyond the door. The butler turned the handle and opened it.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Edric stepped into the study and noticed how plain it felt compared to the rest of the opulent mansion. The shelves were lined with books, their spines well-worn. A simple wooden desk stood near the window—no ornate carvings or gilded edges in sight. It could have belonged to any modest scholar, not the master of a grand estate. But the room felt tense, as if something big was about to happen.

Then the door behind him shut.

“Take a seat,” the man said, his voice measured. He had striking white hair, yet he appeared younger than Edric had expected. He gestured to a chair in front of the desk and then opened a drawer, producing a fresh pack of cards.

Edric blinked in surprise. “Spellbrand,” he said, managing to sound only half as astonished as he felt. Then he realized he had spoken aloud. “I—sorry—”

“No need to apologize,” the man said. “I take it you’re familiar with this game?”

Edric cleared his throat. “I’ve played it a few times at the local market stalls, yes,” he lied. In truth, he had played the game hundreds—if not thousands—of times.

“How refreshing. My political associates are too proud to indulge in something of this caliber,” he said with a small smile. “To a fair match.” He stretched out his hand, and Edric shook it.

Wait, wasn’t this guy supposed to be evil? Why is he smiling so casually? Weren’t bad guys meant to scowl?

That tiny surprise left Edric momentarily off-balance. Rhyden had already taken his seat and was opening the card pack. His imposing aura still pervaded the room, though Edric couldn’t tell if it was truly real or if he was simply overthinking.

Rhyden tapped a knuckle on the fresh deck of cards. “Shall we begin?” he asked smoothly.

Edric’s heart was pounding with anticipation. Spellbrand was a game he knew well—just never under such high stakes. The polished desk seemed too plain for a master of this grand estate, and that dissonance only heightened Edric’s nerves.

Rhyden deftly shuffled the cards, sending them flashing in quick arcs between his hands. He began dealing the cards, his gaze never leaving Edric’s face. “I trust you’re aware that Spellbrand is never just about luck. It’s about anticipating your opponent’s next move before he even thinks to make it.”

They each started with a small hand of cards, and Edric examined his. Despite his nerves, he had spent countless hours in dusty tavern corners honing his skill far beyond what he cared to admit. Focus. Just play it safe for a round. His first move was cautious but clever, placing a modest card to hint he lacked stronger ones.

Rhyden studied him, then laid down a higher-value card, forcing Edric to choose between conceding the round or playing a powerful card too soon. Edric decided to fold, allowing Rhyden the minor victory.

“Interesting,” Rhyden remarked, drawing another card. “Why hold back? You strike me as more direct.”

Edric shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “No point in revealing everything early, right?”

Rhyden chuckled quietly. “Indeed.” He tapped a finger on the table, then played a pair of cards that would outmaneuver most novices.

But Edric was no novice. With a deft movement, he placed a counter that nullified Rhyden’s advantage. Surprise flickered across Rhyden’s face before he offered a cordial nod. Edric’s heart soared. Perhaps his nerves had been misplaced. Got him. This might actually work out.

Another round began. This time, Edric led with a high card that gained a potent bonus effect, shoving Rhyden into a corner. The older man drew in a breath, as if to say he’s taking the game seriously now.

Emboldened by success, Edric found his hand improving even more. Each card felt like a perfect fit, each strategy clicking into place. Before long, he was scoring points round after round. Even Rhyden’s calm composure took on a sharper edge.

Edric drew a slow breath, trying to calm the wild rhythm pounding in his chest. I’m actually winning. With every card he played, Edric felt his confidence soar. His strategies came together with uncanny ease, as though guided by some hidden hand.

Amid this rush of triumph, however, a strange doubt clung to his mind like a whisper he couldn’t quite catch. It urged him to watch Rhyden more closely. Something in the man’s steady gaze and poised posture made Edric’s skin prickle. But Spellbrand demanded focus, and he pushed the feeling aside while vowing to stay on guard.

“Your confidence is impressive,” Rhyden remarked, placing a card that threatened to lock Edric’s next draw. His voice was smooth—almost pleasant—and it made Edric’s nerves tingle.

Edric studied the move. A straightforward response would backfire if he played an obvious counter. After years of hustling, he recognized a trap when he saw one. He feigned a moment of hesitation—knitting his brow and drawing a shallow breath—then laid a lower-value card to entice Rhyden into attacking too soon. By sacrificing a minor round, Edric earned the advantage for the next.

“Very good,” Rhyden said, tapping a finger on the table. His approving tone sounded genuine, yet it made Edric’s stomach twist. “You have a knack for thinking beyond the usual lines. Or...”

Rhyden paused, arching a brow, “perhaps you’ve had more practice than you claim.” Rhyden’s remark made Edric’s pulse quicken. “I—I picked up a few tricks here and there,” he said.

“That friend you arrived with—an elf, was she not?” he asked, almost offhandedly.

Edric stiffened, a ripple of alertness shooting through him. Images of Lyra’s pointed ears and easy smile flickered in his mind. “Yes she is.” Why does he care about Lyra so suddenly?

Rhyden’s lips curved in a mild, unreadable smile. “I see.”

Yet as he reached for the right play an odd heaviness crept over his thoughts the moment he spoke. Focus… what’s happening? His fingers suddenly felt clumsy. He pressed his lips together, determined not to lose focus. This final round could seal his victory, so why did he suddenly feel so uncertain?

Nerves, he told himself. Or am I panicking because I’m so close?

Across the table, Rhyden seemed perfectly calm. He extended an elegant hand and placed a card that, moments ago, Edric would have recognized as a bluff. Now, Edric couldn’t be so sure. He wavered, reliving every humiliating loss he’d ever suffered in the tavern. Sweat beaded on his brow as he laid down a weak counter, practically giving Rhyden the round.

Rhyden’s lips curved in a small smile. “Feeling the pressure?” he asked mildly.

Edric’s cheeks grew hot. He had to pull it together. “I’m fine,” he murmured, fighting the suffocating sense that something was nudging him to fail. Why does it feel like he’s in my head?

He drew his next card, but an unsettling swirl in his mind scrambled his usual instincts. This time, Rhyden played a brilliant combination that cornered Edric for the round. He had one last chance to retaliate—one final round of cards.

Rhyden watched him with that poised, unwavering stare. Time stretched uncomfortably. Finally, Edric closed his eyes. Maybe if I stroke his ego he might let up a bit…

“You’re really backing me into a corner here,” Edric said with a shaky laugh. “Go easy on me.” For just an instant, Rhyden’s hand twitched.

Then his composure returned. The two of them were now tied—each with two wins—so the next round would decide the entire match.

Edric glanced at his hand, which looked mediocre at best. Still, he focused on steadying his breathing. He could almost sense an odd weight pressing on him, an urge to blunder that flared whenever he considered a strong move. These damn nerves! he told himself, forcing the distraction away.

When Rhyden laid the first card for this climactic round, it was strong but somehow ill-timed. Edric’s eyes narrowed. Is he genuinely misplaying, or is he just baiting me? Keeping a firm grip on his cards, Edric played a decent combo—not perfect, but far from careless. He refused to let his nerves drive him into a worse mistake.

Yet each time Rhyden countered, his cards came out in the strangest sequence, as though he were setting himself up to lose. These were excellent cards put to bafflingly poor use. The thought buzzed in Edric’s mind: Is he really going easy on me?

He decided not to question his luck. Pressing the advantage, he built up a solid chain of moves until his final card landed with a satisfying snap. Rhyden’s last card couldn’t stand against it, and Edric tasted victory.

Edric looked up. Rhyden was staring at him, eyes steady and unreadable. Why go easy on me if you’re going to glare at me afterward?

“Um, good match!” Edric said, extending his hand with an awkward smile. Rhyden shook it—this time more firmly than before—and Edric’s stomach flipped at the intensity of his grip.

“You’re a strong player,” Edric offered hastily, scratching the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have won if you hadn’t… well… gone easy on me there at the end.”

Rhyden released his hand and stood. “All right,” he said, his voice steady, “you pass.”

Edric blinked, stunned. That was the interview? Aren’t there meant to be questions?