Second lieutenant Tyrus Hadjen tried to maintain his composure as he walked into the Willowood estate. Gawking would have earned his father's ire, yet he couldn't keep himself from looking around in amazement.
This wasn't his first time on a noble estate, but this one had a magnificent beauty and exuded an alluring warmth that the others lacked. As Tyrus took in the beauty of his surroundings, a twisted thought suddenly entered his mind. Tyrus clenched his fist and shook his head forcefully, trying to rid himself of the maddening impulse to burn down the entire estate. A sigh escaped him as the thought finally dissipated. Ever since he gained a seal two days ago, Tyrus had been struggling with the overwhelming desire to engulf the world in flames.
He turned his gaze away from the tempting leaves and focused on his father's—no, commander's—broad back, which was occupied by a gleaming black sword, before turning to look at the spine-chilling raven perched on his shoulders.
The familiar stared back at him; it's black eyes gleaming with an ominous light caused Tyrus to shudder. Those eyes had been a constant in his life, a witness to every terrible memory. He shook his head again and pulled his mind away from the cesspool that was his memories to focus once more on his surroundings.
They stepped into the main hall a few minutes later, led by a maid who kept glancing back at the commander in fear. He couldn't blame her; even he feared the man. They wound their way through the Willowood mansion, taking several twists and turns. However, as the saying goes, 'all good things must come to an end,' their peaceful journey came to an abrupt end as they approached the banquet hall.
One of the guards standing by the door stretched a hand to halt their approach and said, “You cannot go in with your weapon, sir. You either have to drop it outside here or keep it in a restricted storage.”
Tyrus swallowed nervously as he waited for the commander to explode. If there was one thing the man hated, it was being told what to do by those he considered lesser than himself. Still, the guard was right. Entering a noble event with a weapon strapped to your back was not only frowned upon; it could also be seen as a threat to said family.
The commander knew this. Raol's beard! Even a street urchin knew it, but Tyrus had learned a long time ago never to volunteer advice to his father except when expressly asked to do so, which rarely happened.
Tyrus was almost certain that the commander had forgotten that the weapon was strapped to his back and was now embarrassed to admit that, despite being in the advanced class, he was still prone to a temporary lapse in memory.
Rather than apologize and heed the guard's instructions like any sane person would have done, Commander Hadjen glared at the guard, who, to his credit, managed not to flinch when the commander's deathly gaze landed on him.
“How dare you speak to me in such a manner?” The commander growled, and Tyrus flinched slightly, even though the commander's ire wasn't directed at him this time.
As if the situation wasn't bad enough, the second guard interfered. “Apologies, commander Hadjen. These are just standard protocols.”
“I know the protocols.” The commander snapped. “And I planned to heed those protocols just before this idiot tried to lecture me.”
The stout guard glared at the commander, unintimidated. “I'm only doing my job, sir. You shouldn't even have been allowed into the mansion with that weapon. I'll have to speak to my soldiers once again about the importance of following orders.”
The other guard tried to calm things down, but it was obvious to Tyrus that the commander was offended by the stout guard's lack of cowardice. Fortunately, the guards weren't that much weaker than the commander, so what would normally have devolved into a brutal fight turned into a violent exchange of words instead.
Tyrus contemplated stepping in, but he knew that would only further anger the commander. Besides, he was only at the 24th tier; what good was he against two high-level advanced guards?
Realizing the foolishness of helping, Tyrus stood back and waited. The screaming match continued for the next few minutes, and at one point, even Gorith, the commander's familiar, joined in, cawing at the guards and spewing black smoke from its mouth.
As one, they all turned to glare at the familiar, even the commander, and the next instant, Gorith disappeared, banished into the commander's spirit. Regardless of his station, even the commander knew that using any sort of offensive ability within a noble house was a crime he couldn't get away with. The only reason they hadn't been dragged out by a battalion of guards yet was because the commander was known and respected, both as a guest and as an acquaintance of the Willowoods.
Just as the argument began to escalate, the door was pushed open from within, and they all turned to see a crowd of almost two hundred people staring at them.
Tyrus flushed red with embarrassment, but a quick activation of {Fiery Heart} burned the emotion to ashes. The commander, on the other hand, flushed a deep purple, both from maddened anger and embarrassment. Still, he held his head high, his gaze unflinching, and like any dutiful son, Tyrus moved to stand with the commander. Rather than appreciate the emotional support, the commander turned to glare at him as if to say, ‘Now you show up'.
Tyrus winced and looked away. Seriously, there was no winning with the man. Rather than respond, as that would only aggravate the commander, Tyrus focused his gaze on their approaching host, Baron Nikolai Willowood.
“Hadjen.” The baron called out, his expression tinged with distaste. “I see you haven't lost your penchant for trouble, despite all these years.”
The commander stiffened at the subtle insult, and in a rare display of meekness, he finally placed the sword into a restricted spatial space, which he handed to the guard, although his expression was as dark as a storm cloud.
The commander bowed to the baron, and Tyrus followed suit. Regardless of his father's status in the military, he was still a commoner, and it would be the height of disrespect to insult the baron by not bowing.
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Baron Nikolai glared at them for a moment before gesturing for them to come into the hall, restoring a bit of the commander's dignity. They walked into the hall a moment later, and Tyrus instinctively activated {Fiery Sight}. It was a new skill that allowed him to see the heat signatures of people and objects. His eyes roamed the crowd of people who had turned their attention away from them to more interesting topics. He observed the sea of green, red, and orange heat signatures with mild interest, but as his gaze reached the far left corner of the banquet hall, he came to a sudden halt and frowned.
Standing with a group of bright red and gold heat signatures stood a small column of void in human form. The figure was completely devoid of heat yet alive. Confused, Tyrus deactivated the skill, and his eyes widened both in relief and surprise as he took in the arrogant face of a noble he had once saved. Arnold Frostbourne.
….
Daruk froze—although that was technically impossible—as his gaze locked with that of Tyrus, and Aodhán cursed softly.
Mumbling a quick goodbye to Roshan and Derindale, Aodhán pulled Daruk and Drew aside, hiding them behind a group of cackling women.
"Okay,” Daruk let out a deep breath and pulled himself together. “Do you have any ideas on how we can get out of this mess?”
Aodhán scowled. “I do not pull ideas out of a hat, Daruk.”
“Of course you do.” Daruk retorted, his gaze darting around the room as he tried to keep tabs on the lieutenant.
“Okay, can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Andrew asked, and Daruk hissed. “We're screwed, is what's going on.”
"Uhm, hello, you, not we.” Aodhán corrected with a snort. “I highly doubt our favorite lieutenant would recognize me even if my face hadn’t been concealed the last time we'd met.”
Daruk's gaze widened as he realized the truth in Aodhán's words. “You're not going to feed me to the wolves, are you?”
“Of course not.” Aodhán snorted. “Althoigh, I have half a mind to do just that, especially after you betrayed me and exposed my relationship with Lupin to Synové yesterday.”
Daruk's gaze turned apologetic, but before he could respond, Andrew whispered. “Not to burst your bubble, guys, but I think the lieutenant is heading towards us.”
Daruk and Aodhán turned to see Tyrus Hadjen walking straight towards them, despite the fact that they were still hidden behind the group of cackling women.
“Okay…uh” Daruk scrambled, his usual composure cracking. “I do not like to swear, but I believe this warrants a very good fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
“That’s a little excessive.” Andrew tittered, but Aodhán just shook his head, trying to come up with a viable solution to their current dilemma. When Tyrus neared and he still hadn't found any, he whispered to Daruk. “Okay, get in character. We don't have a solution yet, but you're still a noble—”
“What?” Andrew exclaimed in confusion.
—and Arnold Frostbourne would not be intimidated by a simple lieutenant.”
After that, he turned to Andrew and said, “Play along.”
Daruk took in a deep breath, and as he let it out, his bearing shifted, his back straightened, his erratic breaths evened out, and his face became etched with the familiar arrogance of nobility.
In an instant, Daruk had transformed from his usual self into a noble of high station. His imitation of nobility had been superb before, but now, after spending so much time with and among them, it was perfect.
He snagged a drink from a passing servant and waved them off without even looking. Andrew glanced at him in surprise and confusion, but fortunately didn't ask any questions and simply moved to stand beside Daruk, who was eyeing the approaching lieutenant with a gaze that would have sent a weaker man scrambling.
Tyrus, though, remained unaffected, and when he closed the distance between them, he bowed. "Greetings, Lord Willowood. Lord Frostbourne.” His gaze turned to Aodhán, who was standing slightly behind Daruk and Andrew.
"Apologies, my lord, but I'm unfamiliar with your name.”
“Call me Aodhán.” Aodhán replied curtly, slightly uncomfortable that he was being addressed as a lord, although he had to admit that it felt nice.
Tyrus nodded and turned his gaze back to Daruk. “I'm surprised to see you here, Lord Frostbourne. I thought—
“Why is that?” Daruk cut him off and raised an eyebrow. “This is after all a noble event, and as you well know, I am a noble. If anyone is to be surprised, it is I.”
“Right, yes.” Tyrus stuttered. “Apologies, I'm here with my father, commander Hadjen. I just came to say hello.”
“I see.” Daruk smiled and turned to Andrew, whose gaze was darting from Aodhán to the lieutenant in confusion. “This is the man I told you about, the lieutenant who saved me and my retainer a few months ago from that terrible island.”
For someone who was completely clueless about the entire story, Andrew managed to respond appropriately, reminding Aodhán once again that regardless of his crass exterior, Andrew was still a noble.
“Ah, Lieutenant Hadjen.” Andrew extended a hand in greeting. “I've heard so much about your bravery and dedication. You're indeed an asset to our precious kingdom.”
Tyrus blinked and blushed. “Thank you, my lord. I am forever willing to serve.”
“Where are you currently serving?” Andrew asked, and Tyrus immediately replied, his posture morphing into one almost resembling a salute. “The border plains of conquestia, my lord. Sector 7.”
Andrew nodded, seemingly impressed by Tyrus's response, but before the conversation could take an unnecessary turn, Daruk cut in. “That's good. Also, I spoke to my father, and although he's not here now, he's still very willing to repay you for saving me. The question now is how you would like to be repaid. Money? Land? Women?”
Aodhán sputtered, his gaze widening slightly as he glanced worriedly at Daruk, who remained poised, the perfect image of nobility and superiority.
“I…” Tyrus opened his mouth to speak and then shut it. His gaze darted to his father before returning to them. “I have no need for money, land, or women, my lord.” He whispered. “What I want is to be transferred from Camp Conquestia to another.”
Andrew frowned. “Why? Are you unsatisfied with your current company?”
“It's a matter of personal interest, my lord. I would be able to serve the kingdom better if I were to be transferred under a different commander.”
“I see.” Daruk responded, exchanging a glance with Aodhán before proceeding. “Well, it has been a pleasure to meet you once again, Lieutenant Hadjen. I'll relay your request to my father, and we'll see what we can do.”
Tyrus hesitated, as if he had something else to say, but he shook his head and bowed instead. As he turned to leave, though, Daruk said to him, “Oh, and call me Daruk. Let's discard the titles for tonight.”
Tyrus nodded. “As you wish, Lord... Daruk.”
Tyrus left a moment later, and when he was finally out of earshot, Aodhán hissed. “Are you crazy? What if he'd asked for money, land, or women? We don't have any of that.”
“It was a spur-of-the moment thing.” Daruk hissed back. “I had to make it look convincing.”
“By suggesting what we don't have?”
“We don't have anything!” Daruk gritted out, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of the women they were hiding behind. “This whole thing is a farce. Besides, I have to remind you that the whole Arnold Frostbourne character was your idea in the first place.”
Aodhán glared at him, but before he could speak up, Daruk continued. “It doesn't matter anyway. He didn't pick any of the options, so we can just go back to forgetting he exists until such a time when we meet him again.”
Aodhán grimaced, not liking that option at all. The lieutenant had helped them, and since they'd promised to repay him, it was only right that they did.
“So... would anyone like to clue me in?” Daruk asked after a moment of silence. “I still have no idea what the fuck is going on. Also, who is Arnold Frostbourne?”
Aodhán exchanged a glance with Daruk and sighed. “It seems we have a lot to tell you. We—”
Before he could continue, the large doors at each end of the front of the hall opened, and a long, decorated table rolled in, filled with a myriad of delicacies. The tables were pushed in by dozens of servants, with more still carrying several plates of food and jugs of wine. The aroma of meat, rice, and hot sauce soon filled the air, causing the crowd to raise a cheer in merriment.
The crowd parted to let the tables through, and a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Andrew announced. “Let the celebrations begin!”