~ Side: Tyllian (3) ~
Tyllian Maynor harbored a deep, abiding hatred for his father, Lord Maynor.
Whether addressed as Lord Maynor or Baron Maynor, the man was undeniably Tyllian’s father, yet possessed precious few qualities worthy of respect. He was, however, unwavering in his devotion to the Ducal family.
This fierce loyalty was exemplified in his youth when he heroically cast himself in front of the Duke during a sudden attack.
While his actions saved the Duke, they left Lord Maynor with a permanent limp, a constant reminder of his sacrifice.
The Duke, in turn, spared no expense in attempting to heal his loyal subordinate.
He amassed a myriad of potent herbs and summoned the most renowned priests and mages from across the land.
Despite these exhaustive efforts, Lord Maynor’s leg remained unhealed.
The consensus was that the persistent pain stemmed from a curse, and tragically, since the caster of said curse was long deceased, there was no remedy.
This incident, rather than diminishing Lord Maynor’s standing, only served to draw the Duke closer to him.
The Duke’s resolute and unwavering trust in his father was a rare sight, a bond seldom observed in the typical lord-vassal dynamics of their society.
Tyllian yearned to emulate this profound dedication.
He aspired to live his life in the same manner, to become his master’s singular and absolute subordinate, one who would willingly spare no effort, not even his own life, in service to his lord.
He envisioned himself as a bastion of unwavering loyalty and protection, a stark contrast to his father.
While his father possessed a limping gait, he also harbored a philandering nature, a trait Tyllian vowed never to adopt.
He was determined to carve out a different path, one defined by unwavering honor and steadfast devotion.
“What brings you here?”
Lord Maynor’s voice held a note of surprise when Tyllian requested an audience.
It wasn’t a secret that his son disliked him; Lord Maynor was well aware of Tyllian’s thinly veiled disdain.
“I have something important to tell you about Lord Ash,” Tyllian stated, his voice even.
“How is he doing?” his father inquired, a hint of impatience in his tone.
“His health seemed perfectly fine,” Tyllian replied.
“Not that,” Lord Maynor interjected, waving a dismissive hand.
Tyllian let out a subtle sigh.
“He doesn’t remember,” Tyllian finally admitted, the words heavy with implication.
“Yes. He seems to have no recollection at all, does he?”
Lord Maynor mused, a knowing look in his eyes.
“From the beginning, he’s… well, anyway, he’s not exactly like His Grace the Duke. He wasn’t particularly healthy since birth, either. You could even say he’s not exactly strong-willed.”
Lord Maynor deftly steered the conversation away from the forbidden topic of those who had committed suicide.
It was a deeply ingrained societal belief that speaking of individuals who had taken their own lives would invite misfortune upon the living, as it was considered a transgression against divine commandments.
Tyllian, bound by the same societal strictures, also felt an innate discomfort in mentioning the deceased Duchess.
He found himself unable to bring her name to his lips.
Instead, he steered the conversation back to Ash, continuing to discuss his observations.
“His physical condition seemed fine, but I’m truly unsure about his mental state. What does His Grace the Duke think about this? Is he truly considering him as his successor? I’m not suggesting that an Omega can never be the head of a family in this day and age; I understand that times are changing. But he is…”
Tyllian hesitated, searching for the right words.
“A typical Omega, isn’t he? I know,” Lord Maynor interjected, a slight edge to his voice.
“And do you genuinely believe His Grace the Duke wouldn’t know what we know?”
Tyllian’s brow furrowed in displeasure. He detested labels like “typical Omega.”
Even if such a classification held any validity, he certainly didn’t believe it applied to Ash.
Ash, to Tyllian, was simply Ash.
He was a singular individual, unlike anyone else in the world.
He possessed an undeniable charisma that captivated others, drawing their attention and even swaying the opinions of those who initially held him in contempt.
Hadn’t Tyllian himself experienced this very transformation?
Yet, despite his unique allure, Ash was also undeniably weak.
Tyllian had long been aware of Ash’s physical frailty.
Beyond the inherent physiological differences between an Omega and an Alpha, Ash simply possessed no innate talent for swordsmanship.
He instinctively recoiled from the very idea of attacking an opponent with a sharp blade, or even delivering a blow with an unsharpened wooden sword.
Tyllian, who frequently sparred with him, consistently noticed Ash’s slight flinch just before an attack, a subtle but telling hesitation.
He never brought it up.
It was unnecessary.
Tyllian’s unwavering resolve was to protect Ash, meaning Ash had no need for martial prowess.
But Ash’s heart, his spirit, was a different matter entirely.
Could his delicate, easily wounded soul truly endure the immense burden of the Duke’s position?
The weight of leadership, the ceaseless demands, the political machinations—could his tender spirit withstand such pressures?
“It’s not that Lord Ash is lacking,” Tyllian quickly clarified, perhaps too quickly.
“He does have a strong sense of responsibility. Though at first glance, he doesn’t appear that way… He can also be a bit thoughtless at times.”
“You like him, don’t you? Well, I suppose you’ve grown fond of him,” Lord Maynor remarked, clicking his tongue and chuckling softly.
Tyllian found himself momentarily confused, unsure if he had praised Ash or inadvertently insulted him.
Yet, his father had accurately perceived the underlying sentiment Tyllian was attempting to convey.
“Do I truly think His Grace intends to pass on the title to him? Well…”
Lord Maynor tilted his head, a peculiar smile playing on his lips.
“He probably has an alternative in mind.”
“An alternative, you say…?”
Tyllian prompted, a sense of unease stirring within him.
“Because His Grace the Duke loves Lord Ash so very much.”
The profound meaning of those words soon became starkly clear.
One day, the Duke returned from an outing, accompanied by an Alpha boy.
Though a little thin, the boy was exceedingly handsome, adorned with a wistful expression and humble demeanor, as he entered the grand Ducal castle.
His name was Owen.
The Duke not only granted Owen Mills Castle but also issued a direct order to Ashton Mills: he was to treat Owen as an older brother.
This significant event, unfolding in the clear light of day, reached Tyllian’s ears in less than half a day.
He acted immediately, making his way to the Ducal castle.
He sent word of his visit through a servant, but Ash offered no reply.
A servant of the Ducal castle emerged from within, their expression troubled.
“Young Master is not in his room,” the servant explained, wringing their hands slightly.
“I’ll look for him myself,” Tyllian stated, dismissing the servant.
Instead of further bothering the distressed attendant, Tyllian headed directly for the castle’s backyard.
He knew, with a certainty born of long familiarity, exactly where Ash would likely disappear to.
Ash had once, perhaps playfully, accused Tyllian of lacking imagination, but in this moment, Tyllian found himself wondering who truly lacked it.
Indeed, Ash was exactly where Tyllian expected him to be: in the glass garden.
The door, surprisingly, was not locked.
Tyllian stepped for the first time into this hallowed space, a place he had never been permitted to enter before.
The glass garden’s previous owner had been the deceased Duchess, and the only other individuals granted entry were Ash himself and the enigmatic mage, Cecil Moore.
However, with the only person who could grant or deny entry now gone, Tyllian felt justified in entering.
If Ash were to cast him out, he would have no choice but to comply.
Yet, Ash, currently crouched in a secluded corner of the garden, merely turned his eyes towards Tyllian for a fleeting moment before his gaze returned to a single, fixed spot.
Tyllian followed Ash’s line of sight.
“Red roses should have been planted there,” Ash said, his voice soft, almost a whisper.
Instead, vibrant white hydrangeas bloomed in that particular spot.
“It has to be red roses,” Ash insisted, his voice tinged with a delicate frustration.
“Mother loved roses. Look… when you sit in Mother’s spot and look at the garden, right here, this exact spot is visible. Who is the gardener? When did they change? I should fire the gardener.”
Ash continued to murmur, his eyes red-rimmed and wet with unshed tears.
‘A weak person,’ Tyllian thought, the observation a dull ache in his chest.
He had known it since the very first moment he laid eyes on Ash.
This was not the strong, unyielding master he had always wished to serve.
Not the kind of monarch who would inspire unwavering devotion and loyalty.
He envisioned a ruler who was wise and brave, a benevolent leader capable of guiding the duchy to new heights of prosperity.
Ash, he concluded with a heavy heart, would simply not become that kind of person.
And so, young Tyllian, despite his ingrained duty, had initially felt a profound reluctance to serve Ash.
Such thoughts bordered on disloyalty, a concept he never dared voice aloud, yet they simmered constantly beneath the surface of his consciousness.
‘This person, a Duke? Can he really be? Is he truly fit for it? But my duty isn’t to doubt my master…’
He would remind himself of this obligation daily, a mantra he repeated until it was etched into his very being.
Then, at some undefined point, he found himself undeniably Ash’s closest subordinate.
And sometime after that, the nagging thoughts of Ash’s unsuitability for the ducal role simply ceased.
Yet now, in this moment, those troubling thoughts resurfaced with a renewed, insistent force.
‘Can this person truly become Duke? Will it only make him miserable?’
Ashton Mills was truly a special individual.
He possessed a level of receptiveness that was strikingly unusual for someone of such high noble birth.
Tyllian’s own insolent words and actions had, in truth, warranted severe punishment multiple times over, enough to cost him his head.
Yet, Ash had never once shown genuine anger towards him.
Perhaps, Tyllian considered, Ash could indeed become a unique and surprisingly capable Duke.
Perhaps he could even perform far better than anyone expected.
However, Tyllian found he simply couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Ash suffer.
The position of Duke carried an immense weight, demanding far too much from its occupant.
People might glibly claim that in “this day and age,” an Omega as the head of a household wasn’t a flaw, but the harsh reality was far different.
Among the Empire’s three Ducal families, an Omega had never once held the esteemed position of head of the household.
How would the proud, tradition-bound vassals react to such an unprecedented change?
Even Alphas, born with the most legitimate bloodlines and destined to inherit their families’ legacies, faced countless threats to their lives.
The current Duke himself had endured numerous rebellions, both major and minor.
If it hadn’t been for Tyllian’s father, the Duke might very well have perished.
It was only after contemplating all of this that Tyllian fully realized the truth of his own desire.
He didn’t want Ash to become Duke.
It wasn’t for any selfish reason.
Tyllian’s singular duty, ingrained in him from a tender age through a process akin to brainwashing, was to protect Ash.
To protect Ash, truly protect him, he shouldn’t become Duke.
To protect even his tender heart, this was the only path.
“The servants are looking for you. Shall we return to your room?”
Tyllian offered, sidestepping a direct answer to Ash’s earlier lament.
Ash, in his state of quiet distress, simply nodded compliantly.
Having remained crouched for so long, Ash’s legs seemed to have grown numb.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Ash extended his hand.
Tyllian took it, helping him to his feet.
Even after Ash stood, he didn’t release Tyllian’s hand, and so Tyllian, in turn, did not let go of his.
Ash, like a child, possessed a high body temperature, making his hand remarkably warm.
That familiar warmth ignited a strange, unfamiliar sensation within Tyllian.
He couldn’t quite define this feeling.
He was, after all, still a boy, and his understanding of life was limited.
Yet, his entire short life had been lived for Ash.
He felt an undeniable certainty that he would continue to do so.
A profound, unwavering conviction that this destiny was inevitable.
And it was manifesting itself in the most peculiar of ways.