I awoke in my extremely comfortable, luxurious bed, the silk sheets whispering against my skin as they slid away, carrying the faint, lingering scent of lavender from the linens. The morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the room, and I stretched languidly, feeling the plush mattress yield beneath me like a cloud. Rising, I padded barefoot across the cool marble floor to the adjoining bath, where steam soon enveloped me in a soothing embrace as hot water cascaded from the showerhead, scented with hints of sandalwood soap that tingled on my tongue when I inadvertently licked a stray droplet from my lips.
Dressed in casual clothes—a soft linen shirt that draped lightly over my frame and loose trousers that allowed easy movement—I stepped out from my quarters and headed toward the training ground. The path wound through an elegant courtyard, alive with the vibrant tapestry of greenery: manicured hedges rustling softly in the gentle breeze, their leaves brushing against one another with a hushed, papery sigh, and beds of flowers blooming in riotous color—crimson roses heavy with dew that released a sweet, heady perfume with every step, mingling with the earthy tang of freshly turned soil. A chorus of playful yips and meows filled the air from the bunch of cats and dogs weaving among the paths, their fur warm and sun-dappled as they chased shadows. Nearby, children's laughter bubbled like a fountain, high and unrestrained, as they darted about in games of tag, their small feet pattering against the stone tiles and kicking up faint puffs of dust that carried the faint, grassy scent of the lawn.
Maids and butlers moved with graceful efficiency, their starched uniforms rustling crisply as they tended to the little ones, offering gentle corrections amid the joyful chaos. Spotting me, they paused, their voices blending in a warm, harmonious greeting: "Good morning, young master."
I greeted back with a nod and a smile, my own voice steady and casual: "Good morning."
Saying this, I left their sight, the courtyard's symphony of sounds fading slightly behind me—the distant trill of birdsong, the soft splash of a decorative fountain, the mingled aromas of blooming jasmine and baking bread wafting from the kitchens.
"So, who is he?" asked a new maid, her voice laced with breathless curiosity, eyes wide as she clutched her apron.
The old butler replied with a flat tone, utterly professional, his words measured like the ticking of a grandfather clock: "He is the current younger generation's prodigy and ranks in the top five of the entire younger generation."
Hearing this, she gasped sharply, the sound echoing like a stifled sob, her face paling as she swayed, nearly fainting, the world tilting beneath her in a rush of overwhelming awe. Seeing this, the children erupted in peals of laughter, bright and infectious, their tiny hands clapping in delight.
"Hey, look, big sister fainted!" one boy crowed, pointing with a grubby finger, his cheeks flushed from play.
"Wait, why did she faint?" asked another, tilting his head, the scent of sun-warmed grass clinging to his tousled hair.
"Maybe she is hungry," replied one of them matter-of-factly, rubbing his belly with exaggerated drama.
"Na, maybe she is pregnant," offered a girl with a mischievous grin, and the group dissolved into a flurry of gossip, their voices rising in high-pitched imitation of elegant noble ladies—giggling whispers and dramatic sighs that carried on the breeze like scattered petals.
Seeing this chaos unfold, the old butler cleared his throat with an authoritative "Ahem," his experienced gaze sweeping over them like a calming wave. "Children, she is just faint from hearing about your big brother."
Hearing all this, the children's eyes lit up with literal stars sparkling in their wide, innocent gazes, a collective hush falling before they burst forth in unison, their voices a joyful cacophony that rang through the courtyard: "Big brother! Where is big brother?"
He cleared his throat again and—betraying me, that old bastard—pointed with a knowing glint in his eye. "He went in the direction of the training ground."
Hearing this, a group of children came charging toward me, their footsteps a thunderous patter growing louder with each bound, shrieks of excitement slicing through the air like arrows. And having no clue, I kept walking, the courtyard's serene beauty unfolding ahead—the rustle of leaves, the sweet floral whispers, the distant hum of the estate—unaware of the joyful ambush closing in.
I continued walking along the winding path, still some distance from the training ground, the gravel crunching softly under my boots like the faint crackle of autumn leaves, each step releasing a subtle, mineral-sharp scent from the sun-warmed earth. The air hung crisp and invigorating with the morning chill, laced with the distant tang of dew-kissed grass and the faint, smoky whisper of woodsmoke drifting from the estate's chimneys, while birdsong trilled overhead in lazy, looping melodies that danced on the breeze against my skin.
Inside the training ground, my cousins—peers of my own age—sprawled across the dew-dampened turf like dead dogs, their limbs splayed in exhausted heaps, chests rising and falling with ragged breaths that carried the salty bite of sweat through the air. The ground beneath them was a patchwork of trampled grass blades, cool and yielding, matted with the earthy musk of exertion and the faint, metallic tang of polished steel from abandoned practice blades scattered nearby. Their training tunics clung damply to their forms, heavy with the morning's humidity, and the old retired grandpa's absence stretched the wait into a languid haze, the sun's rays slanting golden across their flushed faces, highlighting beads of perspiration that gleamed like tiny jewels on their brows.
One of them lifted his head, voice gravelly with fatigue and mischief, and asked, "Where's the old man? Keeping us waiting like this?"
"Probably playing around with the maid—it is morning after all," said one of them in a lewd drawl, his words dripping with exaggerated insinuation, low and rumbling like a conspiratorial purr that sent a ripple of heat through the group.
Hearing this, all the boys erupted in laughter, a boisterous wave of guffaws and snorts that rolled across the field like thunder echoing off the stone walls, their shoulders shaking with mirth, the sound raw and unrestrained, mingling with the sharp inhale of held-back chuckles and the occasional slap of a hand against a thigh, skin meeting skin with a meaty smack.
On the other side of the ground, the girls clustered in a loose circle, their voices a lighter counterpoint—a bubbling chatter like the fizz of effervescent wine—discussing the latest makeup products shipped from the capital, the air around them sweetened by the floral hints of their perfumes, delicate notes of rose and violet wafting gently on the breeze, undercut by the subtle, powdery residue of their morning routines.
"Omg, girl, did you know that company's product is something else? I applied it last night—look, my skin is still glowing," one exclaimed, her tone breathless with delight as she tilted her face toward the light, her cheeks radiant with an ethereal sheen that caught the sun like polished pearl, smooth and luminous under the touch of her fingertips tracing its silken texture.
Seeing this, all the girls surrounded her, leaning in with eager eyes and soft gasps, their fingers fluttering like moths to brush against her arm or hold up compacts to compare, voices overlapping in a symphony of excited whispers and sighs—sharing swatches of creamy lotions that left faint, velvety trails on their palms, the collective glow of their enthusiasm warming the space between them like a shared secret unveiled in the morning light
Inside the private chamber—once the stern sanctum where the old retired grandpa was supposed to drill the younger generation into shape—the air hung thick and heavy with the musky scent of aged oak paneling and flickering beeswax candles, their flames casting elongated shadows that danced like mischievous sprites across the velvet-draped walls. Instead of barked commands and the clash of practice blades, the room thrummed with a different rhythm: the soft, rhythmic creak of the four-poster bed's carved mahogany frame, the faint rustle of fine linens twisting like whispers in the dim, rose-tinted glow, and the mingled aromas of spiced wine lingering on the air from a half-forgotten decanter, undercut by the subtle, floral warmth of jasmine oil from a nearby vial. Elder Garrick, the venerable patriarch with skin like weathered parchment etched by millennia, and Matron Elowen, the head maid whose silver-streaked hair cascaded like moonlight over her timeless curves—both well over ten thousand years in their immortal spans—entwined in a fervent tangle, their breaths coming in heated, synchronized gasps that carried the faint, salty tang of exertion.
"Old bastard, you're acting like a youth even though you're over ten thousand years old," she teased, her voice a husky murmur laced with playful reproach, her fingers tracing lazy, feather-light patterns across his broad, scarred chest, where the faint prickle of coarse silver hairs rasped against her touch.
Hearing this, he threw back his head and laughed—a deep, rumbling bellow that vibrated through his frame like distant thunder rolling over ancient hills, filling the chamber with its resonant warmth, the sound rich and unbridled, echoing off the tapestried walls before fading into a contented chuckle that stirred the candle flames.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," he rumbled in reply, his tone gravelly with affection and lingering desire, callused hands sliding with surprising gentleness along the silken curve of her thigh, the skin there yielding warm and smooth like sun-ripened peach. "I'll show you this old man can still dance."
Saying this, both continued what they were doing, the air growing thicker still with the intimate symphony of sighs and murmured endearments, the subtle shift of fabric and flesh, the faint metallic glint of a discarded signet ring tumbling to the rug with a muffled thud—lost to the haze of rediscovered passion.
Outside, nobody could hear a whisper of it; he had sealed the room with a veil of shimmering magic, an invisible barrier that hummed faintly like the buzz of a distant hive, absorbing every sound into its ethereal folds, leaving only the serene hush of the corridor beyond, where the polished stone floor gleamed cool underfoot and the air carried the neutral crispness of morning drafts from arched windows.
But inside... I leave this to your imagination.
I finally arrived at the training ground, the gravel path giving way to the springy turf that cushioned my boots with a soft, verdant give, releasing puffs of cool, chlorophyll-scented mist from the dew that clung like crystal beads to the blades. Looking around, there was no sign of old Grandpa Garrick—the space instead buzzed with the lively murmur of voices weaving through the crisp air, laced with the earthy undertone of trampled grass and the faint, acrid bite of lingering sweat from earlier exertions. Everyone was talking and laughing around in loose clusters, their animated gestures slicing through the slanting sunlight that warmed my skin like a gentle caress, the collective mirth rising in waves that carried the sweet, buttery hint of nearby wildflowers crushed underfoot. I shrugged, the motion rippling through my shoulders with easy nonchalance, and joined the girls' group, their circle a vibrant knot of silk-trimmed tunics fluttering like butterfly wings in the breeze, perfumed with the delicate powdery notes of their morning cosmetics.
"Hey, girls, what are you all discussing?" I asked in a cheerful voice, the words tumbling out light and inviting, infused with the easy warmth of camaraderie as I flashed a grin that crinkled the corners of my eyes.
Seeing me, they greeted back in a cheerful chorus, their voices lilting like birdsong on the wind, bright and overlapping with genuine delight, the air between us sparkling with shared energy.
"Yo, Elias!"
We all high-fived a little, palms meeting in a series of crisp, resounding smacks that echoed faintly across the field, the brief sting of skin-on-skin contact followed by the lingering tingle of connection, laughter bubbling up anew as fingers brushed and retreated in playful aftermath.