Solivair rose from his chair, stretching out his limbs with a low, satisfied grunt. The office had served well for his musings, but there was work to be done. A steward’s duties did not end with numbers on a ledger or conversations about coin. No, he needed to see the progress with his own eyes, to ensure that the staff—his staff—were settling into their roles.

  It was not so different from how he used to operate.

  Running an estate and running a criminal enterprise had more in common than most would care to admit. The names changed, the setting shifted, but the fundamentals remained the same. Power required structure. It required discipline. A house, whether noble or criminal, could not function if its foundation was weak. The only real difference was that in a crime syndicate, weakness led to betrayal. Here, it led to inefficiency.

  A steward managed people. A crimelord did the same.

  A steward ensured that resources were properly allocated, that work was carried out without delay, that those under his care performed to the best of their abilities. A crimelord ensured that his subordinates followed orders, that they understood the consequences of failure, and that no part of his empire fell into disrepair. Both required a keen eye for talent, a steady hand when discipline was necessary, and an understanding of people’s natures. Fear motivated. So did ambition.

  Loyalty, however—that was the true currency of power.

  And, from what he could tell, it seemed like Klarion had an instinctual understanding of that.

  He adjusted the cuffs of his new well-fitted but unadorned black coat, smoothing out the fabric before making his way out of his office and down the halls of Blacksword Manor. His long red tail swayed behind him as he moved, the sound of his boots echoing faintly against the still-sparsely decorated corridors.

  Solivair found the kobold maids—Vaila, Shaya, and Noqui— hard at work, their tiny frames bustling with purpose. Though kobolds were often underestimated, Solivair had always respected their industrious nature. Even more so, he respected their uncanny way of getting in and out of small places unobserved. The three of them were small for their species, yes, but still possessed a tireless work ethic. And with a bit of guidance, they were proving to be quite capable in their roles.

  Vaila, the eldest of the three, was the first to notice his approach. Her eyes widened slightly before she quickly turned back to her work, her tail flicking nervously. Shaya, the smallest of the trio, froze entirely, clutching a dusting cloth as if it might protect her. Noqui, the most confident among them, hesitated only a moment before straightening her posture.

  “Steward,” Noqui greeted in a small voice but with a respectful nod.

  Solivair didn’t respond at first, opting instead to clasp his hands behind his back and survey the work they had done. The improvement was evident. The long-neglected baseboards now had a luster to them, and the floors—once covered in a thick layer of dust—were practically gleaming.

  “You’re all doing fine work,” he said, his voice even and measured.

  The three kobolds exchanged glances, as if unsure whether to believe him.

  Solivair allowed a slow smile to cross his face. “I don’t waste words, and I don’t give praise I don’t mean.” He gestured toward the room. “It’s not an easy thing to restore a place like this, but progress is being made. I notice it.”

  Vaila’s tail twitched slightly, her grip tightening on the broom in her hands. “T-thank you, Steward.”

  Noqui straightened further, looking proud, while Shaya gave a quick, nervous nod before returning to dusting as if she might somehow disappear into her work.

  Solivair chuckled. “Keep up the good work. The manor is beginning to feel like a proper residence again. And that is, in large part, thanks to all of you.”

  The kobolds beamed—well, as much as their reptilian faces allowed—and Solivair gave them one last approving nod before continuing on his way.

  As Solivair stepped away from the kobold maids, he allowed himself a small, satisfied nod. They were coming along well—better than he had expected, truth be told. Hard work was in their nature, but broken things, whether places or people, took time to mend. Still, the difference was beginning to show.

  He strode down the corridor, boots tapping against the polished stone floors, his mind already shifting to the next task. Baruk would be in the kitchen at this hour, likely preparing for the evening’s meal. The orc cook was competent, but Solivair knew better than to leave a crucial cog in the machine unchecked. Kitchens were the heart of a household, as vital as any war room, and if it did not run efficiently, the entire manor would suffer.

  The scent of something rich and savory filled the air as Solivair entered the kitchen. The space had been in a barely respectable condition when they first arrived, but Baruk had wasted no time in making it fully functional again. Now, the room carried a sense of quiet order, the steady bubbling of simmering pots and the rhythmic chop of a cleaver against wood filling the silence.

  Baruk stood behind a sturdy wooden table, his dark green skin unmarred by the scars so common among his kind. It was an oddity, one Solivair had noticed before, though he had never commented on it. Orcs of his size and stature rarely reached adulthood without bearing some mark of battle, but Baruk’s flesh was unblemished. The orc’s broad shoulders and thick arms spoke of strength, but there was an unusual tension in the way he held himself, his hands clasped behind his back whenever they weren’t occupied, as if restraining an unseen restlessness.

  He barely glanced up as Solivair approached, his focus on the thick slabs of meat he was cutting with practiced ease. “Steward,” he greeted, his deep voice even.

  “Baruk,” Solivair responded smoothly, stepping further into the kitchen to lean against an empty counter, watching as Baruk continued his preparation. “What’s on the menu for this evening?”

  Baruk grunted, finishing his last cut before setting his cleaver down with a heavy thud. “Roast venison, slow-cooked with root vegetables and thick gravy. Fresh-baked bread, now that I’ve that fancy oven. And a simple but hearty stew for those who prefer something lighter.”

  Solivair nodded in approval. “Sounds fitting. Lord Blacksword will be pleased, I’m sure.”

  Baruk exhaled sharply, neither a laugh nor a sigh, just a sound of acknowledgment. He reached for a cloth to wipe his hands. “Not cooking for the young lord alone. Whole household eats well. If they work hard, they deserve good food.”

  Solivair couldn’t help the smile that came to his face at the earnest statement. “That is a fine philosophy.”

  Baruk shrugged, tossing the cloth aside. “Orc clans are the same. A warrior who doesn’t eat well can’t fight. A worker who doesn’t eat well can’t work. Simple.”

  It was a sentiment Solivair could respect. Too often, those in power neglected the importance of proper care for those beneath them. He had seen it many times—criminal bosses who hoarded wealth, nobles who squandered resources on luxuries while those who served them suffered. But if one wanted true loyalty, true efficiency, then those who worked the hardest needed to be valued.

  “And how are supplies holding?” Solivair asked.

  Baruk’s hands clasped behind his back again, his shoulders tightening slightly as he considered the question. “Could be better, could be worse. We’ve got enough for now, thanks to your purchasing of supplies, but if the young lord plans to host guests anytime soon, we’ll need more stock.”

  Solivair stroked his beard in thought. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll see if Klarion has plans for ways to earn additional coin soon.”

  Baruk nodded once, a sharp movement. Then, without another word, he turned back to his work, pulling out a bundle of herbs to chop. The conversation, as far as he was concerned, was over.

  Solivair lingered for a moment, watching the orc move with efficiency, his hands steady even as that underlying tension remained. He had met many orcs in his long life—fighters, mercenaries, thugs—but Baruk was different. Unscarred, watchful, always assessing. There was a story there, one that Solivair had yet to uncover.

  But that was for another time.

  “Carry on, then,” he said, pushing away from the counter.

  Baruk didn’t look up, merely waving a massive hand in dismissal.

  As Solivair stepped back into the halls of Blacksword Manor, he allowed himself a small, satisfied breath. The pieces were coming together. There was much to be done, of course. More funds to secure, more work to finish, more power to seize. But that just was the way of things. The way of the Multiverse had always been struggle. Power was never simply given—it was taken, earned, carved from the hands of those too weak to hold it. Solivair had learned that lesson young, and he had spent his life ensuring his family would never be at the mercy of another’s whims. His face briefly took on a grim look tinged with a deep rage. Too bad he had failed in the end.

  Pushing darker thoughts aside, he moved through the dimly lit corridors of Blacksword Manor with quiet certainty, his footsteps steady against the polished stone. The structure was ancient, its foundations holding the weight of history and expectation, yet within its walls, Solivair had the sense that something new was being built. Klarion Blacksword was nothing like the scion the old Vileborn had expected him to be, given the House he belonged to.

  His grandchildren had been patient. They had given him space, trusted him to make the right decisions for their future, and now the time had come to give them the answer they had been waiting for. He was not a sentimental man, but when he thought of them—of the bloodline he had fought to preserve, of the quiet hopes and fears he had seen in their eyes—he felt something deeper than duty. And that was why he had spent so much time observing — and thinking — about their new lord.

  Klarion Blacksword was a noble of the Empire, true, but not in the way that word usually meant. Nobles were, as a rule, predictable creatures—scheming, vain, bound by their own excesses and the weight of their ancestors’ deeds. They wrapped themselves in bloodlines and oaths, pretending their privilege was something earned rather than inherited through the might of their classes and Essences.

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  To his initial surprise, Klarion had not fit neatly into that mold.

  Solivair had seen it in the way the young lord carried himself—calm but not complacent, sharp but not yet honed. There was ambition there, but not the lazy, overfed hunger of an aristocrat who had never known struggle. No, Klarion had the look of someone who had fought for what he had, even if Solivair did not yet know the details of that fight.

  And that, more than anything, made him dangerous.

  It was easy to predict the moves of a noble born into comfort, a man who had never bled for his own survival. But for some reason, Klarion struck him as being far more similar to some of those that he had fought and fought alongside before his family had been betrayed. It was strange how certain he was about that, given how little he still knew about Klarion.

  Why was that?

  Solivair turned the question over in his mind, considering the human—not as a lord, not as a player in the Empire’s grand games, but as a man. He was young, certainly. Perhaps a touch too idealistic. But there was steel beneath the surface, something waiting to be tempered. He had seen it in the way Klarion had spoken to him, neither dismissive nor deferential, simply weighing him as one might weigh a blade in hand. There had been no false pleasantries, no wasted words.

  And there was something else.

  A lack of cruelty.

  It was not softness—Solivair had no use for soft men, and Klarion did not strike him as one. But the young lord had not taken them as slaves, had not treated them as disposable. That, alone, was rare. He had not pitied them, either. He had merely… claimed them, in the way a man might claim valuable tools he intended to use well.

  It was pragmatic. Efficient. And, for now, that was enough.

  Solivair had owed his loyalty to others before. Some had deserved it. Others had proven unworthy. Trust was not a currency he spent lightly.

  But Klarion had saved them from the Arena. That meant something. He had not expected to be saved. If anything, he had expected to die fighting, taking as many of those Academy whelps with him as possible. Instead, he had been given another chance, another game to play. And Klarion… Klarion was a piece worth betting on.

  Perhaps even a piece worth sharpening.

  Solivair reached the final hallway, his pace unwavering despite how chaotic his thoughts were. Beyond that door, the discussion that would shape the next stage of his family’s lives awaited. He exhaled once, steadying himself. Then he reached for the handle, pushing the door open to their shared quarters, where he found his grandchildren already waiting for him. The room was modest but well-kept, a far cry from the cell in the Hall of Bonds, or the wretched confines of the labor camp they had narrowly escaped before that. A sturdy wooden table stood in the center, chairs gathered around it, while their beds were neatly arranged along the walls.

  Damian, the eldest, leaned against the table with arms crossed, his crimson skin and dark horns a mirror of Solivair’s younger days. His eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto his grandfather as he entered. Kodrian sat on the edge of his bed, flipping a dagger he had found somewhere between his fingers—a nervous habit, one Solivair had long since stopped reprimanding. He was the quiet one, but observant. Lilian, the youngest, perched on a chair, her long tail curled around one leg, her sharp features unreadable. She had always been harder to gauge, guarded in a way that made her dangerous to those who underestimated her.

  “Finally,” Damian said, speaking up as his grandfather entered the room. “Thought you’d keep us waiting all evening.”

  Solivair gave a patient smile at Damian’s impatience, settling down into his own chair as he stretched out his legs. “Patience, boy. A man who rushes his play loses the game before it even starts.”

  Damian scoffed but didn’t push the matter. Kodrian set his dagger down on the table with a soft click and rested his elbows on his knees, while Lilian simply watched, sharp-eyed and waiting.

  Solivair let the silence hang for a moment longer before speaking. “You’re all settling in well, I take it? No trouble adjusting?”

  Kodrian snorted. “We’re not dead.”

  Lilian shot him a look before clarifying, “What he means is we’re fine. Baruk actually let me help in the kitchen today. Margaret still treats us like we’ll break something just by existing, but I don’t think she dislikes us. The kobolds keep to themselves, but they don’t seem to mind us either.”

  Solivair nodded. Margaret would warm up in time—if she didn’t, he’d have a word with her. As for the kobolds, they were practical creatures; as long as the work got done and they weren’t mistreated, they’d keep to their own affairs.

  “And you, Damian?” he asked, turning his gaze to his eldest grandson.

  Damian exhaled, raking a hand through his dark gray hair. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the security of the manor, like you suggested. It seems to have been designed with defense in mind, but given the size and lack of dedicated guards, there are many gaps. I don’t think it’s a problem yet, but if Lord Blacksword starts making enemies, we’ll need more than what we have now.”

  Solivair’s lips curled slightly at that. If he didn’t miss his guess, Klarion had already started making enemies. The human was from an ancient, formerly powerful Archducal House. One with many enemies. Solivair would be surprised if there were less than a dozen other scions arrayed against Klarion already.

  “Good. Keep watching,” he said instead.

  Damian frowned. “I will. But that’s not really why we wanted to talk tonight.” His eyes locked onto Solivair’s, sharp and steady. “What’s the plan for us? Where do we go from here?”

  Kodrian straightened at that, and even Lilian’s usually neutral expression hardened slightly.

  Solivair sighed, leaning back. “I’ve turned it over every way it can be turned. And the truth is, even if we wanted to walk away, there’s nowhere left for us to go.”

  Damian frowned, his sharp gaze narrowing. “That doesn’t sound like you, Grandfather. You always have a plan.”

  Solivair allowed a small, knowing smile to bloom across his face. “And I do. But first, you need to understand where we stand.” He leaned back forward, his hands clasped together. “We are bound to Klarion Blacksword. That’s a fact. Breaking that bond would be difficult, dangerous, and ultimately pointless. Even if we could, where would we run? Back to the Arena to fight and die for some other scion to gain levels? Or perhaps we would return to the Hall of Bonds to be sold like livestock to someone else? Make no mistake, here at the heart of the Imperial Academy, those would be our only options.” He shook his head. “And neither of those is a future I will allow for you all.”

  Kodrian shifted uncomfortably, but he did not argue. Lilian’s expression remained unreadable, but Solivair could see the slight tightening of her jaw. She understood.

  Damian exhaled through his nose, his frustration evident. “So what? We just serve him? Hope he doesn’t toss us aside when we’re no longer useful?”

  Solivair’s smile widened slightly. “You misunderstand me, boy. We do not simply serve. We build.”

  Kodrian leaned forward slightly. “Build what?”

  “A foundation,” Solivair said. “From everything I have observed so far, I believe Lord Blacksword to be young, ambitious, and far from foolish. I believe he has an instinctual understanding of power, for all that he does not yet wield it fully. That will change. And when it does, we will be at his side, not as mere servants, but as something greater.”

  Lilian spoke then, her voice soft but cutting. “And if he fails?”

  Solivair gave a low chuckle. “Then we make sure he doesn’t.”

  A silence settled over the room, heavy but not oppressive. His grandchildren were considering his words, weighing them against their own doubts.

  Lilian tilted her head slightly, and asked, “Why?”

  “Because of Lord Klarion Blacksword himself,” Solivair answered simply. “Because he did not leave us to die in the Hall of Bonds. Because he does not look at us with disgust, nor treat us as disposable. That alone is more than we might expect from most.”

  Kodrian nodded slightly, but Damian still seemed unconvinced. “And what if that changes?” he pressed. “What if he turns out to be like every other human noble in this cursed Empire?”

  “Then we adapt,” Solivair said evenly. “We may be bound to him, but I have my ways. If need be, I have certain… options that will ensure we are not prisoners here. If the day comes that our loyalty is misplaced, I will do what I must. But until then, we have a place, a purpose, and a future that does not involve a collar or a shallow grave.”

  Damian exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. For now.”

  Lilian smirked. “You make it sound like you had a better idea.”

  Damian shot her a glare, but there was no real venom in it. “I just don’t want us to be fools. We’ve trusted the wrong people before.”

  “So has everyone,” Solivair said. “But survival is about choosing the right risks.”

  His grandchildren all sat for several minutes longer, absorbing what Solivair had said. Lilian was the first to rise from her seat, stretching her arms above her head. “Well, if that’s settled, I’m going to bed. I was able to get Baruk to agree to me helping with the chopping vegetables tomorrow, and I’d rather not lose a finger because I’m too tired to see straight.”

  Kodrian snorted. “You? Lose a finger? I’d pay to see that.”

  “Shut up,” Lilian shot back, flicking her tail at him as she passed.

  Damian shook his head but said nothing as he too stood. “I’ll do another check on security before I head to the dining room.”

  Solivair gave him a nod of approval. “Keep your reports coming. And keep your eyes open.”

  Damian grunted in acknowledgment before slipping out the door.

  Kodrian lingered for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a brief nod, he followed his siblings, leaving Solivair alone.

  The old Vileborn exhaled, rubbing his temples as he sat back in his chair. Life was a strange thing. Once, he had ruled a criminal empire. Now, he was a steward in service to a noble scion. Yet, somehow, it did not feel like a fall. No, this was simply another game.

  It was all a gamble, of course. Every decision in life was. But he had told his grandchildren the truth. Klarion did not strike him as being like the nobles he had known before. There was an edge to him, a hunger that spoke of ambition beyond simple power or wealth. He did not seem to waste what was useful, nor did he seem to be like those who would discard those who had served him well.

  That, more than anything, had convinced Solivair that this was the right path.

  His grandchildren might not fully understand yet, but they would. Damian would come around first, likely out of sheer pragmatism. He was sharp, observant, and had seen enough betrayal to know that Klarion was an anomaly among the ruling class. The boy would never fully trust anyone, not after what they had been through, but he would respect strength.

  Kodrian, for all his quiet intensity, would follow if only to ensure that their family remained intact. He was the most dangerous of the three in some ways—his blade was quick, his mind quicker, and he had yet to decide what kind of man he wanted to be. Solivair would need to watch him closely.

  And Lilian? Lilian had already made her decision. Of the three, she was the most adaptable. She had found her place in the Manor already, not out of any grand strategy, but because she saw value in stability. She would grow roots here, faster than the others, and in time, she would make this place her own.

  Solivair tapped a clawed finger against the armrest of his chair, his thoughts turning to Klarion once more. The young lord had made enemies already—of that, there was no doubt. Solivair had even fewer doubts that Klarion would soon find himself embroiled in greater conflicts that stretched beyond the walls of Blacksword Manor. If he hadn’t already, that was.

  And when that time came, Solivair would do his best to be ready.

  He had spent decades building and maintaining a criminal empire in the capital city of Alluria. He had crushed rivals, brokered alliances, and woven webs of influence that stretched from the slums to the highest halls of power. The game had nearly killed him more than once, but he had survived because he understood the rules.

  And Klarion… Klarion had spared them when he had no reason to. He had given them more than just their lives. He had given them a chance.

  Solivair did not take debts lightly.

  He would repay this one in full.

  If Klarion wished to rule—not merely hold power but rule—then he would need more than a noble’s education and a sharp blade. He would need someone who understood both the laws written in ink and those carved in blood. Someone who could navigate the Empire’s treacherous courts as easily as its back alleys. Someone who knew when to bow and when to slit a throat.

  A Steward and a Crimelord.

  Solivair chuckled, the sound low and edged with something dark, something hungry.

  The challenge ahead stirred something in him that had long lain dormant. It was intoxicating, the prospect of building again—not just a home, not just a family, but an empire. Not from the shadows this time. No, this time, he would stand in the light, at the right hand of a young lord who just might have the vision—and the ruthlessness—to reshape the Empire itself.

  His gaze drifted toward the door his grandchildren had disappeared through. They were still young, still adjusting, but there was a fire in them. They had the will to survive, to carve out a place in this new world they found themselves in. And if Klarion was as clever as Solivair was coming to believe, he would see that potential too.

  They would not remain beggars. They would not be mere survivors, clinging to the remnants of a shattered past. No. They would rise.

  And the nobility of the Empire would learn to fear the name Blacksword again.