They had scattered, yet how was he to plug the mouths of servants who had stumbled upon such a juicy morsel of gossip?
In a dim corner, the staff huddled, their voices reduced to jagged whispers.
“They say the eldest young master killed a bird when he was only six, right?”
“No, I heard it was a roe deer.”
“A roe deer, my foot! Where would a roe deer even come from in the Pashayen Estate? They say he killed a turtle without blinking an eye.”
Rumors are, by nature, bloated things. But some rumors are merely uncomfortable truths. Those who knew the reality kept their lips sealed; these whisperers were fresh blood, new to the house.
“But that turtle—wasn’t it one the Madam was keeping?”
“I heard he found it an eyesore, so he twisted its neck and tore the shell right off…”
The ‘Madam’ they murmured about was, naturally, the lady of the house. The Duchess of Pashayen and the current Resonator of the Ancestor Whale.
“Ugh, it gives me chills. They say the servants who waited on the eldest young master… they all disappeared, too.”
“Right. I heard that story.”
When a superior passed by, the gossiping servants snapped to attention, feigning industry. They busied themselves with chores, only to drift back together the moment the coast was clear to trade more poison.
“Too much noise.”
In the second-floor corridor, far from the whispers below, Micard stood with his hands locked behind his head, whistling as he glanced at Raywood.
“I should clear this up. Shall I?”
“No. Leave them be.”
“It’s pathetic. Blathering on about things they couldn’t possibly understand. People like that are useless to this family.”
Raywood’s lips quirked into a thin, sharp smile. It was true: he had killed the turtle his grandmother kept. In isolation, it was a cruel, senseless act. He had never been scolded, nor punished.
Why?
“I can’t exactly walk around explaining that the turtle was a magical creature, planted by a minor house that dared to spy on the Pashayen.”
Micard, who had been grumbling, fell silent. They had reached the door to the Head of House’s office.
“I remember that day,” Micard said. “You were dying to say something felt off about it.”
“Yeah. I hated it. The way it stared—it was bad luck.”
Both of them had felt the same revulsion the moment they saw the creature. Raywood had simply been the first to move. Had he hesitated, Micard likely would have done the deed himself.
The Head of House, Galizad, had allowed the situation not out of ignorance, but as a test. To see which child would lead the future of this house. To determine which of them would realize what that creature truly was.
Only two had passed.
Since that day, Raywood and Micard had grown close. Raywood felt a dark camaraderie with his equal; Micard, whose speech had been frustratingly stunted, found relief in finally being understood. Had Micard vied for the position of Head of House, Raywood would have marked him as a target for elimination. But because their paths diverged, they could coexist as allies—one walking the path of the Head, the other the path of the Admiral.
“We have returned, Head of House.”
“Grandfather! I’m back!”
Once the permission to enter was granted, the two boys offered greetings tailored to their own temperaments. Galizad set aside his documents and chuckled.
“Welcome, you rascals. You’ve worked hard. Tell me, how did the mission go?”
Though he had already received his reports, hearing it from his grandsons was another matter. For a fleeting moment, Galizad wore the mask of a benevolent grandfather.
After a cup of tea’s worth of time, Raywood stood to leave; he knew his mother, Cecilia, would be waiting with bated breath. Micard, however, lingered. He had business.
“Grandfather, what happened with finding a companion for Elzen?”
“It failed.”
Micard’s eyes narrowed, sharp as blades. “Don’t tell me Cedric just slapped something together because he thought they’d die soon? Elzen won’t die. I won’t let him.”
“You rascal. Cedric may live carelessly, but he does not work that way.” Galizad smiled kindly, soothing him.
To Galizad, Raywood and Micard were not just assets, but children he genuinely cherished. He tolerated Micard’s informal speech and relaxed attitude because of this. It was a favor born of talent. Micard was well aware of this, which was why he had been so anxious about Elzen while away.
Galizad’s next remark did nothing to ease his mind.
“There is another younger sibling, so do not fret too much.”
“…Grandfather, I have told you again and again. There is only one Elzen.”
“Ho ho, that is true.”
“And you promised. You said if I completed ten missions within this year, you’d find a way to save him, no matter what.”
Galizad and Raywood—they did not understand the human heart. Micard knew their thinking was twisted, arid, and cold. It was the very mindset that allowed them to lead this massive family, yet at times, it made him ache with a mix of sorrow and rage.
He couldn’t simply say *‘Elzen is precious’*; he had to argue that *‘because Elzen is precious to me—the useful one—he must not die. If he does, I will become twisted, and that will ultimately be a loss for the family.’*
“Do you think this grandfather would break his promise?”
“You’d better not. If you do, I’m leaving this house.”
“Oh my, how is an old man supposed to live with such a terrifying grandson?”
Galizad roared with laughter, yet his eyes remained as cold as a frozen lake. As the Head of House Pashayen, he would never permit Micard to leave. Sending Shupetty to Diegon’s youngest had been a calculated move: to give his broken son and his tender-hearted grandson a reason to anchor themselves. To make them live for the sake of the family.
That was the move one made as the Head of House.
“Have you met Shupetty?”
“No. I came to see you first, Grandfather.”
“Then, since this grandfather has made his grandson feel slighted… Ah, I have it. Shall we all have tea together?”
Micard blinked, stunned. A teatime with the Head of House was not easily obtained; it was a luxury that couldn’t be bought. Galizad masked his motives, pretending he was merely soothing his grandson’s heart.
“Tomorrow afternoon. You will introduce Shupetty to Raywood as well.”
“…Okay. But can’t Elzen come too?”
“I hear it is very difficult for Elzen to even step outside his bedroom.”
Galizad deflected with a stroke of his beard. “Shupetty has utility. You must guide that child well so they may become a Spirit Master.”
It sounded like a grandfather’s request, but it was an order. Micard understood the subtext: *If Shupetty is to be considered valuable, they must become a Spirit Master.* He felt a weight settle in his chest, a preemptive worry for a child he had yet to even meet.
* * *
“Co-okie, baking co-okies.”
A whale-shaped cutter was pressed firmly into butter-scented dough. She lacked the strength to do it cleanly, but a large hand moved over hers, pressing down on her small, baby fingers with gentle precision.
Indeed. Diegon was baking cookies.
“Admiral, look.”
“Yes.”
“Will Mical brother like the co-okies?”
The reason the Navy Admiral was currently wearing a strawberry-patterned apron was this: yesterday evening, a tea party invitation for Shupetty had arrived, inviting her to join Raywood and Micard.
It was a gathering for those destined to be the future Head of House, the Admiral, and the Attuner—a fact known to everyone except Shupetty.
Even without knowing the politics, Shupetty was a nervous wreck. Seeing her stamping her feet, desperate to get along with Micard, Diegon had inadvertently suggested she bring a gift.
“Then, will Admiral come with me?”
How could he refuse a daughter who asked with such innocent, pleading eyes?
“Then, can you wear the same apron as Chu, too? Dads do that……”
At that one remark, he had ended up in the apron.
“Pfft, hehe. Hkk…….”
Carmine, an aide who had come to deliver a report, saw the scene and stifled a laugh, his face turning a vivid shade of beet red.
*Should I punch him and knock him out?*
It was exactly at that moment that he was seriously considering it.