The dawn came with quiet heaviness. Light stretched across the Morin estate's marble halls, glinting off polished banisters and tracing long lines through the morning haze. The servants moved briskly through the corridors, carrying trays, linens, and polished silver. Their rhythm was precise — but today, something in the air was different. The usual calm hum of the mansion held an edge of anticipation.
Klen stood outside Leor Morin's study. His reflection in the glass pane looked composed, yet the faint tremor in his fingertips betrayed his unease. Fole was beside him, arms folded, eyes half-lidded with that usual calm that made Klen more nervous than any scolding ever could.
The door opened with a soft creak.
"Enter," came Leor's voice — firm, low, and unhurried.
The air inside the study was still. Sunlight spilled through tall windows, catching the golden frame of the Morin crest mounted behind the desk. Leor stood near the window, posture perfect, hands behind his back. He didn't turn when Klen entered.
"You've trained for years under this roof," Leor began, voice steady and deep. "Today, we will see whether your hands can carry the weight of it."
Klen bowed low. "My lord, I'll give my utmost."
Leor's gaze turned toward him, sharp as a blade. "You'll give more than that. From this morning until dusk, you command this estate. The servants will move by your word alone. Fole will not intervene. I want to see if your leadership holds this place together—or lets it fall apart."
Klen's heart thumped once, hard.
"Yes, my lord."
Leor finally moved from the window, brushing past him. "Breakfast begins in ten minutes. I suggest you prepare your orders."
The dining hall gleamed with early sunlight. The chandeliers burned faintly above, their crystals scattering golden reflections on the walls. Trays of food steamed along the table—breads, meats, fruits, and fine porcelain teacups lined in perfect symmetry.
Klen took position near the end of the room, the spot where Fole usually stood. The air felt thick with expectation. He caught Marna's eye briefly; she smiled and mouthed, You'll be fine. He wasn't so sure.
"Begin," Leor commanded.
The staff moved. Dishes clinked, plates were exchanged, and the subtle dance of morning service began. Klen's attention darted from one corner to another — a servant nearly spilled a pitcher, another reached for the wrong tray. He caught both errors with short, sharp instructions, keeping his voice firm but calm.
"Slow your hand. Left tray, not right."
"Careful with that cup; polish it before placing it."
He didn't raise his tone once, yet the servants listened as though the weight of the entire mansion rested on those quiet orders.
Lyra sat beside her father, posture composed, a faint curve of curiosity in her expression. "Father," she said softly, "you're unusually silent today."
Leor didn't glance up from his plate. "Observation speaks louder than noise."
Lyra looked toward Klen — the faintest hint of pride touched her eyes. Klen, focused on his duties, didn't notice. His world, at that moment, existed only between each moving tray and each beat of his heart.
Fole stood in the corner, arms crossed, face unreadable. He didn't move or speak, merely watched. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips when Klen caught his gaze briefly and turned away, hiding the nervous flicker in his eyes.
When breakfast concluded, Leor placed his napkin down with careful precision. "If the estate remains orderly until dusk," he said, rising, "you may yet prove worthy of the position you seek."
"Yes, my lord." Klen bowed.
"Then begin," Leor said simply, before striding out, Fole following at his heel.
The morning passed like sand slipping through fingers.
Klen moved through the estate — the courtyard, the storerooms, the servants' quarters — directing, correcting, commanding. His nerves had steadied, replaced by a growing rhythm, like gears finally meshing together. Every instruction came smoother, every response faster.
He paused once in the corridor to catch his breath, leaning slightly against the wall. The air was warm with the scent of morning polish and fresh linen. Sweat clung to his temples, but he refused to let it slow him.
In the distance, laughter drifted faintly from the garden — Lyra and Marna. He could almost picture them there, Lyra probably chiding Marna for teasing the gardeners again. The thought tugged at the corner of his lips, but he pushed it aside.
He turned to one of the butlers. "See that the west wing curtains are changed before noon. The Lady prefers sunlight in that room."
"Yes, young master," the man replied with a quick bow.
The title felt strange in Klen's ears. Young master. He wasn't one of them — not truly. Yet, in this moment, he had to be.
Fole appeared midway through the morning, silent as a shadow. "The pacing's good," he said, walking alongside him. "But your posture is stiff. Relax your shoulders before they lock."
"I can't relax when Lord Morin's judging my every breath," Klen muttered.
Fole's mouth quirked upward. "He's not judging your breath. He's judging whether you'll choke."
Klen exhaled sharply through his nose, almost laughing. "That helps. Truly."
"Good," Fole said, clapping him once on the shoulder before stepping away. "You'll need humor before noon comes."
In another corner of the mansion, Lyra sat with Marna near the open veranda. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains, carrying the soft scent of flowers from the garden.
"He's really trying, isn't he?" Marna said, resting her chin in her hands.
Lyra nodded. "Father pushes him harder than anyone else here. Maybe harder than me."
"That's saying something," Marna grinned, plucking a petal from a nearby bloom. "You don't think he'll burn out, do you?"
"He won't." Lyra's gaze softened as she looked out toward the courtyard. "He doesn't allow himself to."
Marna's expression shifted to a teasing one. "You're starting to sound like you admire him."
Lyra's lips pressed into a faint smile. "Maybe I do. But not for the reasons you think."
They both laughed quietly — a sound light enough to float through the warm air, unnoticed by the weight of duty that lingered elsewhere.
Back in the main hall, Klen oversaw a delivery. Boxes of goods lined the marble floor, workers bustling about. His mind worked like a machine, giving quick, precise orders, ensuring the entire process flowed without delay.
By noon, he finally found a brief pause. He leaned against the window ledge, looking outside where the sunlight scattered through the trees. For a fleeting moment, he smiled.
The day wasn't over yet, but for now—he hadn't failed.