"Ian, you must concentrate."
Ian turned his head at the tutor's words. Sunlight stread through the open windows of the guest room in the west wing, a stark contrast to his previous cramped quarters. Sighing at his student's apathy, the tutor scratched his pen against the parchnt.
"Let's try again. Suppose 100 villagers paid five sacks of wheat as tax. Half is sent to the capital, and half of the remainder is distributed to the mansion staff. How many sacks are left?"
Ian stifled a yawn, his gaze drifting towards the window. These afternoon study sessions, two hours each, were excruciatingly dull.
"I don't know."
He'd initially feigned effort, even counting on his fingers, to avoid suspicion. But the charade had grown tireso. He'd decided to embrace the role of the dim-witted bastard son.
"At least attempt the calculation."
"Hmm... 100 sacks?"
His feigned ignorance had unexpected benefits. The tutor and the steward often exchanged written notes regarding his progress, or lack thereof. Mostly trivial, but occasionally, they'd inadvertently reveal valuable information about the Count's affairs.
"...Let's move on from mathematics. Next is literature. We read Fate of Fate last ti, correct?"
The tutor was a man of little passion, content to deliver his lessons by rote, regardless of Ian's comprehension. This suited Ian perfectly. The tutor's easy acceptance of his ignorance spared him the effort of pretending to learn.
A knock echoed through the room.
"Enter."
"Excuse ."
The steward entered, bearing a tray of refreshnts. His presence, rather than a servant's, was a clear indication of their desire to observe Ian's academic engagent.
"How far have you progressed?"
"We're concluding with literature."
"I see. You seem to be finishing early today."
"Young Master Ian is exceptionally cooperative."
Oh, the irony. Ian thought, crunching a biscuit while glancing at the heavily illustrated book. The steward discreetly turned his palm towards the tutor, scribbling a ssage Ian couldn't see.
"Then, please continue your good work."
"Yes, Steward."
The tutor droned through the few lines of text, copied them onto the parchnt, and instructed Ian to do the sa. Thus concluded another tedious afternoon. As the wall clock chid, the tutor gathered his belongings.
"I'll see you out, teacher."
"No, that's fine. I'm rather busy today. Young Master Ian, please continue practicing your penmanship."
Usually, Ian would escort the tutor, practicing his gait, greetings, and social etiquette. But a refusal like this ant the tutor had a clandestine eting within the mansion.
"Yes, I'll see you next ti."
Ian simply nodded, offering no further response. The tutor, coat in hand, smiled and left the room.
Is he eting with the steward? He occasionally glimpsed the Count or Countess, but the increased servant presence around the west wing made it difficult to follow anyone discreetly.
Dismissing the thought, Ian shoved the parchnt aside and stretched. The larger room allowed him to train his body even indoors.
Physical strength is magical strength. Magical power cultivated physical strength, and that strength, in turn, housed more magical power. This was the secret to the enduring vitality of the ancient archmages.
"Young Master Ian."
A knock.
That evening, after dinner, the steward summoned him.
"The Count requests your presence in his study."
Finally.
The Count's study occupied the entire top floor of the mansion. Ian had never ventured to that part of the house. He followed the steward, a flicker of curiosity beneath his composed deanor.
"Count, Young Master Ian has arrived."
The steward knocked several tis on the heavy oak door. A gruff voice granted them entry.
"Enter."
Unlike Ian's forr room, illuminated by a single glowstone, the study was ablaze with light from nurous magic lanterns. Yet, a somber atmosphere clung to the room, undoubtedly emanating from Count Derga himself.
"You summoned ?" Ian inquired respectfully.
Derga remained silent, his attention fixed on the docunts before him. Compared to the toiling peasants, his work environnt seed idyllic, yet the Count appeared preoccupied.
"...You're aware of the luncheon the day after tomorrow, I presu?"
"Yes, of course."
Still engrossed in his paperwork, Derga muttered, "This ti, other advisors from the central authority will be attending."
The first luncheon must have left an impression. A bastard child from the backwater province discussing Fhyrn's philosophy had piqued their interest.
"You'll need to be even more attentive this ti."
"I understand."
Was this the sole reason for the summons? Derga hadn't uttered a word when Ian's room was changed. He patiently awaited the Count's true purpose. The scratching of the quill against parchnt continued, then Derga spoke again.
"The Cheonryeok Clan has requested a letter written in your hand."
Ian knew Derga had offered his second son as a condition for peace. A potion, reactive only to blood relatives, had been sent as proof of lineage. Of course, they were unaware of Ian's commoner origins.
"A letter from ?"
They clearly desired additional assurance. Perhaps they suspected Derga might swap his son at the last minute, driven by paternal affection. The Cheonryeok Clan, valuing familial bonds, would likely harbor such concerns.
"Those barbarians create unnecessary complications. Tsk. They'll use the kinship potion at the signing ceremony anyway."
Unlike the Variel Empire, the Cheonryeok Clan lacked mages. They were more akin to beasts, their very blood defying the laws of nature.
"Well, I have no reason to refuse."
They intended to verify Ian's identity by comparing the letter's handwriting. Confirmation that he was indeed Derga's son, the chosen one.
"Write regular letters to them. I'll instruct the tutor. You simply need to dictate. Surely, you're not so foolish as to be incapable of that."
"I'll perform the task flawlessly."
Just then, the door to a smaller adjoining room creaked open. A pale-faced clerk addressed Derga, his voice strained.
"Count, the accounts simply won't balance."
He clutched a precarious stack of docunts, threatening to topple at any mont. Derga waved him away dismissively.
"Leave it. I'll handle it."
He glanced at Ian, a silent instruction to wait. The docunts remained spread across the desk, but Derga seed unconcerned. Ian was practically illiterate, capable of little more than stringing together syllables.
"Wait here."
Derga entered the clerk's office. Ian's obedient smile vanished the mont the door closed.
Let's see what keeps you so busy.
It was early spring. Diligent lords tended to their lands even during frost, but Derga clearly wasn't one of them. He'd been indulging in his back-alley excursions even on the day they'd t Maureen.
Ian swiftly scanned the docunts, his nimble fingers ensuring the pages remained in order.
Oh? He frowned, as if expecting this all along.
As suspected, Derga maintained a private army far exceeding what the Baratz province could sustain. A force of 300 would be the reasonable limit, yet the grain expenditure suggested a number closer to 2,000 or even 3,000.
It's a wonder this place hasn't collapsed.
Furthermore, the taxes levied on the villagers were more than double the capital's recomnded rate. Perhaps the Cheonryeok Clan's destruction of Baratz was inevitable. The province was teetering on the brink of collapse. Ian stared at the small office in disbelief.
What was going through Derga's mind to manage the province so recklessly? This wasn't so newly established family, but one that had endured for generations.
Is there another source of inco? However long this mismanagent had persisted, the taxes alone couldn't possibly cover the expenses.
There's nothing of value in Baratz. The province bordered the Cheonryeok Clan's territory, the land wasn't particularly fertile, and it lacked access to the sea. There were no significant resources that he could recall.
If there were, the previous emperor wouldn't have divided the land among the nobles. The late emperor had rewarded those who fought against the Cheonryeok Clan with portions of the conquered territory. If valuable resources existed, the imperial palace would have retained control.
The door opened abruptly.
Ian, leaning against Derga's desk, instinctively held his breath and channeled his magic.
A low hum filled the air.
"Hmm?"
Every lantern in the room flickered and died. The sa occurred in the clerk's office. With the moon hidden behind clouds, the mansion plunged into darkness.
"Count? Are you alright?"
"The magic lanterns were recently replaced..."
"Just a mont, I'll light a candle... Aagh!"
A thud echoed as the clerk stumbled and fell.
Before the moon erged, Ian stealthily moved to the center of the room, concealing his presence. Derga fumbled in the darkness, searching for his desk.
"Ian. Answer ."
"Yes, Father."
Ian's voice rang clear in the darkness. Judging by the sound, he was standing near the sofa.
"Is there no one out there?!"
The clerk, still searching for a candle, groaned in pain. The darkness persisted, and Derga's frustration boiled over.
The lanterns flickered back to life. Ian, having regained his composure, released his hold on the magic.
Derga's eyes t Ian's, the young man standing calmly amidst the restored light. His absinthe-colored eyes glead.
"Are you alright?"
"..."
The Count glanced at his hand resting on the desk. The docunts were slightly disarrayed, but easily attributable to his own fumbling in the dark. He opened a drawer without suspicion.
"Enough. Co here and take this."
"What is it?"
It was a small, embroidered pouch. Derga tossed it casually, landing precisely at Ian's feet.
"It's from your mother."
Ian slowly picked up the worn pouch.
"Keep it with you as a constant reminder of your position and conduct yourself accordingly."
When news of Ian ceased reaching his mother through Hannah, she'd attempted suicide, vowing to reunite with him in death if not in life. Faced with this drastic act, Derga had reluctantly agreed to allow letters and gifts. Her death would effectively remove Ian's only leverage.
Hannah had relayed all this through the coachman, leaving no detail omitted. Given Ian's generous tips, there was little chance of fabrication.
"You may leave." Derga dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Ian left the study, clutching the pouch. Leaning against the dark corridor wall, he loosened the drawstring, spilling its contents onto the floor.
Five gold coins. Dried flowers. A tiny note.
A single gold coin was equivalent to a commoner's monthly earnings. Ian examined the note, its neat script suggesting it had been written by soone else.
Could he be certain it contained only his mother's true words?
'No. Derga could have easily tampered with it, perhaps even swapped the letter entirely...'
Ian fingered the gold coins, then unfolded the note and began to read.
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