"It's clear I've been far too lenient with you of late," he said, voice now frigid. "Leave. Use the rest of the night to come up with an apology worthy of your name as a Winterborne."
The young girl, Melody, looked utterly stunned—heartbroken, even—by her father's words. Her blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she turned to her mother, clearly hoping for a reprieve or defense.
But Lady Winterborne's expression held only quiet disappointment.
"Please excuse me," Melody muttered, her voice trembling. She stood stiffly from her chair, trying to keep her composure. But as soon as she stepped away from the table, she bolted for the door, her blue pigtails bouncing wildly with each stride.
Michael watched her go, a pang of guilt stirring in his chest. He hadn't meant to cause unrest in the household—especially not when he was a guest—but her behavior had undeniably crossed a line.
I could never have gotten away with something like that in the Aurelius household, he thought.
Lord Winterborne let out a tired sigh and sank slightly into his chair. "My apologies, Michael. It seems we've failed to show you the proper hospitality."
Michael quickly bowed his head. "On the contrary, my lord. You've shown me far more kindness than I could have ever expected. Thank you for allowing me to stay here while I was at my weakest. For that, you have my eternal gratitude."
The Lord and Lady blinked, clearly surprised by his composure. For a ten-year-old to speak with such maturity—it was difficult not to compare him to their own daughter. Or perhaps it was something else entirely that left them momentarily speechless.
When Michael lifted his head again, both were smiling.
"What are your plans now that you've arrived in Whitevalley Town?" the Lord asked casually, as if probing his intentions.
Michael tensed slightly. It's coming… his true motive for taking me in.
"I planned to find work in town for a while so I can save some money. By the time I turn thirteen, I should have enough to apply for one of the local mage academies," he said truthfully.
"Oh?" Lord Winterborne raised a brow. "So you hope to become a mage?"
Michael nodded. "Yes, it was my mother's wish—for me to grow up to be strong and honorable mage."
The Lord turned toward his wife. They exchanged a glance that Michael couldn't decipher, but he remained vigilant.
Then came the offer.
"How would you like to stay here instead?" Lord Winterborne asked with a pleasant smile.
Huh?
Michael sat up straighter, unsure if he had heard correctly. "Forgive me, my lord. I have no money or possessions. It wouldn't be prudent for me to stay here long-term. I'd only be a burden."
He bowed his head again, hiding the flicker of panic that crossed his face. Living in such comfort was tempting—more than tempting—but he'd learned the hard way that nobles rarely offered kindness without a price.
A soft chuckle escaped Lord Winterborne's lips, startling him. There was a trace of arrogance in the man's expression now, one that made Michael instinctively wary.
"Look around you, Michael," the Lord said, spreading his arms wide in gesture. "Do you truly believe we cannot afford the burden of taking in a single child?"
He motioned to the lavish dining hall around them—gilded chandeliers, polished silver, carved furniture, and servants waiting silently by the walls. Every inch of the estate screamed wealth and power.
As he made his grand gesture, Michael's eyes drifted to the man's left wrist—where two glowing green rings shimmered faintly.
His breath nearly caught.
Two green rings…
Michael resisted the urge to suck in a sharp breath and forced himself to remain composed. His own father had possessed only a single green ring—and yet, that alone had made him the ruler of Velmara City. So what did it mean for someone to bear two?
Just how powerful was Lord Winterborne?
Sensing Michael's hesitation, the Lord leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. "You're cautious," he said, a note of approval in his voice. "That's good. A noble must always be wary of others' intentions."
He paused briefly before continuing, his brown eyes locking onto Michael's. "Let me be honest with you. Having orange rings at your age is… exceptional. If you continue to develop, you might one day reach three green rings—becoming a Verdant Mage, like myself."
What?
Michael stiffened. He wants me because of my talent?
The thought seemed absurd. His entire life, he'd been ridiculed for his single white ring—seen as the weakest of the weak. The idea that someone now believed he could one day reach Verdant-level sounded almost delusional.
But Lord Winterborne's tone remained calm and assured, as if Michael's ascension was not only possible, but expected.
"I want you to join my household," the Lord continued. "Become a pillar of the Winterborne family, and help us retain our position as Lords of Whitevalley."
He's the Lord of Whitevalley!?
Michael's earlier shock over the praise hadn't even worn off before this new revelation struck. The Winterbornes didn't just live in Whitevalley—they ruled it.
And with that realization came a wave of exhilaration.
If he allied himself with the Winterborne family, his future would be secure. He wouldn't have to sleep on the streets, or work himself bare. He could focus on his studies, train his magic, and grow stronger without distraction.
Everything—housing, education, protection—would be provided for.
But as excitement began to swell in his chest, a sudden doubt pierced through it.
Will I actually be able to get stronger?
Michael had been born with a single white ring. The lowest tier. The mark of the untalented.
He'd managed to somehow ascend two major realms to reach orange. But from what his mother had taught him, a mage could only ascend three times in their life. Supposedly, it was due to the soul's limits—its inability to contain more than three major advancements without risk of collapse.
If that were true, then Michael's path ended one step from where he stood.
Just one more realm—then nothing.
If he accepted the Lord's generous offer while knowing this, he'd be doing so under false pretenses. He would be repaying kindness with deception—and his conscience couldn't bear that.
Not after the hospitality they'd shown him.
Michael stood from his seat and gave a respectful bow.
"Lord Winterborne," he said, voice steady despite the storm in his heart, "I apologize… but I cannot accept your terms."
As he straightened, he watched the man's expression shift. The excitement in his features dulled, replaced by something quieter—disappointment.