David's blood simred. He couldn't entirely fault Lord Hilton's frosty deanour. The old David had been a gilded leech, clinging to the family fortune with all the grace of a drunken slug. A humourless sigh escaped his lips. 'A long road to redemption,' he thought, the weight of his self-imposed task settling heavily on his shoulders.
The grand corridor stretched before him, a stone cage, and David yearned for a breath of fresh air, a taste of freedom beyond these opulent walls. Maybe a walk in the gardens, a chance encounter with Katrina, could salvage this sour day. As he rounded a corner, a group materialized from the opposite end of the hall. Sunlight glinted off polished armour and shimring silks, drawing David's gaze.
Young nobles, both n and maids, clustered around a figure who radiated authority like a sun radiating heat. His attire was a masterpiece of regality: a black tailcoat, ticulously tailored to hug his broad fra, glead with gold embroidery. Epaulettes, like golden wings, whispered of military prowess and high rank.
The stark contrast between the deep black fabric and the opulent gold created a stunning visual impact, as if a raven had adorned itself with stolen jewels. A crisp white shirt peeked out from beneath the coat, a perfectly knotted bow tie adding a touch of elegance. A double-breasted gold waistcoat, fastened with gleaming buttons, further accentuated his imposing presence.
Every detail, from the intricate patterns on the cuffs hinting at a warrior's lineage to the ticulously styled dark hair, spoke of a man accustod to command. His face, handso in a harsh, chiselled way, was set in a resolute expression. Golden eyes, like molten tal, held a glint of unwavering determination, a leader born and bred. David felt a prickle of unease.
Who was this man, and why did his arrival send a tremor through the usually carefree group of nobles? David, with a sixth sense honed from years of navigating social minefields, spotted trouble brewing. This opulent parade of nobles, fawning over the figure at its centre, was a collision course he wanted no part of. He tucked his head slightly, hoping to slip past unnoticed.
"Young Master Eric, you outshine the sun today!" bood one of the n, his voice thick with sycophantic praise. A ripple of agreent echoed from the maids, their giggles punctuated by whispers about Eric's mythical handsoness. David felt a flicker of irritation. This nauseating display was enough to curdle anyone's stomach.
Suddenly, the path ahead narrowed as a man, less opulent than the rest, spotted him. His eyes narrowed, a silent curse escaping his lips. "Can't this eyesore make way for Lord Eric?" he muttered, his voice laced with disdain. Apparently, subtlety wasn't his forte. He quickened his pace, hand outstretched with the intention of shoving David aside like a botherso insect. Big mistake.
Years of gruelling MMA training kicked into overdrive for David. Reading the man's telegraph punch, he reacted with lightning speed. A fluid motion – a catch, a twist, a slam. The man found himself pinned against the cold stone wall, his wrist screaming in a vice grip. "Agh!" he shrieked, his feigned arrogance cracking under the sudden assault.
The rest of the group, montarily stunned by this unexpected display of martial prowess, gaped like startled fish. "Let go of , you trash!" the man snarled, his bravado a pale imitation of his forr bluster. David's jaw clenched tight. "Trash, huh?" he muttered, his voice a low growl.
"Seems like soone forgot they're not the main character." A dark glint flashed in his eyes as he applied more pressure to the man's wrist, eliciting another yelp of pain. "Lord Eric," the man whimpered, his gaze darting towards the central figure, "tell this… this ruffian to release !" The once-confident smirk had morphed into a mask of desperation. A tense silence descended upon the corridor.
All eyes were on Eric, the supposed leader, waiting for his next move. The question hung heavy in the air – would he uphold the fabricated social hierarchy or acknowledge the unexpected strength before him? Eric's voice, a low rumble laced with scorn, rolled towards David.
"Little brother," he drawled, "what is the aning of this little display?" David grinned, recognizing the man under his arm as the one who'd called out for Eric – Lord Eric De Gor himself, the second son of Lord Hilton. Though renowned for his charm, the novel painted him as an average fighter at best.
"Nothing much, dear brother," David replied, his voice dripping with mock sincerity as he tossed the stunned man aside. "Just a friendly greeting between noblen." Eric's face contorted in a sneer. "Greetings, you say? Sounds more like sothing you'd pick up at a tavern brawl, drunk as a skunk." The man David had subdued cowered behind Eric, eager to see his leader put this upstart in his place.
David shrugged, his nonchalant attitude bordering on infuriating. "Not entirely," he chirped, arms raised in mock surrender. "But before you launch into a lecture, dear brother," he said, his voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm, "I'm afraid a pressing engagent cuts our delightful chat short.
Vielleicht… over tea another ti?" (Perhaps… over tea another ti?) David sashayed away, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. The man behind Eric, still smarting, inched forward to speak, but Eric held up a hand, silencing him. A furrow etched itself between Eric's brows. "Sothing's different about him," he mused, a flicker of unease flickering in his eyes.
His entourage, realizing they were lagging behind, scrambled to catch up, leaving the corridor echoing with the unspoken question: What had beco of the coward wastrel they once knew? Fury simred within David, a slow burn that threatened to erupt. He could practically taste the sourness of the day, a bitter residue left by the previous owner's actions.
He wasn't about to get harassed by a couple of suckups orbiting a preening peacock., "f*ck them, just you wait, I'll put them in their place" he muttered under his breath. A dangerous glint flickered in his eyes.
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