The Sinful Young Master

The dim light of the lantern in Jolthar's room flickered against the cold stone walls, casting faint shadows that danced with the rhythm of the night breeze. The night air cool but not so chilly that it seeped through the thick tapestries hanging over the windows, creating a cosy atmosphere in the otherwise dark room.

Sitting by the window, Jolthar worked diligently, sharpening Knashii, his long blade of impeccable craftsmanship. Its edge on one side gleamed with a dangerous light, each stroke of the whetstone resonating like a steady heartbeat.

TAK TAK.

A knock at the door interrupted his focus.

Without turning, Jolthar said, "Come in."

The door creaked open, revealing Ilyra, the maid assigned to him earlier in the day. She stepped in, her movements hesitant yet deliberate. She walked in with a glass full of milk, which made him chuckle.

Jolthar glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the blade.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his tone neutral but edged with curiosity.
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"I'm here to serve you, Young Master," she replied softly. Her voice carried an almost rehearsed quality, as if she had practiced these words many times before.

She put the glass on the table and then, without warning, she untied her dress and let it slip to the floor, standing before him with nothing but the faint light covering her bare skin.

Her single piece of sleeveless frock crumbled around her feet; her bosom, which was about the size of apples, perky, hung free now. Her hourglass laced with the thighs with enough flesh and taut. She didn't have any hair around her womanhood. Two strands of her black hair flung in front of her face, and she looked a little shy, but she seemed determined, that look in her eyes, which made him think that she wasn't joking.

Jolthar tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice betraying no emotion.

"I'm serving you," she said again, her voice steadier this time, though her eyes avoided his. He could understand the servicing she mentioned was having sex with him, but why would she jump right in on their first meeting itself, he wondered.

Jolthar sighed deeply, setting Knashii aside.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and studied her carefully. Her posture was rigid, and though she stood with an air of determination, he could see the faint trembling in her hands.

"Get dressed," he said finally, gesturing toward her discarded dress.

"And come here."

Ilyra hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her options, but eventually complied.

She picked up the dress and slipped it back on, tying it securely before stepping closer to him. Her expression remained unreadable, but Jolthar could see something flickering in her eyes—was it fear, desperation, or perhaps a mix of both?

She asked, "Perhaps you do not like me, young master?"

Her brows furrowed briefly, and she looked down at herself, smoothing out the fabric of her modest yet flattering dress. With a simple yet confident tone, she replied, "I don't think I am lacking in anything that a man desires."

Jolthar arched an eyebrow, intrigued by her boldness but remaining impassive.

She paused, as though weighing her next words, then glanced at him with a skeptical glint in her eye. "Young master, are you… attracted to men?"

For a moment, there was silence, and then Jolthar coughed abruptly, nearly choking on the very air he breathed. His expression shifted into one of incredulous disbelief. "What the—!"

Her composure remained unbroken as she continued, her voice even and calm. "Well, I stood naked in front of you, and you showed no temptation or desire. When other men see me, all I can find in their eyes is either lust or some form of infatuation. But you... you seemed entirely unaffected."

Jolthar leaned back, his head shaking slightly as if trying to process the absurdity of the situation.

"No," he said finally, his tone clipped. "I'm not into men, if that's what you're asking."

She remained quiet, watching him intently.

"And for the record," he continued, his voice now laced with a dry sarcasm, "I'm perfectly fine with women. In fact, I tend to prefer older women, more mature, less—" he gestured vaguely, "—forward. But feelings of that sort, they aren't exactly a priority for me right now."

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his dark hair before letting it drop to his side.

Once she was within arm's reach, he leaned back slightly and motioned for her to sit on the nearby chair. She hesitated again but eventually obeyed, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

"So," Jolthar began, his voice quieter now, "tell me about yourself now."

Her dark eyes widened slightly at the question, as if she hadn't expected it. "What do you want to know, young master?"

"Everything," he said, his tone leaving no room for ambiguity. "Start with why you think offering yourself to me is the only way to serve."

Ilyra looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together nervously. "I... I come from a small town on the outskirts of the clan's territory," she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

"My family is poor. My father is a farmer, and my mother is sick, and I have siblings too. I came here to work and send money back to them."

Jolthar nodded slowly, waiting for her to continue.

"The pay here is good," she said, her voice gaining a bit more strength. "But it's not enough. My mother's medicine is expensive, and my siblings are still young. They need food and clothes."

"So you thought throwing your dignity away was the solution?" Jolthar asked bluntly, his sharp eyes fixed on her.

Ilyra flinched slightly at his words but didn't look away. "It's not about dignity," she said after a pause, her tone defensive.

"It's about survival. If giving you my body ensures that I can stay here and earn more, then so be it."

Jolthar leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you think I'm the kind of person who would demand that from you?"

"No," she admitted, her voice softening. "But people talk. They say men of your status expect... things. And if I refused, they might replace me. I can't afford that. And Head Butler Pascal said that I shouldn't disappoint you and serve you to the best of my abilities."

He studied her for a long moment, his sharp mind piecing together the layers of her situation. It wasn't just desperation he saw—it was fear, manipulation, and the weight of responsibility crushing someone far too young for such burdens.

"You've been misled," Jolthar said finally, his voice gentler now. "I don't need—or want—your body to be served. That's not how I measure service."

Ilyra's eyes filled with confusion. "But... the butler said—"

"The butler," Jolthar interrupted, his tone laced with irritation, "is a fool if he thinks sending you here like this is acceptable. You're not a commodity to be traded."

Ilyra blinked, her composure beginning to crack. "Then... what do you want from me?"

"Honesty," Jolthar said simply. "And competence. If you're here to serve, do so with dignity. Help me when I need it, and don't let anyone make you feel like you're worth less than that."

Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Finally, she nodded, her hands clenching tightly in her lap.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Jolthar waved a hand dismissively, picking up Knashii once more. "Don't thank me. Just do your job, and make sure you're not putting yourself in situations like this again."

Ilyra stood, her movements more confident now. "I'll do my best, young master."

She stood there, her expression unreadable, her gaze unwavering.

After a moment of silence, Jolthar raised an eyebrow. "Well? Anything else you'd like to add?"

For the first time, her lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. "Nothing, young master, it's just… You seem different from others. You speak with such maturity for your age."

Jolthar chuckled softly, the sound low and almost dismissive.

"Is that so?" he replied, his clever mind already analyzing her demeanour.

A brief pause settled between them, heavy with unspoken tension. Then, his expression shifted.

The faint amusement in his eyes sharpened into something else entirely—something calculating.

"Then let me ask you one thing," he said, leaning forward slightly. His tone was deceptively casual, but his sharp gaze bore into her with unrelenting precision.

She nodded hesitantly, her poise faltering just slightly under his scrutiny.

"Did anyone send you here?" he asked, his voice smooth, yet carrying a subtle edge that made the question feel more like a command.

The faint tremor in her hands betrayed her. It was almost imperceptible, but Jolthar noticed it immediately. Her confidence wavered, her lips parting as though to form a response, but no sound came out.

"What? No—no! What are you talking about?" she stammered, the cracks in her façade now evident.