They arrived at Brimstone Duchy, the seat of power of Duke Deverill. Atop the hill stood a mansion of modest grandeur it's stone walls rising like jagged teeth a silver gate glinting faintly in the morning light.
The structure was smaller than the children had imagined, yet it carried an air of authority, of wealth carefully maintained rather than flaunted.
The journey up the hill till the arrived at the gate. At the gate stood two men, rigid and unflinching. Their uniforms were straight-cut, dark coats with brass buttons, tricorn hats perched stiffly on their heads. One hand rested on the hilt of a sword, the other lightly gripping a double-barrel shotgun.
Though cold weapons were still favoured over these guns as most had horrible aim and took too long to load.
The butler waved the two guards, who inclined their heads in a formal bow. One of them walked towards him and he handed over a folded paper. After a brief reading, the man walked to the carriage, peered inside at the three children, then returned to his posts. In unison, they barked, "Open the gates!"
The silver gates creaked as they swung inward. Nuel then guided the carriage through the entryway. The children's eyes widened as they took in the courtyard, men in uniform moved with disciplined precision, swords sheathed at their sides, shotguns ready but resting, maintaining a quiet, tense order.
Yet the carriage did not stop to linger. It passed the main building and continued toward the rear, where appearances were less grand. Servant lodgings lined the narrow courtyard, plain and functional, far from the polished elegance of the front. A man in a threadbare apron stood at the entrance, the fabric indistinguishable in color after years of washing and stains. He bowed slightly as Nuel handed over the children, then turned and gestured, "Follow me." The man in the apron led them down a stone corridor until they stepped into a large but modest dining hall.
A long oak table stretched across the center, flanked by neat rows of chairs. Seven children were already seated along the left side, chattering quietly among themselves. By Azrael's quick count, the hall could seat at least twenty, twenty-one if the high-backed chair at the head was included. Unlike the others, that chair was carved with silver etchings, simple, yet carrying an air of quiet authority.
They made for the remaining 3 seats at the corner of the table. Finally seated the man in the apron who introduced himself as Bucky, stood by the side without saying anything.
Not long after the door opened, ten children emerged, but they were different from the ten seated. Their posture was upright, their steps unhurried. Their clothes were, tailored, their skin clean and bright, their eyes sharp and filled with arrogance. The air seemed to bend around them. One look was enough to tell: these were nobles.
They crossed the hall without a word and took their seats.
Bucky said, "you may begin eating.
But one boy did not sit.
He wasn't short nor was he tall, for a 10 year old. His hair a striking gold that caught the lantern light. His coat was velvet, his boots polished to mirror
sheen. He let his gaze linger on Azrael and the others before curling his lips
in disdain.
Then he turned to Bucky,
"You. Get out. Send a proper butler here."
Bucky froze. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The boy's voice rang sharper.
"And you ten" his finger sweput across the nervous common-born children on the left, "you have 30 seconds to get out from my sight.This hall is not for you."
The room went still, so still Azrael could hear Malik's breath quicken beside him.
The balance of the hall had shifted
*****
The room froze. No one dared to move. The common-born children exchanged nervous glances, their hands twitching as if to obey the command.
Makik's eyes narrowed. Something in him bristled at the arrogance in the boy's voice.
Azrael whispered under his breath, "Is this what nobles are like?"
The golden-haired boy took a step closer, his boots echoing on the polished floor.
"Did you not hear me? I said leave."
One boy on the left side half-rose from his chair, trembling.
The golden-haired boy grew bolder. He strode to the left side of the table, seized an unsuspecting child, and slapped him hard across the face. "When I say move," he snarled, "you move." He threw the unsuspecting kid to the ground and began to slap him across his face.
The crack of the strike echoed through the hall, and panic swept the room. Chairs scraped as most of the children leapt to their feet, fear etched into their faces. Only four remained seated, calm and unmoving.
In a hidden room along the same hall, two men observed the events below. One wore a plain black three-piece suit, the sort of attire a butler would wear. The other's suit was striped, complemented by a silver watch and a top hat, a dragon-headed cane resting in his hand. It was immediately clear which of the two held the title of Lord.
"Is this also part of the plan?" asked the man in the butler's uniform, though his tone carried the weight of one addressing an equal rather than a superior.
"Of course," the Lord replied, eyes never leaving the scene. "I need to see if there are any seeds worth watering...You never told me about your journey to the south, Nuel."
"It was a journey," Nuel said lightly. "Watch out for those three I brought back, they seem… special." With that, he exited the room without another word.
The Lord said nothing, turning his gaze back to the hall below, silently studying the intersections between the children.
The boy had left his first victim and pulled another to the ground, kicking him with obvious pleasure. Bucky stood by the side, expressionless.
Azrael paused mid-bite, a tinge of annoyance crossing his face, but beneath it, a flicker of something else. If what the butler said was true once I awaken this arcanum thing it's only a matter of time before I become a noble so there was no need to hide, no need to be careful. Here, among these brats and nobles, he could finally be himself.
"Hey kid, you're making too much noise. I'm trying to eat here."
The boy stopped, eyes blazing, and strode toward Azrael shouting, "Who the hell are..."
Before he could finish, Azrael rose abruptly, kicking him in the stomach and sending him sprawling to the floor.
"Bloody retard," Azrael murmured, flopping back into his chair. He lifted a glass of water, sipped, and continued eating as if nothing had happened.
Gasps rippled through the hall. Even the nobles at the back straightened, some smirking, some narrowing their eyes.
In the hidden room, the man in the striped suit whispered with a sly smile, "Bingo."
A girl rose from her seat, almost identical to the boy on the floor. Without a word, she slipped a pill between the child's lips and guided him to a chair. She repeated the gesture with the other battered child, bowed politely, then returned to her seat.
She glanced at Azrael briefly, green eyes steady. "My name is Rhea Bramwell, daughter of Marquis Bramwell, vassal to Lord Deverill. That is my brother, Rio. What is your name?"
Azrael swallowed slowly before replying. "Azrael Shadeek."
She slowly nodded in reply as her eyes flicked back to her plate. The fork she held shot across the table like a bolt, embedding inches from Azrael's neck. His smug expression flickered, eyes twitching for a moment before hardening into a mask of resolve. He made to speak but was interrupted by a deep, calming voice,
"Conflict is okay just not in my dining hall."