Tyllian Meyner returned to his duties two days later, a sense of quiet resignation settling over him.
The assignment handed down by the young Duke Owen Mills was clear: to guard the second son, Ashton Mills.
Yet, Tyllian couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than just a guard duty.
The very wording of Owen’s command echoed in his mind, a deceptively gentle phrase that hinted at something deeper, “Go and see what he’s doing, my beloved Ash.”
The affection in the duke’s words, though perhaps feigned, was unsettling.
The young duke had confined his second son as a form of self-reflection, a direct consequence of the disturbance Ash had caused at Duke Mills’ funeral.
For nobles, house arrest was a common, almost mundane, punishment.
Considering the gravity of Ash’s actions, it wasn’t even a particularly severe sentence.
However, the absolute prohibition against leaving his room was a harsh measure, one that anyone familiar with Ash’s volatile nature would undoubtedly deem fitting.
A simple “no going out” order would have been entirely insufficient, Ash, with his rebellious spirit, would have undoubtedly found a way to escape, resorting to any means necessary.
As the duke’s only remaining bloodline, the second son, Ashton Mills, was indeed that kind of person—a whirlwind of unpredictable impulses.
And this was a fact that Tyllian Meyner understood intimately, just as the young duke himself did.
Upon re-entering his assigned post, the knight who had been temporarily covering for Tyllian snapped to attention, saluting with crisp professionalism.
“Are you feeling alright, Sir Tyllian?” the knight inquired, a hint of genuine concern in his voice.
“Yes, I am,” Tyllian replied, his voice a low rumble.
“I apologize for causing a disruption to your duties.”
The junior knight waved a dismissive hand.
“What are you saying, Sir? It was no trouble at all. Please, call on me anytime you require assistance.”
With another respectful salute, the junior knight prepared to depart.
Tyllian Meyner, though a knight of the ducal castle like his subordinate, held a distinctly higher social standing.
He was the eldest son of Baron Meyner, a venerable noble house that had served the ducal family as loyal vassals for generations.
Their disparity in rank was undeniable.
Furthermore, Tyllian was a knight highly favored by the young duke, a man whose reputation preceded him.
Whispers circulated throughout the castle that if Owen were to ascend to the ducal throne, Tyllian was destined to become the captain of the guard.
There was absolutely no downside to a junior knight maintaining a good rapport with someone of Tyllian’s burgeoning influence.
The junior knight’s offer to assist was undeniably sincere.
He was poised and ready to seize any opportunity to make a favorable impression.
The reason he didn’t prolong the conversation with excessive flattery was simple, Tyllian’s well-known disdain for sycophancy and his contempt for frivolous knights.
However, to the junior knight’s surprise, Tyllian initiated further conversation, a rare occurrence.
“Has Lord Ash continued to starve?”
Tyllian asked, his gaze fixed on the closed door behind which Ash was confined.
“No, Sir. He missed breakfast today because he overslept, but he had all his other meals,” the knight reported, his voice even.
“Is that so?”
Tyllian mused, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face.
The junior knight, accustomed to Tyllian’s succinctness, waited patiently for a follow-up question.
But instead, Tyllian simply gestured towards the door.
“You may go in.”
“Yes, Sir,” the junior knight acknowledged, then turned and left, a faint sense of lingering curiosity about the interaction.
Tyllian stood guarding the door for a moment, the silence of the corridor broken only by the distant sounds of the castle.
The young duke’s order, as Tyllian saw it, was less about guarding and more about surveillance—a subtle, constant monitoring of Ash’s every move.
Yet, a nagging question persisted in Tyllian’s mind: why had Owen entrusted this specific role to him?
The Meyner barony had a deep-rooted history with the ducal family, serving as their unwavering vassals.
For generations, they had cemented their loyalty by offering their firstborn son as the duke’s guard knight.
This act, the dedication of their most precious child to the duke, was a profound oath of unwavering allegiance, a solemn pledge that they would never betray the ducal house.
In its nascent stages, this tradition likely carried a strong implication of hostage-taking, a guarantee of good behavior.
However, as the centuries unfolded, the relationship between the Mills ducal family and the Meyner barony evolved, transcending the simple bounds of a vassalage.
It was a tradition: around the time a Mills Duke would produce an heir, a Meyner Baron would also welcome their first child.
That child, at approximately ten years of age, would be sent to the ducal castle, there to be educated alongside the young heir.
This education encompassed all the essential qualities of a knight, but, more importantly, an unshakeable loyalty to the ducal line.
In this current generation, the young Lord Meyner, Tyllian, was the product of this very system, raised with the ducal family as his paramount focus.
From his earliest memories, Tyllian had been indoctrinated with the unwavering principle of loyalty to the ducal family.
These teachings, verging on a form of psychological conditioning, had been hammered into his mind like iron nails, forging a resolve that he believed would never break or become corrupted.
This absolute loyalty was the very bedrock of Tyllian’s pride, an unyielding core of his identity.
His personal relationship with Ash held no bearing on his duties.
Whatever private thoughts or feelings Tyllian harbored towards Ash, they were irrelevant.
His unwavering commitment meant he would follow the duke’s orders, without question or hesitation.
And the will of the late duke had been made abundantly clear: the succession would fall to Owen Mills. It was self-evident that Owen would be the next duke.
Therefore, Tyllian’s path was clear: he would follow Owen Mills’ orders.
However…
Just then, a servant arrived to collect the empty dishes from Ash’s room.
He bowed deeply to Tyllian, a gesture of deference, and then knocked softly on the door.
“Young master, I’m coming in,” the servant announced in a low voice.
There was no immediate reply from within.
The servant, accustomed to Ash’s unpredictable moods, quietly opened the door.
Tyllian, without conscious thought, took a small step back from behind the door, giving the servant space.
A moment later, the servant emerged, carrying a tray.
As expected, the dishes were completely empty, indicating that Ash had eaten everything.
The servant gently closed the door behind him.
Tyllian, seizing the opportunity, questioned him.
“Is Lord Ash sleeping?” he asked, his voice even.
“Yes, Sir, he is,” the servant confirmed.
“How is his mood?” Tyllian pressed.
“Pardon, Sir?” the servant stammered, surprised by the directness of the question.
“Does he get angry or fuss about wanting to go out?”
Tyllian clarified, his gaze sharp.
“He hasn’t done so for the past two days, Sir. However…” the servant began, hesitating.
“What is it?”
Tyllian prompted, a hint of impatience in his tone.
“He asked for Lord Meyner,” the servant finally confessed.
He uttered the words with a clear reluctance, as if weighing the consequences, and then, as soon as the report was complete, a look of profound regret washed over his face.
He quickly walked away, almost fleeing, pulling the empty tray behind him.
Tyllian did not stop the servant. He remained silently guarding the door until his shift change, lost in thought.
The time didn’t feel long at all, so deeply was he immersed in his contemplation.
When the relief knight arrived for the change, he informed Tyllian, “The young duke is calling for you, Sir.”
“I’ll go,” Tyllian acknowledged, his voice devoid of emotion.
He began to walk towards the young duke’s office, the exact phrasing of Owen’s initial order echoing in his mind once more.
It had been precise, almost unnervingly so:
“Go and see what he’s doing.”
“And come report to me at this time every week.”
Today was not the designated day for Tyllian to report to the young duke, yet he harbored no complaints.
Such an act would have been contrary to the very essence of a knight’s virtue, which, to Tyllian, was absolute obedience to his master’s commands.
As Tyllian made his way towards the young duke’s private study, his thoughts turned, as they often did, to the two brothers.
Ashton Mills was a remarkably straightforward individual to understand, a stark contrast to his enigmatic elder brother, Owen Mills.
If Ash had inquired about Tyllian, there was likely no complex ulterior motive.
Ash would have been genuinely, almost childishly, curious about Tyllian’s whereabouts.
Whether Ash’s reaction to Tyllian’s absence was one of anger or heartbreak was impossible to ascertain definitively, though it was highly probable he exhibited both.
If anger had been his initial reaction, he would undoubtedly have later succumbed to heartbreak, his eyes swollen from tears.
Conversely, if tears had flowed first, he would have eventually simmered with indignation in solitude.
Tyllian understood that Ash wished to mend their strained relationship.
Ash had always been this way: despite his capricious and often self-serving behavior, he couldn’t endure it when someone he cherished left his side.
He acted on impulse, without deep consideration, and was quick to regret his actions.
Though undeniably stubborn, he was also surprisingly pliable, his resolve easily broken.
He was a perpetual source of trouble, demanding constant vigilance, and he had a knack for inevitably drawing others into his chaotic orbit, regardless of their willingness.
‘If you knew, you shouldn’t have been swayed,’ Tyllian’s inner voice chastised him, a harsh, unyielding echo of past mistakes.
He knew he should never have allowed himself to become emotionally involved, to confide in Ash.
Ash was a person who genuinely didn’t comprehend the weight of emotions, of the profound impact his actions had on others.
It was perhaps because of this fundamental lack of understanding that he had always been surrounded by a multitude of people, drawn to his vibrant, if chaotic, energy.
From the very first moment Tyllian met Ash, he had harbored a chilling premonition: if Ash were ever to become duke, it would lead to immense hardship.
Either the duchy itself or Ash as an individual would suffer greatly.
Perhaps, in the bleakest of scenarios, both would be irrevocably ruined.
Such a heavy burden, the weight of leadership, simply did not suit Ash.
He would not be able to endure it; he would crumble under the pressure.
The impression Tyllian had formed of Owen, however, was precisely the opposite.
Owen was a man whose thoughts were notoriously difficult to decipher, even from the moment he had first set foot in the ducal castle.
This remarkably fortunate alpha boy, blessed with striking good looks, sharp intelligence, and an outwardly humble demeanor, had quickly won the affection and admiration of everyone within the castle walls.
Once he had established his innate dignity and unequivocally proven his capabilities, even instances where he displayed a hint of arrogance were met with understanding, not disapproval.
He seemed to embody the very essence of the grand noble that people yearned for and admired, and the role suited him with an almost disconcerting perfection.
Tyllian entered the study and paid his respects to Owen Mills, who was seated at his expansive desk, meticulously poring over documents.
“I have returned to duty, Your Grace,” Tyllian stated, his voice devoid of inflection.
“I apologize for the late report.”
Owen didn’t retort with a cutting remark like, “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
Instead, he merely glanced at Tyllian for a brief moment before lowering his eyes back to the papers before him.
“Ash?” Owen queried, his voice calm.
“He’s sleeping, Your Grace,” Tyllian replied.
“Is he behaving himself?”
Owen asked, a hint of dry amusement in his tone.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Owen offered no further comment regarding Tyllian’s unauthorized absence.
This unexpected lack of reprimand surprised Tyllian, who had fully anticipated being interrogated.
Rather than feeling relieved, a sense of unease settled within him.
It was unlike Owen to let such a breach of protocol pass without question.
‘He’s a bastard,’ Tyllian found himself unconsciously recalling Ash’s frequent, almost obsessive, remark about Owen.
Tyllian often wondered how Ash could believe such a notion with such conviction.
Sometimes, he genuinely couldn’t tell if Ash truly believed the words he spouted or if they were merely a means of provocation.
Yet, at least in Ash’s own mind, the claim was remarkably serious.
When they were children, Ash would earnestly attempt to persuade Tyllian, meticulously enumerating a dozen reasons why Owen Mills had to be the duke’s illegitimate son.
Ash’s core argument was that he was merely stating facts, and Tyllian’s attempts to stop him were a grave injustice.
Of course, these “twelve reasons” were almost entirely baseless claims, such as “Owen looks too much like father,” or equally vague assertions.
When Tyllian, ever the pragmatist, would inquire, “In what way, my lord?” Ash would typically respond with a nebulous, “The atmosphere?” a testament to the utter lack of credibility in his arguments.
Objectively, the only discernible similarities between the Duke and Owen were the color of their hair and eyes.
Unlike the Duke, who possessed a robust and boisterous nature, Owen had always been shrouded in a cloak of enigmatic reserve.
“It seems you being here has relieved his mind,” Owen commented, his voice a low, even tone, as he signed the bottom of a document and turned to the next page.
“Keep watching him,” Owen continued, his gaze still fixed on his papers.
“Don’t let your guard down just because he’s behaving. A month should be enough.”
“Lord Ash seems to have reflected greatly, Your Grace. How about allowing him to at least walk around the castle with a guard by his side?”
Tyllian found himself saying, the words escaping him on an impulsive surge.
Ash must undoubtedly be resenting him, after all.
He had, in fact, prevented Ash’s escape twice.
It was utterly ridiculous that, even in this precarious situation, Tyllian still found himself unwilling to incur Ash’s profound displeasure.
“Him? Reflecting?”
Owen’s voice was laced with an incredulous amusement.
“No way.”
The young duke chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound that conveyed his absolute certainty.