Mathews waved a dismissive hand, his smile never wavering. "Ah, I see the surprise in your eyes. Perhaps I've given you too much credit."

With a gesture that was both grandiose and slightly patronizing, he ushered them towards a long velvet sofa that looked as if it could swallow them whole. The fabric was a deep crimson, the color of freshly spilled blood, and it was so soft that it seemed to whisper of comfort and deceit in equal measure. Castrol felt his boots sink into the plush carpet as they approached, the sensation eerily akin to stepping into quicksand. Yet, he took his place beside Millie, his eyes never leaving the nobleman's face, his hand hovering just above his sword.

"You see," Mathews began, his voice as smooth as the whiskey he poured into a pair of crystal tumblers, "we have all been blessed by fate. To be from the same village as the one chosen by the gods to lead us into a new age of prosperity...it is a destiny that cannot be ignored." His words were like a serpent, slithering through the air and coiling around their hearts, tightening their grip with every syllable.

Castrol took the proffered glass with a curt nod, his eyes never leaving Mathews's face. The amber liquid within swirled like liquid fire, a potent symbol of the passion that fueled their quest for truth. "Barley is indeed a place of significance," he said, his tone measured and calm. "Yet, I fear we may have different understandings of what this prophecy truly entails."

Mathews's smile remained, a chilling mask of condescension. "Ah, I'm sure we do," he said, his eyes gleaming in the flickering candlelight. "But fear not, my dear Castrol. I shall enlighten you." He took a sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid disappearing into the abyss of his mouth before he spoke again. "You see, the gods have chosen us, the noble few, to be the stewards of this new world."

Millie's eyes narrowed, the question forming on her lips before she could stop it. "Stewards?" she repeated, her voice as sharp as the edge of a dagger. "What, exactly, does that entail?"

Mathews took his time to respond, his gaze lingering on the amber whiskey in his hand as if the answer lay within its fiery depths. "It means," he said finally, his tone measured and deliberate, "that we shall be the ones to inherit the new world, to shape it in our image." His eyes flicked to Castrol, a challenge in their depths. "We shall be the ones granted eternal life, to watch over the lesser beings who cannot hope to ascend to our exalted state."

Castrol felt his hand tighten around the glass, his knuckles whitening. "And how," he asked, his voice as cold as the steel of his blade, "have you come to this conclusion?"

Mathews's smile grew, as if he enjoyed the challenge in Castrol's tone. He set his glass down on a nearby table with a delicate clink. "Ah, my dear Castrol," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "You truly are a man of the people. But fear not, for I shall enlighten." He turned to the servant boy who hovered at the edge of the room, his eyes wide with fear. "Another round of whiskey, if you please."

The boy nodded, his movements jerky, and fled from the room. The silence that followed was as palpable as the tension that coiled between them, a serpent waiting to strike. Lady Catherine watched the exchange with a gaze that was both curious and calculating, her fingers playing with the fabric of her gown as if she were plucking at the very strings of fate.

"But first," Mathews said, his voice as rich as the velvet curtains that shrouded the windows, "have you heard the old necessary rhyme?" His eyes gleamed with the same malicious delight as a cat watching a trapped mouse. "The one that speaks of how the blood of the nobles flows with the very essence of the gods?"

Castrol felt a sneer tug at the corner of his mouth. "A childhood tale," he spat, "meant to keep the masses in line. I am surprised you still cling to such nursery rhymes, Mathews."

Mathews's smile never wavered. "Ah, but it is no mere rhyme, Castrol," he said, leaning in conspiratorially. "It is truth, etched in the very tomes that line the hallowed halls of our faith. The Avaricians have always been the custodians of divine wisdom, and it is within these sacred texts that the true nature of our birthright is revealed."

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Castrol's eyes narrowed, his grip on the whiskey glass tightening until his knuckles turned white. "Surely you jest," he said, his voice as cold as the steel of his sword.

Mathews leaned back in his chair, a smug smile playing across his face. "I assure you, Castrol, I am quite serious. But fear not," he added, his tone dripping with patronizing condescension. "Even if i had reasons to lie to you, i wouldn't," he sighed dramatically.

"You see, Castrol" he began, his eyes glinting with a cold light, "Haven't you ever wondered why mages are only born from those of divine lineage?" He took another sip of whiskey, savoring the taste before continuing. "It's a question that has intrigued scholars and theologians for centuries: why are mages so rare, and why do they arise solely from our esteemed families?"

"Why, have the most powerful of mages in Avarician history always been born to families of higher nobility?" Mathews mused, his eyes glinting with the smugness of one who knows a secret that others do not. "It is a question that has been whispered in the hallowed halls of our great institutions for generations. A truth so profound, it has been buried beneath layers of dogma and tradition."

"Don't doubt the wisdom of the ancients," Mathews said, his tone smooth as silk. "They had a way of hiding truths in the most innocent of verses, truths that only those with the eyes to see would ever discover."

Castrol took a deep breath, his mind racing. He knew the rhyme well; it had been sung to him by his mother, a lullaby that had promised him greatness. But to think it was more than a mere story...he took a big swig of his whiskey, the fiery liquid burning down his throat, as if trying to consume the anger and disbelief that roiled within him. The whiskey's warmth spread through his chest, a stark contrast to the icy grip of the revelation.

"The truths of our world are being laid bare," Mathews continued, his voice a purr in the dimly lit library. "Why do we treat each other differently based on something as arbitrary as the blood in our veins?" He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "The answer is simple: because we are not all mere humans, Castrol. We are descendants of gods."

He paused, watching Castrol's reaction, the candlelight playing off his smug expression. "The nobility of Avaricia, our very essence, is derived from the gods themselves. They walked among us, shared their secrets, and bestowed upon us their divine spark. And it is this spark, this blood of the gods, that allows us to wield the power of chaos."

Mathews' words hung in the air, thick and cloying, like a fog that refused to dissipate. Castrol's hand trembled slightly, the whiskey sloshing in his glass. "Tobias Kingg," he murmured, the name feeling like a curse on his tongue.

"Indeed," Mathews nodded, his eyes shining with fervor. "The one the prophecy speaks of, the one who shall usher in a new era of prosperity and power. A world where the divine spark within us is no longer a mere gift but our birthright. We shall ascend, Castrol, and leave behind the shackles of our mortal forms. We shall become...more."

Mathews wasn't inherently wrong, Castrol had to admit. The whiskey burned in his throat, a reminder of the fire that had been kindled in his mind. The very essence of Lilly's magic could indeed be explained by her noble heritage, as much as it pained him to acknowledge. Her lineage was as ancient and storied as the very prophecy itself, a bloodline that had produced countless mages throughout the centuries. It was a truth that had been whispered in the shadows of their village.

But if that were true, would it mean that the mana pools of a mage were directly linked to the how pure their noble blood was? What did that say about elves? And what of mages born in boons, did they have remnants of noble blood?

As he pondered these unsettling questions, the library door swung open with a grandeur that seemed almost comical, given the solemnity of their conversation. The two guards from earlier snapped to attention, and the room grew still as a statue garden, the whispers of pages turning and the crackle of candle flames silenced. Mathews and his wife immediately stood, their movements as synchronized as a well-rehearsed play, and Castrol and Millie followed suit, their bodies responding instinctively to the sudden shift in the room's power dynamics.

But as Castrol turned to see who they greeted, his shock was so profound it seemed to freeze the very air in his lungs. There, framed in the library doorway, stood the very man whose name had been on the tip of his tongue: the charismatic and enigmatic Tobias Kingg. His presence was like a bolt of lightning, illuminating every shadowy corner of the room and casting the flickering candles into stark relief. The whispers of the flames grew to a roar in Castrol's ears, and for a moment, he could not move, could not breathe.

-To Be Continued-