By the time the sun began to dip behind the far hills, the Morin estate glowed in shades of amber and fading gold. The day had stretched long, mercilessly long, yet the halls still hummed with quiet activity. The servants worked with the focus of those who knew eyes were watching from every corner.
Klen stood in the main hall, a ledger in hand, his vision slightly blurred at the edges. His arms ached, his legs felt weighed down, but he refused to let it show. The faintest hint of fatigue tugged at his voice when he gave his next command.
"Finish the deliveries to the west storeroom before nightfall. Double-check the inventory before sealing the crates."
"Yes, young master," came the immediate reply.
He nodded, rubbing his thumb over the side of the ledger to keep himself alert. Every second felt stretched thin — the world moving slower around him as his body screamed for rest. Still, his posture stayed straight, his eyes sharp. He couldn't falter. Not now.
A sudden voice broke the rhythm.
"You're starting to sway."
Klen turned to find Fole standing a few steps behind him, hands clasped neatly behind his back, watching him with quiet concern.
"I'm fine," Klen muttered. "Just... tired."
"That's not fine," Fole said calmly. "Fatigue dulls decision. And dull decisions break order."
Klen gave a weak grin. "Guess I'll have to stay sharp, then."
Fole studied him for a moment longer, then gave a short nod. "The Lord's watching from his study window. He hasn't left that seat since noon."
"I know," Klen replied, his throat tight. "That's what keeps me standing."
"Then keep standing," Fole said quietly, before stepping away.
In another part of the mansion, laughter broke the silence — soft, tired laughter between two girls under the fading light.
Lyra and Marna sat near the outer garden balcony, the sky behind them painted in fire and violet. The two teacups before them had long gone cold, but neither seemed to care.
"He's been at it all day," Marna said, peering over the railing toward the courtyard. "Do you think he's eaten anything?"
Lyra shook her head, her hands folded neatly in her lap. "If he hasn't, it's because he's too focused to notice hunger."
Marna sighed dramatically. "Then maybe I should bring him something."
"Don't," Lyra said softly. "He needs to finish this on his own."
Marna gave her a long, searching look. "You trust him that much?"
Lyra's lips curved slightly, eyes distant. "I trust the kind of person he's become. The one who never leaves something half-done."
The way she said it made Marna pause. For once, she didn't tease. She only looked out toward the fading light, her usual grin replaced with a quiet, contemplative expression.
Back inside, the halls grew dim as servants lit lamps one by one. Shadows stretched long across the floor, flickering with the soft glow of firelight. Klen made his final rounds, checking doors, closing curtains, speaking briefly with each servant still working.
When he reached the end of the corridor, he nearly stumbled. His hand caught the edge of the wall, and for a brief moment, the strength left his legs. He stood there, breathing shallow, head bowed low. Then — he forced himself upright again.
His whisper was barely audible.
"Not yet... not done yet..."
He pushed open the doors to the main hall one last time. The chandeliers had been dimmed, casting the room in soft amber hues. The final tasks were finishing — the maids bowing as he passed, the staff dispersing after receiving his final orders.
Leor stood near the grand staircase, his presence heavy, still as stone. Fole stood slightly behind him, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Klen.
"Report," Leor said, his tone flat — unreadable.
Klen stopped before him, bowing deeply. "All duties completed, my lord. Deliveries made, cleaning cycles finished, evening preparations set. No incidents reported."
Leor's gaze held firm. "And the household?"
"Orderly and on schedule," Klen replied. "Every section followed through without delay."
Fole gave a subtle nod from the back — silent confirmation of the truth.
Leor's eyes lingered on Klen, measuring every word, every breath.
After a long moment, he finally spoke. "Good. Then come. We'll dine."
Klen blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of the command, but bowed immediately. "As you wish, my lord."
The dining hall felt quieter than usual. Only three seats were occupied — Leor at the head, Klen on his left, and Fole slightly further down. The candles flickered low, throwing gentle light across polished silver and porcelain. The scent of roasted herbs and warm bread filled the air.
Klen served Leor personally, steady despite the exhaustion pulling at his shoulders. When Leor gestured for him to sit, he hesitated — unsure — until the Lord gave a faint nod of permission.
"Sit," Leor said. "You've earned that much."
Klen did so carefully, posture straight, unsure whether to eat or simply observe. Leor's presence dominated the silence even without words. It wasn't an awkward quiet — it was one of weight, the kind that pressed down on every movement.
Fole broke it first. "You handled the staff well. They followed without confusion."
Klen gave a small nod. "I tried to keep things running the way you do."
"Trying is a child's word," Leor said abruptly, not unkindly but cuttingly. "You did. That is enough."
Klen froze for a second before lowering his head slightly. "Thank you, my lord."
The meal continued quietly after that — a steady rhythm of dishes being passed, cutlery softly scraping porcelain. For Klen, every bite tasted of tension and relief in equal measure.
When the plates were finally cleared, Leor rose first. "Come to my study," he said simply, leaving before Klen could respond.
Fole gave him a small, reassuring look. "Don't overthink that tone. If he wanted you gone, he'd have said it already."
Klen huffed out a faint laugh. "That's comforting... I think."
Leor's study was dimly lit, the scent of old parchment and burning cedar filling the room. Books lined every wall, and a single lantern cast a warm glow over the desk where Leor sat, writing something with deliberate precision.
Klen entered quietly, bowing. "You called for me, my lord."
Leor set his pen down and gestured toward the space in front of the desk. "You carried the mansion from sunrise to sunset without collapse. That alone earns acknowledgment."
Klen's heart steadied, but he kept silent.
Leor leaned back slightly in his chair. "You've passed your first trial."
The words hit harder than Klen expected. His breath caught, shoulders easing only slightly. "...Thank you, my lord."
"Don't thank me yet," Leor said. "The next trial will test more than composure."
He stood, walking around the desk, stopping only a few feet from Klen. "In two days' time, you and I will duel. No holding back. No second attempts. If you withstand me long enough to draw blood, you pass."
Klen's expression tightened. "Understood."
Leor studied him for a long, quiet moment — the way one might examine a blade to see if it would hold or shatter. "Rest tomorrow. You'll need it."
Klen bowed deeply. "Yes, my lord."
As he turned to leave, Leor's voice called after him — calm, but lower, carrying something faintly different beneath the surface.
"You did well, boy. Don't let it go to your head."
Klen stopped for a moment, glancing back with a small, tired smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Leor didn't respond, simply returned to his desk as the boy quietly slipped out of the room.
When Klen returned to his quarters, the halls were still and the moonlight poured softly through the high windows. He shut the door behind him, exhaling deeply. The fatigue, the pressure, the endless responsibility — all of it fell away in that one breath.
He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips. For the first time since morning, he allowed himself to feel proud.
One down, he thought. Two to go.
Then, without another thought, he lay back and let the exhaustion take him.