Chapter 138 – Cranston Manor
As Charles stepped into the manor grounds, the dignified elderly butler walked beside him, always half a step behind—never more, never less—his posture impeccable, his manners flawless.
"The master is currently at the White Tower attending a state council," the butler explained in a slightly roundabout tone, as if worried Charles might take offense at being greeted by only one person. "The lady of the house has gone to attend Countess Maeve's musical salon. She should return around seven this evening."
There was no trace of resentment or awkwardness in either his voice or expression.
Walking along the cobblestone path leading toward the residence, Charles noted how neatly the lawns on either side had been trimmed by the gardeners. As they proceeded deeper into the estate, a patrol of guards in matching white uniforms passed by, flintlock rifles in hand. They nodded respectfully to the butler—and then, one after another, saluted Charles.
After all, the eldest son of House Cranston had only been gone a few months. There was no way the guards wouldn't recognize him.
Charles returned the salute. Under the butler's guidance, he approached the residence entrance, where the door was promptly and expertly opened for him.
After offering his thanks, Charles stepped inside.
A grand yet somewhat cold hall unfolded before his eyes.
Elaborate chandeliers hung silently from the ceiling. Beneath his feet lay a neatly arranged dark brown velvet carpet. Tables, chairs, and sofas were placed with meticulous order. Because of the season, the fireplace at the far end of the hall had been sealed off, concealed behind a massive oil painting of a goddess.
Beyond the spacious sitting area, tall arched windows stood opposite the fireplace, sunlight spilling in to illuminate a tea and dining nook near the glass.
Corridors extended from both sides toward secondary halls, while at the far end of his vision rose a winding staircase of dark wood. Two maids were bent over there, carefully wiping down the handrails.
Hearing the door open, they looked up.
When they recognized who had entered, they froze for a moment—then hurriedly straightened and greeted him.
"Y-Young Master Charles."
Their expressions were tense, and as Charles drew closer, their unease only grew.
Charles found the reaction mildly absurd. He merely nodded to them and, following the butler's indication, headed upstairs.
Only then did the two maids finally let out a breath of relief. They exchanged glances.
"Is everything about to turn upside down again?"
"Who knows…"
"We'd better be careful."
…
Climbing higher and higher, Charles was greeted by servants at every turn.
The house was enormous—large enough to require a considerable staff. Just within the stairwell alone, he encountered seven or eight servants in succession.
The extravagance struck him as excessive. If memory served, only three people actually lived here now:
Count and Countess Cranston, and his so-called younger brother.
"A Minister of Finance should really be keeping a low profile," he muttered to himself.
Following the elderly butler, Charles reached the very top floor of the residence. They walked along a bright corridor lined wall to wall with oil paintings, moving ever deeper until they stopped before a door tucked away in a corner.
"Since your departure, this room has remained sealed," the butler said calmly. "Aside from cleaning staff, no one has entered. You shouldn't need any time to readjust."
He spoke on without pause, seemingly unaware of the faint voices drifting from beyond the door.
The soundproofing was good—too good for an old man to notice at once—but Charles could not ignore it.
Especially once he made out the words.
"Don't be discouraged. Incantations require constant practice. Once your pronunciation is precise, the great Burning Heart will slowly acknowledge you. It took me two months—keep at it, and I'd say you'll manage in another month or two. See? Just like what I did earlier. It's easy."
...
Incantations?
The Burning Heart?
Frowning slightly, Charles pushed the door open.
Inside, four youths were gathered around a sofa—three boys and one girl. Some were short, some stocky, some thin, but all were dressed neatly, befitting their status.
A brown-haired boy seated in a single chair to the side was holding a book, reading haltingly:
"In the name of Allen Cranston, mighty—mighty—"
His voice cut off abruptly as the door opened.
The red-haired girl seated in the central position had been watching the boy's awkward attempt with visible amusement. The interruption made her frown sharply. She turned toward Charles.
"Who are you? Get out."
Her tone made it sound as if she owned the room.
Charles found that mildly baffling. The butler, meanwhile, looked uncomfortable and leaned closer, whispering, "This is Princess Eileen of the royal family."
At the same time, the brown-haired boy finally recognized who had entered. He hurriedly put down the book and tugged at the girl's sleeve.
"Wait—he's my brother."
"Your brother?"
The girl froze, then shot Charles a hard glare, her eyes flashing with disdain and irritation.
Although "Charles" had been gone from the capital for quite some time, his reputation had not faded.
Hot-tempered. Violent. Arrogant. Tyrannical. A notorious bully.
Among the city's young aristocrats, the Minister of Finance's eldest son was infamous—good looks aside, widely considered a complete waste of space.
Especially after he had publicly beaten a well-regarded royal prince half to death.
That incident alone had cemented the prejudice beyond repair.
When he was later "exiled to the frontier," many of his peers had celebrated openly.
And now—he was back?
Already?
"Allen, we're leaving."
The prince who had been beaten was her brother. Her hostility was immediate and unrestrained. Grabbing the brown-haired boy by the arm, she turned to go.
The others rose as well, avoiding Charles's gaze, clearly eager to put distance between themselves and him.
Unfortunately, that proved impossible.
The remnants of their "private gathering" were scattered everywhere—papers strewn across the room.
With no choice, the youths hurriedly bent down to clean up.
Charles crossed his arms and watched in silence.
No one said a word to him, but the rejection in the air was unmistakable.
He didn't care.
As long as no one openly provoked him, they could hate him all they wanted.
But then—
A single sheet of paper slipped free from a pile and drifted down to his feet.
Charles bent and picked it up.
The contents were… familiar.
"B-Big brother, please give that back—"
The brown-haired boy rushed over, his face pale, voice trembling with fear.
Charles gave his stammering "brother" a brief glance and ignored him.
After a moment's thought, he folded the paper lengthwise, pinching it between his fingers. Lowering his gaze, his lips moved.
A faint incantation escaped him.
Colorless flames ignited along the edge of the paper, racing across it. As they spread, black sigils peeled themselves free from the page one by one, drifting through the air before dropping to the floor.
Each symbol struck the wood with a soft thud, imprinting tiny, fly-sized indentations into the surface.
Under the stunned stares of everyone present, the sigils finished separating within a few breaths. The paper burned away entirely, reduced to ash.
But the incantation did not stop.
It grew louder—brighter—charged with enthusiasm, a hallmark of fire magic.
Then—
Boom.
Ash-black smoke surged upward. A tongue of orange flame erupted from the wooden floor.
At first it was no bigger than a palm.
Then it spread—fast.
The smell of burning wood filled the room, thick and choking.
Only then did the frozen youths snap back to reality.
"Big brother, stop!"
"Are you insane?!"
"Put it out! Where are the servants—get the servants, hurry!"