The Sinful Young Master

Jolthar leaned back again, the faint smile returning to his lips. It was the kind of smile that offered no reassurance, only a reminder that he was always a step ahead.

"Don't worry," he said smoothly, his tone almost playful but with an underlying seriousness. "Just tell me the truth. I won't do anything… yet."

Her breath caught for a moment, her uncertainty palpable. But Jolthar didn't press further. He simply waited, his calm, observant nature leaving her to squirm under the weight of her own thoughts.

His sharp eyes caught every subtle shift in her demeanour—the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her dress, the nervous glance that darted toward the door before she forced herself to look at him again.

"No, young master," she said, her voice uneven. "Why would anyone send me? I'm just a simple maid; I am not capable of doing such things."

Jolthar leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression calm but his tone carrying an edge of amusement.

"Oh, I don't know," he began casually, "perhaps to see if I'd react the way most men would to such… overt attempts at seduction."

Her face reddened slightly, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Jolthar cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"Don't misunderstand," he said, his voice smooth. "It's not that I doubt your intentions—at least, not entirely. But let's not pretend we're here by chance. You said to yourself you were assigned to me as a reward. Convenient, isn't it?"

She shifted uncomfortably, her hands clutching at the fabric of her dress. Jolthar leaned back, his posture relaxed as if he were simply making idle conversation, but his piercing gaze never left her.

"Tell me," he continued, his tone light yet probing, "who exactly did send you here?

She couldn't hold herself under his intense gaze, and she was afraid that he would do something if she didn't say anything. If she did, then the ones who sent her would kill her; she had a hard time dealing with the thoughts that ran through her mind.

She looked at him and decided to bet on him. Earlier, he wanted to hear about her family; he seemed to be reasonable, and she thought she could ask him to give me some money if he killed her. And she quickly thought about telling him and dealing with it. This is why she hated working with these nobles, yet here she was.

"It was Lady Elara; she called for me, and Young Master Orimus led me to her."

Jolthar's brows slammed against each other, forming a deep frown. "Elara? Orimus? Those stupid fucks, I didn't think they were capable."

He looked at her with a questioning gaze, "So, it wasn't Maena who ordered you then."

"What? No, she wasn't aware of me."

Jolthar muttered to himself, "Here I thought that woman would have done it. What did Elara tell you to do?"

The maid hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line as she tried to maintain her composure. Finally, she sighed and lowered her head slightly. "She said you were difficult," she admitted quietly. "That you needed someone… persuasive to soften your edges."

Jolthar chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Persuasive, is that what she called it? How thoughtful of her."

The maid glanced up at him, her expression a mix of guilt and apprehension. "Young master, I swear I only meant to do my duty. I wasn't trying to deceive you—"

"Relax," Jolthar interrupted, his tone surprisingly gentle. "I'm not angry. In fact, I find it rather amusing. Elara always did have a flair for the dramatic."

She looked at him, clearly puzzled by his reaction. "You're not upset?"

Jolthar shook his head. "Why would I be? Well, I thought Maena would have wanted to spy on me. And Elara… I didn't really care about her, but she seemed like she hadn't forgotten about me.

Elara's attempts to meddle are as predictable as they are entertaining." He paused, his sharp mind already working through the implications of her actions. "Though I wonder… what exactly is she hoping to gain by keeping such a close eye on me?"

The maid didn't respond, her silence speaking volumes.

Jolthar smirked, his clever mind already piecing together the possibilities. "No matter," he said, standing up and stretching. "You've done your part, and I have no intention of holding it against you. Just do me a favour." Discover hidden content at empire

She looked up at him, her expression wary. "What is it, young master?"

"Tell me everything she asks you to do. Don't worry about your family; you will get your wages."

Jolthar could see her eyes filled with happiness when mentioning her family. He could see himself in her, how he had worked hard to provide for his family.

The things you do for your family, he shook his head, thinking it was all in the past.

The maid nodded quickly, her relief evident. "Thank you, young master."

Their talk was interrupted by a sudden surge of voices from outside—cheers and exclamations that echoed through the estate's halls.

"What's all that commotion?" Jolthar asked, his curiosity piqued. He moved toward one of the arched windows, trying to discern where the voices were coming from.

Jolthar got up and said, "Let's go see what this is all about." He moved out, and Ilyra followed him closely behind.

They made their way through the estate's polished corridors, their footsteps echoing on the marble floors. As they emerged onto the front grounds, the scene before them was extraordinary.

A massive crowd had gathered in the courtyard, forming a circle around something Jolthar couldn't quite see. The orange light of the setting sun caught on excited faces.

Then he saw it—a dragon's head so enormous it dwarfed the men who stood around it. Its scales were the colour of burnished copper, and even in death, its serrated teeth gleamed menacingly.

Jolthar had heard tales of dragons, but seeing one up close made his breath catch in his throat. He could see a young man standing in front of the dragon's head with his sword out. His clothes were bloodstained, and his face too.

"Who is that?" he whispered to Ilyra, noting the way the crowd seemed to focus on the young man at its centre.

Ilyra's voice held a note of reverence as she explained, "That's Lord Wayde, your cousin. Lady Elowen's second son." She nodded toward the centre of the gathering, where a striking figure stood.

Jolthar studied the man he hadn't seen in years. Wayde cut an impressive figure—tall and powerfully built, with distinctive silver hair that caught the dying sunlight. Despite being in his mid-twenties, there was something timeless about his bearing, an air of quiet confidence that drew all eyes to him. His armour, though battle-worn, was clearly of the finest make, and a sword of remarkable craftsmanship hung at his side.

Lady Elowen stood beside her son, her presence as regal as ever. Her pride was evident in the way she carried herself, in how her hand rested on Wayde's arm. The clan patriarch's wife had always been known for her grace, but today she practically glowed with maternal pride.

Near them stood Davis and Isorabella, Wayde's siblings. Davis, the third son, couldn't have been more different from his brother—shorter, darker, but with the same sharp intelligence in his eyes.

Isorabella, the eldest daughter, shared Wayde's silver hair, though hers fell in elaborate braids down her back.

"That's Kiannyt's head," Ilyra continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The tyrant dragon that's been terrorising the northern lands. They say it burned three villages to the ground last month alone. No one thought it could be killed—its scales were said to be harder than diamond."

"You seem quite knowledgeable for a maid," he remarked.

Ilyra smiled modestly.

Jolthar watched as Davis clapped his brother on the shoulder, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "Tell them how you did it, brother! Tell them how you lured the beast from its lair!"

Isorabella laughed, a sound like silver bells. "Yes, Wayde, tell them! Tell them about the trap you set in the Crystal Valley!"

The crowd pressed closer, eager to hear the tale, but Wayde raised a hand in modest protest. Yet there was something in his eyes—a shadow, perhaps—that suggested the story might not be as simple as his siblings imagined. Jolthar noticed how his cousin's hand never strayed far from his sword hilt, how his eyes occasionally scanned the darkening sky as if expecting another threat to emerge from the gathering dusk.

The sun sank lower, casting the dragon's head in deeper shadows, making its dead eyes seem to glimmer with remembered malice.

Jolthar's eyes were suddenly drawn towards the two people entering the estate grounds.

Elara and Orimus came together, and soon she noticed him too.

She smiled at him, like a warm and pleasant greeting, but Jolthar could see the malice in her eyes. He could tell it even if she tried to mask it with her beauty.