Sister

Upon witnessing the grave expression etched on Lance's visage, Viscount Lane felt an involuntary sigh escape his lips, a mix of resignation and concealed anguish coloring the exhalation.

He gazed upon his second son, a semblance of disappointment clouding his features, before articulating in a slow, stern manner: "I have decided to send you to the church. What are your thoughts on this matter?"

Though his words seemingly invited input, those acquainted with the Viscount's authoritarian demeanor understood this to be far from a genuine inquiry. Once the Viscount vocalized a decision, it was set in stone, his will indomitable within the boundaries of his domain.

Furthermore, the individual at the receiving end of this edict was none other than the Viscount's own second son, Lance. This fact alone intensified the gravity of the situation, as the young master faced not just a paternal directive but a life-altering decree.

Lance, historically branded with the unflattering labels of timidity and solitude, had long been perceived as the embodiment of inefficacy and dissipation through the critical eyes of the aristocracy. It was a perception rooted deeply in the collective consciousness of the household. The Viscount, possessing an intimate understanding of his son's capacities, expected nothing more than a meek acquiescence to his decree.

In his silent musings, the Viscount lamented, "This child stands in stark contrast to his mother, lacking in conviction and voice."

Unexpectedly, in this pivotal moment, Lance defied these entrenched perceptions with a demeanor of introspection. This unexpected shift from passive to contemplative caught the Viscount off guard. Even more astounding was Lance's direct response, a firm and clear, "No, Father, I do not wish to go to the church."

Viscount Ryan, taken aback, momentarily set aside his brewing frustration, replaced by a burgeoning curiosity. With a newfound interest and a thoughtful demeanor, he inquired, "Oh? And may I ask why not?" This unexpected defiance from Lance, a departure from his habitual submission, sparked a flicker of intrigue within the Viscount's seasoned heart.

With an unforeseen steadiness and clarity that seemed to cut through the thick, oppressive air of the study, Lance firmly stated, "The monastic life, the life of the clergy, it does not beckon to me."

The Viscount, momentarily lost for words, felt a wave of initial frustration give way to a spark of intrigue. After a contemplative pause, as if admitting a truth long suppressed, he reluctantly acknowledged, "I, too, find little solace in the embrace of the clergy.".

A fleeting, silent understanding passed between father and son, an ephemeral bridge forged in the unlikeliest of moments. Yet, the Viscount's authoritative resolve returned swiftly as he asserted, with a trace of finality, "Nonetheless, the path of the church is laid before you."

Lance, however, stood unyielding, a newfound firmness in his voice, "With all due respect, Father, I must dissent. My conviction lies in the pursuit of arcane knowledge, under the mentorship of Master Amman."

The Viscount's expression turned severe as he addressed Lance, the weight of his words palpable in the air. "Lance, it's widely known throughout our lands that you are a son dear to my heart. However, the resources I've allocated towards your education, particularly with Master Amman, have been substantial—equivalent to a third of our territory's taxes over the past six months. Such an investment surpasses even that afforded to your brother, the designated heir. Should you possess a natural aptitude for magic, this expenditure could be justified. I made a vow to your mother to support you, but without discernible magical talent, continuing in this manner seems imprudent."

Viscount Ryan's gaze was piercing, leaving no room for ambiguity; the air between them charged with unspoken ultimatums. Tonight, Lance's fate hung in the balance based on the strength of his argument.

After a moment of contemplation, Lance presented his counteroffer, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes, "Father, what if I prove my capability by successfully inscribing that magic rune?"

The decisiveness in Ryan's voice was unmistakable as he responded, "If you manage to achieve that, then I will reassess your apprenticeship with Amman."

Lance, understanding the gravity of the challenge before him, nodded in firm agreement, "Very well. By tomorrow night, I will demonstrate my ability to cast the rune."

Ryan observed Lance with a perplexed expression, as though he were seeing his son in a new light. "Are you certain?" he queried with a hint of skepticism. "Just this evening, you succumbed to your nerves and failed to complete the task."

Lance's response carried a newfound resolve. "I am certain, Father. The failure earlier was a result of my apprehension. Please, grant me this opportunity to prove myself."

Viscount Lane regarded his son with a contemplative silence, the gears of consideration turning in his mind. Finally, he declared, "Very well. After dinner tomorrow, in the presence of all, you shall have your final opportunity to prove your worth."

Lance's response was laden with gratitude. "Thank you, Father. I am truly grateful for this chance."

A fleeting moment of tenderness crossed the Viscount's usually stern visage as he gestured dismissively. "Return to your chambers and rest. It's imperative that you are well-prepared and energized for tomorrow."

With a respectful bow, Lance acknowledged his father's advice, a sense of purpose strengthening his resolve.

…

With a resounding command, Lord Viscount signaled the end of their discourse. Immediately, a maid approached to escort Lance back to his quarters for much-needed rest.

Lance offered a curt goodbye to his father, adhering to the formalities of their status as remembered from the echoes of his upbringing, and proceeded to navigate the castle's somber passageways alongside the slender maid.

Illuminated only by the flickering candle she carried, the enveloping darkness seemed to accentuate the vast, silent expanse of their surroundings. Lance, shadowed by the maid's quiet presence, felt the weight of the castle's ancient walls closing in around them. Their journey through the dimly lit corridors seemed to stretch interminably before they finally ascended to the second floor, where Lance's personal sanctum awaited.

The residential area within the two-story segment of the castle was reserved for individuals of notable status within the household. Apart from Lance, this exclusive enclave was home to his three younger sisters, each with rooms in close proximity to one another. His elder brother, however, had taken up residence at the Red River Outpost located in the northern expanses of their lands, a strategic move to demonstrate his commitment and valor to their father. As a result, his presence within the castle had become a rarity, his room standing cold and unoccupied for extended periods.

In navigating these familial and spatial complexities, Lance relied heavily on the assistance provided by [Fox] the main chip. Though mere minutes had passed since their departure from the Viscount's study, [Fox] had swiftly collated and presented fragmented yet crucial memories belonging to its host. This advanced piece of technology, functioning as Lance's external memory bank and analytical engine, was ingeniously partitioned into three core capabilities: data collection and storage through integration with Lance's physiological systems and an array of sub-chips; computational processing power to decipher and make sense of vast amounts of information; and the ability to conduct in-depth data analysis. This allowed for instantaneous recall of any necessary information, proving to be an invaluable tool for navigating his complex world.

Lance scrutinized the maid's demeanor, a stark contrast to her usual respectful bearing. In his heart, he pieced together the shift in her attitude: "This change, most likely, stems from the events of tonight. She probably perceives that I have lost favor in my father's eyes." Despite her traditionally polite facade, the maid's current indifference hinted at a larger undercurrent of sentiment within the castle—a reflection of Lance's waning standing.

This change was not without cause. The narrative within the castle walls had shifted noticeably over the past six months. Lance's endeavor to master the arcane under the guidance of the wizard Amman marked the final venture his father, the Viscount, was willing to sponsor. Traditionally reserved and introspective, Lance's solitary habits and unusual interests—such as his penchant for exploring peculiar and esoteric texts—had not aided his reputation. His physical demeanor, less imposing than what was traditionally admired in their world, further fueled the dismissive attitudes of others.

Previously, the protective shadow of the Viscount shielded Lance from the brunt of such disparagement. The Lord's overt support acted as a bulwark against open criticism, maintaining a facade of respect towards the young master within the castle's hierarchy. But now, as the protective veil seemed to lift, the true sentiments of those around Lance began to surface, marking a significant shift in his social standing within the household.

The dynamics within the castle had undergone a palpable shift; Lance's recent missteps had significantly tarnished his standing in his father's eyes, effectively alienating him from the sanctuary once provided by familial ties and noble obligation. This isolation extended beyond mere familial disappointment, permeating the very fabric of the household's hierarchy. Consequently, even the castle's staff, who were traditionally bound by duty to maintain a semblance of respect and decorum, now found it superfluous to mask their true sentiments. The maid's indifference was a testament to this shift; her behavior mirrored the castle's collective disenchantment with Lance.

As the maid escorted him through the dimly lit corridors, her thoughts wandered to the grim rumors surrounding the ascetic monk camp, rumored to be Lance's impending fate. "They say the first step there is to strip you of your past, to cleanse your mind for divine servitude," she mused quietly, her sympathy for Lance marred by the inevitability she perceived in his situation. "Poor Master Lance, it seems his path has been irrevocably decided."

With these thoughts weighing on her mind, her usual decorum waned, leading them to an abruptly dark corner of the castle. The stark absence of light seemed to signify the end of her obligatory guidance. "This is as far as I go, Master Lance," she stated, her voice void of the customary warmth or concern, highlighting the newfound chasm between Lance's previous status and his current, diminished standing. The maid's detachment underscored the extent of Lance's fall from grace, leaving him alone in the looming shadow of his uncertain future.

Lance's brow furrowed in confusion and slight indignation as he found himself engulfed in darkness, a stark departure from the structured world he was accustomed to. His room, a familiar sanctuary, now seemed like a distant memory as he hesitated in the unlit corridor, abandoned by the guide tasked with assisting him.

Silence enveloped him as he stood there, the maid's departing footsteps a fading echo, her disdain marked by the dismissive snort and the diminishing light of her departing candle. Lance's initial instinct was to react, to call out against the slight, but he held his tongue, recognizing the futility of confrontation in this moment of diminished authority.

The maid, Luna, had clearly overstepped the bounds of her station, her disrespect underscored by her casual dismissal and contemptuous departure. Lance felt a surge of anger at this treatment, a stark reminder of how drastically his circumstances had changed. "Luna," he repeated silently, imprinting the name in his memory. Though anger simmered within him, he understood the precariousness of his current position. Now was not the time for retribution; reflection and strategy were his needed allies.

With a deep, steadying breath, Lance turned away from the direction the maid had left, stepping cautiously into the enveloping darkness. The reality of his situation was clear: he was on his own, and the path he needed to forge from this point forward would be one he had to navigate independently.

…

Perplexed and somewhat disoriented, Lance found himself standing alone in the heart of the dimly lit corridor, a sense of uncertainty clouding his judgment. "Which door leads to my room?" he pondered aloud, the question echoing softly off the ancient stone walls.

In this moment of confusion, he sought assistance from [Fox]. Yet, frustratingly, the information he needed remained elusive; it seemed that only fragments of the original owner's memories had been preserved, focusing primarily on significant events or deeply entrenched knowledge. The mundane detail of which room he occupied had, somehow, been lost in the abyss.

Illuminated by the soft glow of two recently placed candles on the hallway's light stand, Lance faced a row of doors, ten in total, symmetrically arranged. Each door appeared identical, silent sentinels guarding the secrets of their respective chambers. Faced with no immediate solution, Lance contemplated a methodical, albeit tedious, approach: to try each door one by one until he found the one that led to his private quarters.

The prospect was far from appealing, but Lance recognized it might be his only recourse in the absence of clearer guidance. With a resigned sigh, he approached the first door.

As Lance tentatively approached one of the doors, the unmistakable sound of laughter spilled from within, a light-hearted mirth that momentarily lightened the oppressive atmosphere of the corridor. With a faint sense of relief, he surmised that the source must be one of his sisters, thereby confirming that this room, at least, was not his.

Just as he prepared to withdraw and continue his search, the door swung open abruptly. A familiar yet unwelcome voice pierced the air, laden with mocking intent: "I'm going to see if the fool of Lance has come back…"

Lance found himself inadvertently caught in the direct gaze of his sister, her words slicing through the already tense air between them. The insult, meant for private ears, now hung awkwardly in the open, a clear testament to the lack of respect she harbored for him.

Despite the sting of her words, Lance managed to contain his immediate impulse for confrontation. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, taking in the scene before him: his sister, framed by the doorway, and the curious, if somewhat amused, faces of other family members peeking from behind her. This was not the reunion he had anticipated, nor was it one he desired, yet here he stood, the center of an unwelcome spotlight.

The moment stretched between them, charged with an undercurrent of familial tension and unspoken grievances. Lance, despite the discomfort, maintained his composure, recognizing that any outburst would only serve to validate his sister's derogatory view.

The young woman who confronted him, draped in a flowing emerald green nightdress, stood with an imposing presence at the doorway. The garment, rather revealing, seemed barely adequate, emphasizing her mature figure which matched Lance's height, making them eye to eye despite his sixteen years.

Lance's mind swiftly cataloged the individuals before him: "The busty girl clad in green, Biqi, is the eldest of the Viscount's daughters, my half-sister, sharing the same father. Sabina, alongside her, is the progeny of the second lady, and then there's Irene, the adopted child within our father's care." This rapid assessment helped Lance place each figure into the complex familial tapestry to which he belonged. Despite the varying degrees of kinship, all but Irene shared a direct bloodline with him, weaving a complicated web of relationships and rivalries within the walls of their grand home.

Lance's lineage was marked by tragedy and complexity; he was the sole progeny of the Viscount's third wife, a woman whose life was cut short under mysterious circumstances when Lance was merely five years old. This loss cast a long shadow over his early years, embedding within him a sense of isolation from the convoluted familial dynamics around him.

Were it not for the protective mantle of the Viscount, who despite his stern demeanor, harbored a certain soft spot for Lance, it is conceivable that the young boy might have fallen victim to the covert machinations and power struggles that often plague noble families. This undercurrent of danger, ever-present in his formative years, had undoubtedly shaped the contours of Lance's cautious and introspective character.

Biqi's gaze fell upon Lance as he lingered at the doorway, and a mischievous smile played across her lips. Without a hint of embarrassment, she greeted him, her voice dripping with feigned concern, "Hey, Lance, rumors are swirling about your impending departure to the Ascetic monk camp. Have you come to bid us adieu on this final evening?"

At sixteen, Biqi mirrored Lance's age, yet her demeanor and poise suggested a maturity beyond her years. A delicate, floral scent surrounded her, enhancing her natural beauty—a beauty that Lance recognized as both a blessing and a curse, for beneath her captivating exterior lay a mind as calculating and manipulative as their mother's. In Lance's eyes, Biqi had always perceived him as nothing more than a nuisance, an unwelcome reminder of the complexities within their family lineage.