**THE PRISON**
Cecil led me down to the holding cells beneath the manor. I expected to find adults—maybe desperate parents trying to get extra food for their families or opportunistic thieves testing the new lord's mercy.
Instead, I found children.
Fourteen of them, ranging from maybe seven to ten years old. They huddled in the cell, some crying, some defiant, all terrified.
"You arrested children?" I asked Cecil, my voice dangerously quiet.
"They were stealing, my lord. Multiple witnesses saw them taking bread and coins during the census—"
"They're CHILDREN."
I unlocked the cell myself and stepped inside. Most of the kids scrambled back against the wall. One boy, maybe ten years old with a dirt-smudged face and defiant eyes, stood his ground.
"Why were you stealing?" I asked him directly. "We were giving food away for free."
The boy's lip trembled, but he kept his chin up. "We're orphans, my lord. The villagers wouldn't let us in line. Said we'd steal from honest people and that we don't deserve charity. So we... we did what we had to."
Something cracked inside my chest. I saw myself at eight years old, standing at my parents' funeral. Saw myself at sixteen, alone after my uncle's murder. Remembered the cold certainty that no one would help me, that I had to survive by any means necessary.
These children hadn't chosen to be orphans. They hadn't chosen to be hungry. They'd just been dealt a shit hand and were playing it the only way they knew how.
I knelt down so I was at the boy's eye level. "What's your name?"
"J-Jonas, my lord." His defiance crumbled. "Please don't hit us. We'll work it off, we'll do anything, just please—"
"I'm not going to hit you," I said quietly. "I'm going to give you a home. A real one."
Jonas stared at me like I'd spoken a foreign language. "What?"
"A home. Food every day, clean clothes, a bed that doesn't have rats. Education if you're smart enough to learn. All I ask is that you don't steal anymore." I looked at the other children. "None of you need to steal anymore. Understood?"
A little girl, maybe seven, burst into tears. "You're not going to hurt us?"
I reached out and wiped away her tears with my thumb, my voice softening in a way it rarely did. "No, sweetheart. I'm not going to hurt you. Not ever."
Behind me, I heard Alfred's sharp intake of breath. Cecil cleared his throat roughly, looking away.
"Alfred," I called, not taking my eyes off the children. "Find them rooms in the manor until we can establish a proper orphanage. Make sure they're fed, bathed, and given clean clothes. And find a caretaker who actually gives a damn about children—not someone looking for easy money."
"Yes, my lord," Alfred said, and I caught something strange in his voice—emotion, carefully controlled.
Jonas stepped closer, reaching up to touch my face as if to confirm I was real. "You're really going to help us?"
"I really am."
"Why?"
I thought about my answer carefully. "Because someone should have helped me when I was your age. And they didn't. So I'm helping you instead."
The little girl grabbed my hand. "Can we really stay?"
"You can really stay."
**DINNER**
That night, for the first time since arriving in this world, I didn't eat alone in my office.
The fourteen children sat around the manor's dining table, eyes wide as servants brought out more food than they'd probably seen in their entire lives. They ate slowly at first, uncertain if this was really happening, then with increasing enthusiasm as they realized no one would stop them.
Jonas sat beside me, occasionally glancing up as if afraid I'd disappear.
Alfred and Cecil joined us, along with some of the senior staff. The table was loud, chaotic, filled with children's laughter and excited chatter.
I felt something I hadn't felt in decades: contentment.
Not happiness—happiness was too simple, too uncomplicated. But contentment. The sense that for this moment, in this place, things were as they should be.
A small girl tugged on my sleeve. "My lord, is it true you punish bad people?"
The table went silent. Alfred looked mortified.
"Yes," I answered honestly. "Very bad people who hurt others."
"Will you punish us because we steal?"
I met her innocent eyes. "No. I will forgive you this time. So don't steal again. Okay?"
She nodded her head and smiled and went back to eating.
After dinner, I called Alfred and Cecil to my office. The warmth I'd shown the children evaporated, replaced by cold calculation.
"Investigate the orphanage," I ordered. "I want to know everything. Who runs it, where the money goes, why these children were on the streets instead of being cared for. Every detail, transaction and bring me the person responsible."
Alfred's expression hardened. "With pleasure, my lord."
**NEXT MORNING**
Alfred's report made my blood boil.
The orphanage director—a man named Gerald Moss—had been embezzling funds meant for the children's care for over five years. Worse, he'd been forcing the older children to steal from villagers and merchants, then taking their earnings and beating them if they didn't meet his quotas.
The children who'd refused or failed to steal enough were thrown out onto the streets to starve.
Out of forty-three orphans who should have been in his care, only twenty-nine remained. Fourteen were either dead or on the streets.
"Where is he?" I asked, my voice cold.
"Cecil arrested him last night, my lord. He's in the dungeon."
"Good. He receives no food, no water, no comfort. Make sure not to kill him and let him suffer. Death is a slow pain, so I will make it hard for you to breath while being alive. "
"My lord!" Gerald's voice echoed from the hallway where Cecil was dragging him. "Please, I can explain! Those children are liars! They—"
I stood and walked to where Cecil held the man. Gerald was middle-aged, portly, with the soft hands of someone who'd never done real work. He reeked of wine and desperation.
"You stole from children," I said quietly, my voice devoid of emotion. "You beat them. You forced them to steal so you could line your pockets. Forty-three children were entrusted to your care. Where are the other fourteen?"
"My lord, they're just orphans! Street rats! No one cares about—"
I grabbed him by the throat, lifting him slightly off the ground. My past life's killing intent flooded out, unchecked. Gerald's eyes bulged as he stared into my face and saw his death written there.
"I care," I whispered. "And you're going to die screaming. Every day you denied them food, you'll feel hunger. Every beating you gave them, you'll receive tenfold. By the time I'm done with you, you'll beg for the mercy of execution. I will make you suffer while you're still breathing on the land."
Gerald's face went purple. Cecil had to physically pull me away before I strangled the man right there.
"Take him to the dungeon," I ordered, releasing him. "Start with ten lashes. Then starvation. I want him to understand exactly what those children felt and want him to go through it daily."
As Cecil dragged the sobbing, pleading man toward the dungeon, Alfred spoke quietly. "My lord, may I say something?"
"Go ahead."
"When I was eight years old, I was a street urchin in the capital. I stole to survive because no one would help me. One day, I tried to pickpocket the wrong person—they caught me, and a crowd gathered to beat me to death for entertainment."
I looked at him, seeing my butler in a new light.
"Guild Master Olivia stopped them," Alfred continued. "She didn't have to. I was nobody, nothing. But she gave me food, work, purpose. She saved my life." He met my eyes. "Today, watching you with those children, I saw her in you. Thank you, my lord, for being the kind of person who helps when no one else will."
I studied him for a moment. "That's why you're loyal to her."
"Yes, my lord. And why I'm beginning to understand I can be loyal to you as well."
"Good. Loyalty built on shared values lasts longer than loyalty built on fear or gold." I turned back to my desk. "Bring me the remaining orphans—all twenty-nine of them. We'll establish a new orphanage with proper oversight, proper funding, and a caretaker I personally approve. Until then, they stay in the manor where I can ensure their safety."
"Yes, my lord."
"And Alfred? Find out what happened to the other fourteen. If any are alive, bring them home. If they're dead..." I paused. "Build them burial ground and make sure Gerald knows their names before he dies."
**THE ALCHEMISTS' ARRIVAL**
Later that afternoon, Alfred returned with news that the twenty alchemists had arrived. I went to greet them in the main hall, still carrying the cold anger from Gerald's crimes like ice in my veins.
Twenty alchemists stood in an uneven line. Most were middle-aged or older—alchemy required years of study and experience. They looked at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism to outright disdain.
I let the silence stretch, studying each of them with the same cold assessment I'd once used to evaluate potential assassins. Some shifted uncomfortably. Others stared back with arrogant confidence.
"You're all here because Guild Master Olivia recommended you for an important project," I began, my voice neutral. "The work is secret, well-compensated, and will require—"
One alchemist, a pompous-looking man with an elaborate beard and expensive robes, interrupted with a laugh. "Yes, yes, we were told it was 'important secret work.' But we weren't told we'd be working for some teenage baron playing dress-up in strange clothes."
Several others chuckled. Another added, emboldened: "I've forgotten more about alchemy than you've learned in your entire life, boy. What could you possibly teach us?"
A third, a thin man with a sneering expression, gestured at my modern clothing: "And what are you wearing? Did you lose a bet with your tailor? Or are you trying to start some kind of fashion statement?"
More laughter.
I let them laugh. Let them mock. Let them show me exactly who they were.
Then I spoke, my voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
"You're right about one thing. I am young. Seventeen years old, to be precise." I walked slowly along their line, meeting each pair of eyes. "But in those seventeen years, I've learned something valuable: competence matters more than age, and results matter more than reputation."
I stopped in front of the bearded alchemist. "You've forgotten more than I've learned? Then you're admitting your mind is failing. Perhaps you should retire before your incompetence kills someone."
His face flushed red.
I moved to the thin man. "My clothes offend you?" I gestured at his stained robes. "At least my clothes are clean. When did you last wash yours? I can smell the sulfur and rot from here."
The laughter died.
"Here's what's going to happen," I continued, my voice dropping to something cold and final. "I'm going to explain this project once. Those of you who are interested in actual work—in pushing the boundaries of alchemical science and earning more gold than you've made in the past five years—will stay. Those of you who came here to mock a 'teenage baron' and waste my time will leave. Immediately."
"The project I'm offering involves industrial chemical synthesis—processes that will revolutionize manufacturing, paper production, textile treatment, and metallurgy. Work that will make your names known across the kingdom, assuming you're competent enough to handle it."
"But if you think I'm just a child playing at being a lord, if you think I need to prove myself to you, then you're not smart enough for this project. You're certainly not humble enough to learn new techniques. So here's my offer, and it's non-negotiable:"
I walked back to stand in front of them, projecting absolute authority.
"Those who want to work—actually work, not waste my time with arrogance and mockery—will stay. I'll pay you double your current wages, provide the best equipment available, and give you the opportunity to develop processes this world has never seen. In return, you follow my instructions precisely, keep your mouths shut about what you're creating, and check your egos at the door."
The bearded alchemist sputtered. "You can't speak to us like—"
"I just did," I interrupted coldly. "And here's the other half of the offer: those who don't want to work under a 'teenage baron' can leave right now. I'll even pay your travel expenses back home out of courtesy. But once you walk out that door, you'll never get another opportunity from me or anyone associated with me. Guild Master Olivia recommended you, which means you're probably talented. But talent without humility is worthless to me."
I let that sink in for a moment.
"So decide. Right now. Stay and work, or leave and go back to whatever mediocre position you held before. You have thirty seconds."
The silence was absolute.
Then the bearded alchemist laughed—a forced, bitter sound. "This is absurd. I'm not staying to be insulted by a child." He turned to leave. "Come on, surely the rest of you won't tolerate this disrespect?"
Twelve others followed him out, muttering about insults and wasted time. The thin man who'd mocked my clothes hesitated, then followed the others with obvious reluctance.
Seven remained.
The door closed behind the departing alchemists.
Alfred, who'd been standing off to the side, dropped to his knees. "My lord, please forgive me. I should have vetted them better—"
"Stand up, Alfred." My tone was still cold. "It's not your fault that some people are too arrogant to recognize opportunity. You brought me twenty candidates. Seven is more than enough if they're the right seven."
I turned to the remaining alchemists. "And why are you still here?"
A young woman, maybe thirty, with burn scars on her hands and intelligent eyes, spoke first. "I need the money. My family depends on my income, and you're offering wages higher than anywhere else."
A grizzled old man with sharp eyes added: "I've been an alchemist for forty-three years, and I'm bored. Everything's been done, every process refined to death. You're offering something new. My curiosity won't let me walk away."
A middle-aged man with calloused hands: "I've been stuck at journeyman level for ten years because I can't afford the equipment to prove my theories. You're offering resources and the chance to actually innovate. That's worth working for you, my lord."
The others gave similar answers—curiosity, financial need, frustration with their current positions, the desire to work on something meaningful.
"Good enough," I said, my tone warming slightly—not friendly, but no longer hostile. "Those are honest answers from people who understand what matters. Follow me."
To be continued...