Chương 4: Chapter 4: VIVIAN

Vivian's face contorted in a mask of terror. With a speed that belied her fear, she crumpled to the floor, bowing so low her forehead practically kissed the plush carpet. "Young Master, please, please," she stammered, her voice cracking with desperation. "Forgive my insolence!"

David, startled by her sudden kowtow, blinked in disbelief. Shouldn't he be the one seeking forgiveness? But clarity, sharp and icy, washed over him. He was the General's son – a notorious lout who treated women like barflies and respected them even less. A bitter taste rose in his throat.

Disgust curdled in his stomach. He never hit anyone, least of all an innocent woman! Taking a deep breath, he reached out and gently grasped Vivian's shoulders, forcing her hesitant gaze to meet his. "There's nothing to forgive," he said, his voice calm and surprisingly steady. "Come on, the food's getting cold."

Vivian hesitated, her eyes darting nervously at his unexpected kindness. Was this a trick? A prelude to another outburst?

"Unless you want me to truly get upset," David added, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. It wasn't a chuckle, but it sent shivers down Vivian's spine nonetheless. She slowly rose to her feet, ever the dutiful maid she led him to a luxurious chair with plush white cushions. As he settled in, he couldn't help but steal a glance at the silver tray.

Vivian couldn't shake the feeling that a predator was eyeing his prey, albeit a polite one for the moment. Still, a deep, primal instinct urged her caution. This new David, with his gentle voice and unfamiliar restraint, was an enigma, and Vivian, for one, wasn't sure she trusted him any further than she could throw him.

Vivian lifted the silver tray's lid, a plume of steam swirling upwards like a genie released from its bottle. The aroma that hit David's face was a symphony for the senses – roasted meat so succulent it could tempt a god, creamy mashed potatoes with a hint of dill, and a rich brown gravy that promised to be the epitome of comfort food.

His stomach rumbled in agreement, urging him to abandon courtesy for hunger. Yet, despite the gnawing in his gut, David surprised them both. He didn't gobble like a famished beast. With practiced ease, he selected a fork and knife from the ornate set beside the tray, his movements a stark contrast to the uncouth David everyone knew.

He savoured the first bite. The steak, cooked a perfect medium-rare, melted in his mouth. The potatoes, a fluffy cloud studded with chunks of melt-in-your-mouth butter, were the perfect accompaniment. Each mouthful was a revelation, proving that even in this bizarre situation, he hadn't lost his appreciation for good food and proper table manners.

Across from him, Vivian stood frozen, her eyes wide as a startled doe caught in headlights. The transformation of David, from the drunken lout she knew to this composed gentleman, was too jarring to comprehend. Tentatively, David pointed at the vacant chair opposite him. "Have a seat," he offered, his voice gentle.

Vivian recoiled, sputtering a protest. "Young Master, I wouldn't dare!" But something in his gaze, an unexpected warmth, held her captive. Doubting her own judgment, but unable to refuse, she sat, the plush cushion an unsettling contrast to the tremor in her legs.

"Can I know your name?" David asked, surprising her further. Why would the master inquire about a mere maid's name?

Vivian's voice trembled. "This maid at your service is called Vivian."

David smiled, a genuine expression that lit up his face. "Vivian," he repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue. "Such a beautiful name."

Vivian blushed. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined the notorious David calling her name, let alone finding it beautiful. It was enough to make her head spin.

"Do you know where we are?" David, pulling her back, asked.

"Young Master, don't you know where we are?" she asked cautiously, unable to fathom the situation.

David shook his head, a carefree smile playing on his lips. "Nope."

'Did he perhaps lose his memories?' she wondered, a sliver of hope flickering within her.

"Young Master," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "we are in the main residence of the De Gor estate."

Just as David contemplated the possibility of actually being in the world of "Trials of Valor," he finished the last bite of meat. He noticed Vivian's discomfort, her body tense and coiled.

An unexpected urge welled up within him, a strange desire to appease this nervous maid. "Can you bend your head down for a second?" he requested.

Vivian's entire body jolted. Was this a prelude to punishment? Tears welled up in her eyes, but she bowed her head without question. 'Goddess, please don't let him strike me,' she prayed silently.

But instead of a slap, a surprisingly gentle touch ruffled her ember hair. It was a gesture of...comfort?

"It's okay, you don't have to be afraid of me anymore," David soothed, his words hanging heavy in the air.

'Anymore?' Vivian's mind buzzed with confusion. What did that even mean?

She hesitantly lifted her head, her eyes wide with surprise. The fear seemed to have drained from them, replaced by a glimmer of curiosity. "I'm all done," David declared. "You can go back to your duties."

It was as if the angels themselves had spoken. Vivian practically flew to the tray, her hands shaking as she collected the empty dishes. As she hurried out of the room, a single thought echoed in her mind: This new David, this enigma with gentle touches and kind words, was a mystery she could not unravel.

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Chương 5: Chapter 5: ELDERS CONCLAVE

The corridor stretched on forever, a yawning maw of dark stone. Grotesque gargoyles leered down from the vaulted ceiling, their grotesque forms a stark contrast to the intricate floral patterns etched into the stonework. Warm light shimmered from lanterns spaced like lonely stars, barely piercing the suffocating darkness that clung to the ancient walls.

"Gods," muttered Gareth, the night guard. "Another bloody night shift." His voice echoed in the oppressive silence, a lonely murmur swallowed by the vastness of the castle. He slumped against the cold stone, spear held loosely in his hand. Sleep, a siren song in a sea of boredom, tugged at his eyelids.

Suddenly, he snapped to attention. A faint sound, a whisper of footsteps, cut through the oppressive silence. His heart hammered in his chest as a figure emerged from the gloom. It was Lord Hilton, his raven hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, his face etched with worry. Clad in rich black garments, he exuded an aura of power that made the meagre guard feel like a gnat in the face of a hurricane.

Gareth rose with a snap, saluting smartly. Lord Hilton walked by, his face a mask of brooding contemplation. He didn't even acknowledge the guard's presence, let alone return the salute. It was as if Gareth were invisible, a mere speck unworthy of the Lord's notice.

A tremor of fear snaked down Gareth's spine as he let out a ragged sigh, silently thanking the Goddess for his narrow escape. He'd been caught napping on the job before, and the memory of his commanding officer's icy fury sent a fresh wave of terror washing over him. The repercussions, a brutal cocktail of public humiliation and potentially worse, were a constant threat hanging over his head, a chilling reminder of the precariousness of his position. He straightened his back, eyes darting nervously down the corridor, the silence now amplifying every rustle and creak that echoed through the vast space.

Impatience gnawed at Lord Hilton like a starved beast. He paced, each polished boot-fall a sharp counterpoint to the oppressive silence of the corridor. Finally reaching a double door of imposing stone, its surface etched with a symbol of two winged warriors grasping a sword. His brisk steps faltered, replaced by a deep breath as he dispelled the fog of his thoughts.

With a touch, the massive doors parted as effortlessly as if they were mere silk curtains. The sight that greeted him was familiar, yet held a weight that never failed to press upon him – the Advisory Council Chambers. Darkness pooled in the vast chamber, broken only by the soft glow of lanterns strategically placed on the periphery. Here and there, figures stirred, murmurs rising like wisps of smoke before dissipating into the stagnant air.

As the single set of heavy boots resonated across the flagstone floor, the murmurs vanished, replaced by a tense silence. Heads snapped up, eyes tracking Lord Hilton's measured stride as he made his way towards the raised platform. A throne, its towering backrest a testament to ancient craftsmanship, dominated the platform. Intricate carvings depicting scenes of conquest and power adorned its surface, each a silent reminder of the lineage and authority it embodied.

Lord Hilton settled onto the throne, the cold stone a stark contrast to the simmering might that burned within him. A long, heavy silence stretched, punctuated only by the nervous fidgeting of the Council members below. Finally, his voice cut through the oppressive air, a low rumble that echoed with power and a hint of barely contained dark aura. "Begin," he commanded, the single word a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

A voice, slick with piety, broke the tense silence. "My Lord," it rasped, "it is indeed a blessing from the Goddess that Young Master David still draws breath!" Elder Maison, his face shrouded in shadow, bowed deeply, his words dripping with a false reverence that sent a shiver down some spines.

Another figure, shrouded in darkness, sneered. "Elder Maison," he spat, "The importance here lies not in that brat's continued existence! Someone dared raise a hand against your son, Lord Hilton. A blatant challenge to the De Gor name, to your very authority!"

The chamber buzzed with murmurs of agreement. The audacity of the assassins had clearly struck a nerve.

"An iron fist, my Lord!" a third figure urged, his voice ringing with righteous fury. "We must retaliate with such force that it sends shivers down the spines of all who dare plot against our family!"

A chorus of voices echoed the sentiment. "How dare they commit such an act!" they roared, their outrage palpable.

A council member, his face etched with cunning, stepped forward. "With your permission, Lord Hilton," he rasped, bowing low, "allow me to gather our best shadows. They will unearth the culprits and bring them to swift justice."

Lord Hilton's gaze met his, a flicker of something akin to amusement dancing in his cold blue eyes. "Elder Scrolls," he drawled, his voice laced with a hint of disdain, "that would be... unnecessary."

Elder Scrolls' brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to protest, but Lord Hilton cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"David," the Lord spat, the word dripping with contempt, "is not worth the effort. A weakling, a stain on the De Gor name. Let him fade into obscurity." He paused, a predator circling its prey. "Strength, gentlemen," he continued, his voice rising in power, "strength is the cornerstone of dominance. Without it, what fear can we inspire? What respect can we command?"

Lord Hilton scanned the faces around him, his gaze lingering on each council member in turn. A shiver ran down some spines, a subtle reminder of the power he wielded.

"The hidden organization that plagues this land," he continued, his voice low and dangerous, "will be dealt with in due time. But not over the life of a wastrel son."

He acknowledged Elder Scrolls' unspoken question with a curt nod. He wasn't foolish, he understood the concerns. But Lord Hilton had his priorities, and a weak son wasn't one of them.

"Any news on the wellbeing of the Archon of Warfare?" he finally asked, his voice shifting gears, a hint of urgency creeping into his tone. The assassination attempt was a distraction, but the real game was far from over.

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