If anyone ever told you nobles lived easy lives, they definitely never had a father who believed discipline meant "beat it till you make it." Typical blacksmith mentality.
Because that's exactly how my day ended.
And by "beat," I don't mean metaphorical.
No — my beloved father, Oliver Ironcreed, nearly snapped me in half the moment he heard what I'd done in the council room.
Apparently, "appraising the Second Young Lady" counts as "reckless disrespect toward an Inheritor Candidate whose existence is beyond mere mortals like us within the family."
His words. Not mine.
I tried telling him she allowed me to.
I tried telling him the Patriarch didn't object.
I tried telling him it was a test, and I passed.
His response?
"You passed nothing. You survived by accident."
Then he dragged me through a "light spar" that cracked the marble floor and made yesterday's hellish training feel like warmup stretches. By the time Victoria peeled me off the tiles and straightened my clothes, my ribs felt like they'd been replaced with broken furniture.
"Are you alive?" she asked, adjusting my coat like I wasn't a bruised sack of potatoes pretending to be a noble.
"Barely," I muttered. "Notify Mother that I tried my best."
"You should have kept your mouth shut."
"Where's the fun in that?"
She stared at me like she was genuinely considering smacking me herself.
As I limped across the training grounds, servants whispered:
"He angered the Second Young Lady…"
"Does he have a death wish?"
"I heard she smiled. That's worse than anger."
Fantastic. I'd become a walking rumor.
And just like that, the day of Awakening ended.
...
The next morning, after dodging every curious stare in the corridors, I finally reached the Patriarch's wing — specifically the heart of the Main Branch.
A guard stepped forward. "State your business."
They really were competing to rupture my eardrums.
"Augustus Ironcreed," I sighed, "reporting as ordered."
The guard nodded and opened the door. "The Patriarch awaits."
Wonderful.
...
After what felt like a pilgrimage through winding corridors, I arrived.
The Patriarch's private chamber was quiet — nothing like yesterday's council hall. Just him, seated at a simple obsidian table, a few floating scrolls circling lazily around him like bored spirits.
Sir Drust Ironcreed looked up the moment I entered. If the man had emotions beyond "controlled menace," he hid them extremely well.
"You're late," he said calmly.
"I was… kind of lost."
A faint twitch tugged at his lip — the closest thing I'd ever seen to a smile from the man nicknamed the Musician of Death.
"Sit."
I obeyed.
"Yesterday," he said, "you decided to put on quite a daring performance, didn't you?"
"I did."
"May I ask why?"
"Yes."
His eyebrow twitched. "You know, serving under my daughter is already an honor — even if she never becomes Matriarch. And yet, you first demanded her qualifications."
His gaze sharpened — a blade disguised as a look.
"Why?"
I met Drust's gaze head-on. He didn't blink. The man could probably win staring contests against statues.
I cleared my throat. "The reason is simple, Patriarch."
Silence thickened. Even the scrolls stopped drifting.
"I want to live a long life."
A beat. His eyebrow rose a fraction.
"Oh?" His voice was soft, almost amused. "And appraising Lenna in front of the entire council… was part of that survival strategy?"
I shrugged. "I needed to know who I'd be following. Blind loyalty is how people die young."
Drust's lips twitched. A laugh escaped — the driest laugh in the universe. More like a judgmental exhale.
"What you did yesterday," he said, leaning back, "was tantamount to shortening your life, not extending it."
"Come on," I argued. "No one's going to kill an elite heir candidate over something as childish as that. They're the future, right? Untouchable."
His eyes narrowed. "You are aware that you are not untouchable, yes?"
"…Mostly."
"And that my daughter, for all her composure, is not known for coddling insolent subordinates?"
"That's why I checked her qualifications," I pointed out. "If she's good enough to lead, I'll take the risk. If she wasn't…"
I smiled lightly.
"…I would've politely declined and run very far away."
He stared at me for a long moment, taking in the sincerity of my cowardice-disguised-as-logic.
Finally, he snorted — so soft I almost missed it.
"Kid, you're smart… but reckless."
"I prefer 'strategically cautious.'"
"No. Reckless."
His tone cooled.
"But not stupid."
That was basically praise coming from him.
"Well then," he said, "since you survived your own stupidity and my questioning, let's move on."
He glanced at the doorway behind me.
"You were ordered to report this morning. Yet…" His eyes narrowed. "Where is her ladyship? Was she not supposed to report with you?"
I blinked. "I assumed she'd be here before me. She seems like the punctual type. Maybe she's… invisible?"
Drust's stare flattened.
"Dropping the fearful act already?"
I grinned. "Nope. I'm terrified. I'm just not showing it. You like me more when I act like this anyway, don't you?"
His lips twitched — amusement or irritation, hard to tell.
He sighed — a quiet, worn-out exhale.
"Lenna. Come out."
At the sound of her name, the room… changed.
No runes.
No illusion magic.
Nothing dramatic.
It was like my senses finally realized someone else had been standing there the entire time.
A figure stepped forward — sharp and cold as a drawn blade.
Lenna Ironcreed.
Same girl from yesterday. Same silver-gray eyes. Same aura that could make a grown man rethink his entire existence.
She wasn't hiding behind a spell.
She was simply there.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
Unimpressed.
My eyebrow twitched.
Seriously?
Skills are banned on family grounds.
And yet she can sneak up on me like this?
Why is the world so unfair?
I have an appraisal skill, but inside this estate, I'm basically blind.
Her gaze flicked toward me — cool, unreadable, and faintly amused.
Yeah. This was going to be fun.
For her, anyway.