"The Duke will..."
"Nothing." Julian snapped, interrupting the butler. "The Duke will do nothing. He did not do anything regarding that child, and I am certain he did not specifically give orders to isolate that child either. So why would the Duke leave the stupor he is drowning himself in right now just to reprimand me for giving the child cake?" His tone was as sharp as a viper and he finally turned, his leg sliding on the marble floor.
In the shadows behind the Butler was the nanny, glaring daggers and her staggering -1% hovering brilliantly, it might even get to -2% at this rate but Julian did not care.
"Instead, I feel you're the ones who wish to isolate the child more than the Duke himself. But I believe that child does not and will never deserve this sort of treatment. So," he turned and started walking away again. "I will ignore the so-called laws you have placed here, and unless I hear it from a solid reason from the mouth of the Duke himself, I will not stop caring for that child."
Julian's footsteps echoed with a cold, sharp finality as he marched toward the Duke's private wing.
It was a short distance from where the ballroom was, so it didn't take him long to get there.
He had just spat defiance into the faces of the butler and the nanny, and the adrenaline was the only thing keeping his knees from shaking as he walked.
It was on his throat, the words that reprimanded himself for getting too involved.
This was a fantasy world, and a lot of manipulation was in play. What if they plot something against him because of the arrogance he just exhibited?
It was too late now. As they say, no use crying over spilt milk.
Julian reached the heavy mahogany doors of the Duke's study. There were no guards; the servants knew better than to disturb Duke Alaric when he was drowning.
He took in a deep breath, preparing no lines at all to face the Duke with and just depended on the quick wits that would get him out of the situation.
He knocked once. Twice. And then thrice. Each sound felt thunderous, echoing in the empty dark halls, and that increased Julian's anxiety.
After confirming that the Duke would not answer the door, he called out,
"Lord Duke," Julian called out, his voice steady despite the hammer of his heart, but still no response, and then he said, "I'll let myself in."
He pushed the door open, luckily it wasn't locked.
The air inside the study hit him like a physical blow—thick with the heavy scent of high-grade booze and the stale chill of a room that hadn't seen a hearth-fire in days.
Julian's eyes scanned the dark room, wondering if this study was even being used given the state it was in.
From the door, there were empty bottles sprawled around. He noticed as he took a step in and kicked on by mistake.
The tail of bottles ended up where the Duke was sprawled on the sofa, a picture of ruined nobility.
Just how much did he drink to look so wasted? Wait, there was no need for an answer. The bottles on the floor said it all.
The Duke had one hand hung off the edge of the sofa, the neck of a wine bottle grazing the rug, while the other was draped over his face, shielding his eyes from a world he no longer wanted to see.
Was he asleep?
Likely. Julian had knocked and called out, but there was no response from him.
The booze got him good, but this won't do. Julian needed him to be sober to finish the quest and give young Lucius a memorable birthday.
That's not going to happen if the Duke stays down in booze, oozing of it so heavily that it intoxicates the one who smells it.
Julian approached cautiously. "Your Grace?"
He reached out, his hand hovering over his face to get a response, but there was none, then he proceeded to nudge him a bit. He reached his hand just above the Duke's shoulder to give him a firm shake, but before his fingers could make contact, the sleeping Duke jolted, startling Julian.
Before Julian could even process what was going on, the Duke's hand shot out and gripped Julian's wrist with a strength that made the bone groan, and in one violent motion, he surged upward, tackling Julian to the floor.
The world spun too fast for Julian to catch it.
He hit the floor with a dull thud, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp. The tables had turned— unlike before when he landed on top of the Duke, it was now the Duke's massive, heavy frame pinning him into the rug, the heat of the man's body clashing with the cold room.
The heavy stench of booze contributed to this heat and made Julian uncomfortable.
He opened his mouth to protest, to shout, to struggle—but the words died in his throat as soon as he sensed something was awfully wrong. He felt the Duke's shoulders shaking.
Duke Alaric raised his head slowly. His face was a mask of agony, his eyes glossy with tears and bloodshot at the same time as they landed on Julian's face.
There was no hostility, and all that was there was the desperate, heartbreaking relief that spread along the lines of agony on his face.
His tanned handsome face was contorted so much in despair that it got to Julian's heart.
Both father and child somehow had a way of pricking his heart with their despair.
And then, as Julian wondered what to do with this situation, the Duke spoke, not with the voice he had confronted him with the day before but something broken.
"Bellanora..." the Duke whispered, his voice cracked and hollow. "You came back. I knew... I knew you wouldn't leave me in the dark."
At that exact moment, a jagged streak of lightning tore across the Northern sky, illuminating the study in a harsh, white flash. Julian's gaze immediately fell on the large portrait hanging behind the desk, where his eyes could reach.
On the portrait was the Duchess, Bellanora, looking back at them with a terrifyingly haunting grace. She had silken dark hair and a pair of vivid purple eyes—the exact shade of Julian's left eye, and fair skin to top it all off.
Lucius inherited nothing of his mother's features, but the Duke.
And right now, the Duke, blinded by grief and wine, was staring at Julian's mismatched eyes as if they were the beacon he had been searching for to put out his misery.