Peculiar

Dukenam, Basil's Manor.

2:23 PM.

It had become a habit—an idle pastime I indulged in more often than I'd care to admit. My gaze lingered on the men seated at the dining table, their laughter echoing through the room, carefree and unburdened.

The eight generals, each a formidable figure in their own right, shared stories between bites—war anecdotes, past mistakes, visions of the future. Even with the looming competition for the Nambrask title, we remained relaxed, basking in the illusion of camaraderie.

Lonto Grandeur.

Russo Ave.

Clause Mitchell.

Denovon Brauss.

Lener Fiscal.

Blait Comsvo.

Von Comolo.

Milan Stewart.

Each of them had their reasons—some driven by ambition, others by duty—but I was different. The idea of "May the best man win" was laughable. The best man was already decided. I had observed them, studied their weaknesses, understood their aspirations. That was why I kept them close. They thought it was out of loyalty; I knew better.

"Lost in thought again, Basil?" Clause's voice cut through my musings.

I adjusted in my seat, offering a measured smile. "Just reflecting on how fortunate I am to be surrounded by men as remarkable as you all."

A few brows lifted in skepticism. Von Comolo chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass. "There's something you're not telling us, Basil. That's why we grow more curious."

I merely smiled, unwilling to indulge them further.

Then, as if on cue, a boy entered the room.

He couldn't have been older than thirteen, a silver-haired figure with skin so pale it stood out even in the dim light of the manor. He carried a tray of delicacies, his movements precise, practiced.

Lonto's gaze followed the boy intently. I had seen him before—once or twice—but now, under the scrutiny of my peers, I found myself observing him as well.

The generals exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued. It was his appearance that unsettled them. His androgynous features blurred the lines of gender, his delicate frame making it difficult to place him. He was too striking to ignore, yet too composed for a mere servant.

Placing the tray before us, he smiled—a disarming, calculated smile. It was almost too perfect.

As he turned to leave, I spoke, my voice carrying the weight of authority.

"Come here, boy."

He stopped, letting out a small, deliberate squeak as he turned to face me. "Is there a problem, sir?"

His voice was smooth, almost melodic.

"No problem. I like to know the people working under my roof," I said, watching him closely. "Yet somehow, I was unaware of your existence."

He relaxed his shoulders slightly, his eyes half-lidded in a show of calm composure. "Apologies, Sir Basil. I am Luscious Nigrum."

He extended a small, pale hand, his expression unreadable.

"I look forward to meeting your expectations."