Oswin's PoV:
The eastern slums of Falcon Duchy were unlike the glittering heart of the city most nobles knew. Here, roofs were nothing more than stitched sheets of tarpaulin, patched and fraying under years of sun and rain. Walls leaned on one another like drunkards, built from splintered wood, rusted tin, and scavenged stones. The air was thick with the sharp stench of waste, smoke from damp firewood, and something else I could not name — something heavy, a lingering hopelessness.
Yet, among this decay, there was life. Children darted barefoot across the mud, sticks in hand, their laughter rising above the squalor like a stubborn flame refusing to be snuffed out. Women washed clothes in buckets with cracked bases, men patched holes in their makeshift walls, and all of them carried an air I rarely saw in places like this — an unspoken unity, fragile but proud.
I slowed my steps, then stopped before a boy no older than ten, his stick in hand, pretending it was a sword as he fought imaginary foes with his friends. I bent slightly, intending to kneel to his height, but the ground beneath me was little more than damp filth. I thought better of it.
"Kid," I said gently, "do you know where I can find a boy named William?"
The boy froze, his eyes narrowing. Then, quick as a spark, he struck my hand with his stick and stumbled a few steps back. At once, the laughter around me died. Children drew closer to him, clutching their sticks like weapons, while adults emerged from their shacks — faces hardened, movements wary. Within moments, I stood surrounded.
The boy's voice cut through the murmur, sharp and commanding in a way that belied his years.
"What do you need with my boss? I don't remember pasting any pamphlets near your property."
Pamphlets? The word sat oddly in my mind.
"No, no, you misunderstand," I began, raising a hand in peace. "I'm only here to talk to him—"
But the boy's voice came again, firmer, harsher.
"All you nobles say the same. We live better now thanks to the wages we earn from pasting pamphlets. And you people… you can't even bear to see us living well through harmless promotions?"
I blinked, taken aback. Pamphlets? That explained the handbills I had often seen plastered on the backs of carts and walls, messages scrawled boldly in ink. So this was their doing.
The absurdity of it made me laugh, the sound slipping out before I could stop it. My mirth was met not with amusement but with hesitation. The children held tighter to their sticks, the adults stiffened, and in all their eyes I saw something I had never expected from the slums — defiance, raw and unflinching.
These were not the usual eyes of beggars waiting for a noble's pity coin. These were eyes sharpened by pride and stoked by hope. Hope born not of charity, but of someone who had given them reason to stand taller.
William.
"You truly misunderstand me," I said, my tone calm, steady. "I came to speak with your little boss. And if we talk, everyone here might benefit from it."
A broad-shouldered man stepped out of the crowd then, his arms thick from labor, his face shadowed with suspicion.
"We don't need help from government or merchants," he growled. "We live on our own just fine. Leave, if that's all you came for."
I smirked faintly.
"Are you sure? Your little boss might not appreciate you turning away free opportunities."
"You—!" The man started toward me, but a voice from behind stilled him.
"You understood me well, Sir Oswin, even from the little we spoke before."
The crowd parted almost reverently.
He stepped forward, brown eyes steady, a smile tugging at his lips — confident, just shy of cunning.
William.
At last, the boy I had been seeking stood before me. I couldn't help but smile. Here was the talent I needed, flesh and blood before my eyes.
***
Ding! Favorability rose to 83.
Clara, still wrapping her arms around me like I was the last pillow left in a mansion, finally lifted her head. Her eyes were all serious, which made me nervous, because I know nothing good ever comes when women get that look.
"My lord," she said, voice soft but firm, "I appreciate the intention… but a Savant's Orb, the S-rank artifact, should be in the treasury, not with a maid."
Well… yeah. That's true.
I mean, if I had to buy the same thing off the black market, I might as well sell the duchy's cows, horses, and maybe half the walls too. One-fourth of our annual budget, gone in a puff of mana smoke. And that's probably because because most S-raank artifacts are one-time use. Except for Father's sword, of course, but that's another league entirely.
Still, I wasn't about to just let it sit there gathering dust like some glorified paperweight.
"What good does it do to rot away in the treasury," I said, "waiting for some unlucky Gyrfald without an innate skill to be born? I'd rather use it on someone who deserves it." I tilted my head at her. "Seriously, how far did you even push yourself to reach this level without a catalyst?"
She didn't answer. Just lowered her head, shoulders tense.
Then, quietly, she asked, "Does His Grace know this?"
…Woah. Okay, didn't expect that one.
"Uh, I… umm…" My brain tripped over itself. "I plan to tell him… at a later date." Smooth. Very convincing.
Clara looked at me again, and yeah, she wasn't buying it. Her expression darkened, the kind of look that says, 'I'm disappointed, but also trying not to scold you.'
"So he doesn't know," she mumbled.
Her grip around me loosened at last, and my lungs rejoiced like they'd been freed from an execution. Sweet, sweet air.
"My apologies, young master," she said, her voice steadier than her eyes. "I can't have it."
She stood, walked to the orb with measured steps, and picked it up carefully.
Then she turned her back to me, shoulders straight, as if she was trying to hold herself together with nothing but posture.
"Young master, you will be the duke soon," she said, her voice serious but with cracks that betrayed her. "And a more capable attendant will be appointed in my place. You don't have to bother with me."
Wait. What?
Hold on. Does that mean I have to start all over again with the loyalty stat? No way.