Missions (Part 10)

The Life of Aurelius Valemont: Missions (Part 10)

Yumi arrived at the library carrying a tray of food, her smile warm and cheerful.

"Breakfast is ready, everyone!" she announced brightly.

Matthew followed close behind, also holding a tray and mirroring her content expression.

Peter clicked his tongue. "Tsk. This is still a library, kids."

I chuckled at his usual grumpiness. Yumi was actually over forty years old, and so was Matthew, but their youthful energy made it easy to forget.

Philip sprawled lazily across one of the sofas before getting up to help Yumi with the trays, joined by Luciana. I stood and helped as well, and together we placed the dishes carefully on the large oak library table.

Once everything was set, we couldn't resist a bit of playful mockery.

"Your meal is ready, Your Majesty," Philip said with an exaggerated bow, fanning Peter with a book.

I joined in, bowing deeply. "For the King of Knowledge, nothing but the finest!"

Peter raised an eyebrow and sighed heavily, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Sit down, you two. Eat before I revoke your library privileges."

We both gave him a dramatic bow before taking our seats at the table.

I sat between Yumi and Luciana. Peter, fittingly, was at the head of the table. Matthew took the last seat at the opposite end.

No, I never had grandparents—but if I could choose, Peter would've been the one.

After all, he was Philip's grandfather. And to us, he was much more than just a librarian.

The scent of freshly baked bread, warm eggs, and spiced sausages filled the library. It wasn't the grandest dining hall in the estate, but it felt homier. The clink of cutlery mixed with laughter as we began eating.

Philip poked at his eggs suspiciously.

"Yumi... did you cook this or did Matthew help?" he asked cautiously.

Yumi grinned. "I cooked. Why?"

Philip sighed in relief. "Because last time Matthew made breakfast, my stomach staged a coup."

Matthew scoffed. "That was one time. And I told you—those weren't eggs, they were protein-based energy disks."

Luciana choked on her juice. "Energy disks? You tried to feed us sci-fi food?!"

"It was a tactical experiment," Matthew replied flatly, slicing his toast with militant precision.

I leaned back, grinning. "That explains why I almost levitated after eating it."

Peter shook his head, sipping his tea calmly. "Back in my day, we just called it 'burnt.'"

Philip smirked. "Back in your day, weren't forks made of stone?"

Peter didn't even blink. "And still more useful than your brain."

"Oooohh!" the table chorused as Philip dramatically clutched his chest.

Luciana wiped a tear from laughing too hard. "You walked right into that one, Philip."

"Ungrateful youth," Peter muttered, pretending to go back to his book, though the smirk on his face betrayed him.

Yumi passed more toast around. "Eat up, everyone. Especially you, Young Master Aurelius—you look like you haven't had a decent breakfast in weeks."

I stretched, then picked up another slice. "That's because I haven't. Can't even remember the last time someone cooked me food instead of handing me vacuum-sealed mystery packs."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "You survived a hundred assassins, but almost died from my breakfast?"

"Yes," I said with a mouthful of toast. "Because at least the assassins didn't try to poison me with... 'energy disks.'"

Luciana giggled. "Matthew's cooking is dangerous. One bite and you see your ancestors."

Philip chimed in, mouth full, "Or your breakfast becomes your ancestor."

Yumi swatted him lightly with a napkin. "Don't talk with your mouth full."

Peter cleared his throat. "At least you all haven't tried Aurelius's cooking. The last time he touched a frying pan, the smoke alarms wrote a resignation letter."

"Hey," I protested, "it was an experimental dish."

"It was charcoal," Luciana said bluntly.

"I still have the video," Philip said with a grin. "It's called 'The Day the Omelette Fought Back.'"

Everyone burst out laughing, and for a moment, I just sat there, soaking in the warmth and ridiculousness of it all. This... this was home. And despite all the chaos out there, I felt like a normal nineteen-year-old again.

At least until Yumi said, "So, Aurelius, should we prepare your bath after this, or will you be burning the bathroom again with your 'experimental shampoo'?"

I dropped my toast and glared at her.

"That was ONE time!"

Philip dramatically placed a napkin over his lap like he was some royal duke.

"Excuse me, waiter," he said, raising a pinky. "My eggs are not arranged according to the Fibonacci sequence. I demand symmetry on my plate."

I narrowed my eyes. "Sir, this is a library, not a five-star restaurant. You want symmetry? Fold your toast in half and pretend."

Philip squinted. "Wow. The audacity. I bet you eat cereal with a fork."

"Better than drinking soup with a comb like you."

Luciana nearly spat her tea.

Peter didn't even look up from his book. "Children, please. There are people trying to read about the decline of the Ottoman Empire in peace."

Philip gasped. "We're trying to experience the decline of manners in real time, Peter."

Yumi whispered to Matthew, "This is their bonding language. Sarcasm and nonsense."

Philip leaned toward me, stabbing a sausage with his fork. "You know what you are, Aurelius?"

"A functioning miracle of evolution?"

"No. You're like decaf coffee—looks powerful, but ultimately disappointing."

I deadpanned, "And you're like Bluetooth headphones in your pocket—useless and always tangled in something you shouldn't be near."

Luciana burst into laughter. "They've started. Should we run or just accept our fate?"

Philip put on a serious face, nudging a roll toward me. "Your Royal Lowness, I offer thee this bread as a peace treaty."

I gently smacked it off the table with my spoon. "Bread denied. War continues."

Philip gasped like he'd been betrayed. "You struck the carb of truce!"

"Then let the Toast Wars begin."

He quickly grabbed a butter knife and held it up like a sword. "This blade has been passed down for generations. Buttered, but never broken."

I grabbed my fork. "You bring a butter knife to a fork fight? Bold of you."

Peter calmly took his glasses off. "If someone throws a croissant, I will personally end both of you."

Luciana laughed, holding up her plate like a shield. "I'm neutral! Switzerland!"

Matthew, without looking up from his sandwich, said dryly, "If one of you spills juice on the carpet, I'll hold you down while Yumi shaves your eyebrows."

Philip paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "He's bluffing."

Yumi: "Try me."

I gently set my fork down. "We call for a ceasefire."

Philip raised both hands. "Agreed. Until lunch."

We both clinked glasses of orange juice like champagne flutes.

"Long live the chaos," I said.

Philip nodded. "And may breakfast never be boring."

We were just wrapping up breakfast, plates nearly empty, peace treaties signed—temporarily. Philip stood up with a dramatic flair, brushing imaginary crumbs off his shirt like he was on a runway.

"And thus," he said, striking a ridiculous pose, "King Philip of Toastonia bids you peasants farewell."

He took one step back.

And slipped.

SMACK!

Face flat. On the polished floor.

Silence.

Luciana froze, mid-sip of her tea.

Peter turned a page without blinking. "Natural selection."

Yumi gasped. "Oh no—Philip!"

Matthew squinted. "That sounded expensive."

I slowly leaned over, looked down at him, and raised an eyebrow. "So... does the floor taste like victory?"

His muffled voice replied from the ground, "Tastes like betrayal and hardwood."

Luciana started wheezing. "Oh my gosh, are you okay?"

Philip rolled over dramatically, hand to his chest like he'd been wounded in battle. "I've been attacked... by gravity... She is cruel."

I casually tossed a napkin onto his face. "Here, for your pride."

He threw the napkin back. "You mock me in my time of suffering?!"

"You trip over your own existence on a daily basis."

He sat up, hair in a mess, face red from embarrassment. "At least I don't butter my pancakes with a spoon, you monster."

"That was one time and the knife was dirty!"

Peter sighed loudly. "If you're done kissing the floor, kindly remove yourself from the crime scene."

Philip stood up, brushing his pants. "Fine. But mark my words, floor. We shall meet again in battle."

Matthew: "We all know you'll lose."

Luciana couldn't stop laughing. "Best. Breakfast. Ever."

I smirked. "Breakfast of champions—and clowns."

Philip put his arm around my shoulder. "You love me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing, bestie. Same thing."

Peter calmly set down his fork, eyes narrowed with the patience of a librarian who'd endured far too much nonsense.

"Both of you," he said, voice dangerously serene, "wash the dishes."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

Philip stood up and bowed with exaggerated flair. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Peter turned to me slowly. "Yes... Your Majesty."

Before I could roll my eyes into another dimension, he added, "You'll join the servants in the kitchen. Wash everything. It's a royal decree from your king of the library."

The room burst into laughter.

Luciana clapped her hands, nearly crying. "Oh no, not the king's decree!"

Yumi chuckled behind her tea. Matthew just smirked.

Philip and I exchanged a long, dramatic glance, then simultaneously sighed like we were off to war.

We gathered the dishes like martyrs, stacking trays with exaggerated moans of suffering.

"I'm too young and too beautiful for manual labor," Philip whined.

"Tell it to the King of the Library," I replied as we exited with full trays in hand.

In the Kitchen

The moment we entered, all eyes were on us. Maids and kitchen staff paused, confused to see two well-dressed nineteen-year-olds marching in like revolutionaries—with dishes.

"We come bearing the sins of breakfast," Philip announced.

"By royal decree," I added, dropping a tray with a loud clank.

The head maid blinked. "Um... you're serious?"

"Unfortunately," I replied as I put on an apron someone handed me.

Philip struggled into his. "Why is mine pink?"

I glanced over. "Because the universe knows your soul."

We made our way to the sinks and joined the dishwashing crew. Philip picked up a sponge like it was a cursed artifact.

He looked at me, horrified. "This thing is wet."

"That's what sponges do."

He made a face and whispered to the sponge, "I hate you."

I started scrubbing one of the plates. "Imagine all the trauma this dish has seen. Butter knives. Teeth marks. Philip's saliv—"

"DON'T."

The maids tried not to laugh. One of them nudged me. "You two are surprisingly entertaining for nobles."

"We aim to suffer with style," I said, rinsing a bowl dramatically.

Philip turned the water on too high and it sprayed him in the face. He stood there, soaked, blinking.

"Help," he said weakly.

I casually tossed him a towel. "You look like a wet aristocrat. It's a vibe."

"Oh, I'm suing this faucet."

One of the younger servants walked by. "Are you always like this?"

Philip and I answered in unison, "Unfortunately."

By the time we were halfway through the dishes, I had soap in my hair, Philip had bubbles on his nose, and the kitchen staff had unofficially declared us the most annoying duo to ever enter the staff area.

But we were laughing.

Loud. Unapologetic. And real.

"Look at us," Philip said proudly. "Just two war veterans in the great dishwashing battle."

"Side by side. Sponge to sponge."

He bumped his soapy elbow against mine. "Bestie?"

I sighed. "Still tolerating you."

He grinned. "Same thing."

A week before Aurelius' new Mission...

The Week of Noble Nonsense

—a Valemont Estate Disaster, in Seven Acts—

It started as a joke. A harmless comment. Something like—

"Philip, imagine if we just spoke French and acted like arrogant nobles for an entire week."

To which he replied, "Mon dieu, Aurelius, why haven't we already?"

(My God, Aurelius, why haven't we already?)

And thus, chaos was born.

Day 1 – Le Début (The Beginning)

We glided into the East Wing parlor in matching silk robes. Philip wore white with gold trim. Mine was black with silver.

Everyone turned. Stared. Blinked.

Philip raised a gloved hand. "Silence, peasants. Your lords have arrived."

I added with a dramatic sweep of my cape, "Nous réclamons notre trône… et un café au lait."

(We claim our throne… and a coffee with milk.)

Luciana nearly spat her tea, then stood and curtsied. "Votre Grâce, permettez-moi de vous accompagner dans cette folie royale."

(Your Grace, allow me to join you in this royal madness.)

Matthew stood beside the hallway, visibly dying inside as he whispered to Yumi, "Why is she like this now too?"

Yumi smiled, unfazed. "This is fine. This is normal."

Day 2 – Noblesse Obligé

We refused to walk anywhere.

Every hallway we entered, we expected someone to say, "Their Graces are arriving!" and announce us with a trumpet.

We gave the maids absurd titles.

"You're now Duchess of Dust," Philip told one. "Keep your domain spotless."

"And you," I said, pointing to the gardener, "you are officially the Count of Clippings. Rule wisely."

They bowed just to humor us. Honestly, some of them were having too much fun.

Peter, however, was done by noon.

"If either of you starts meowing at the staff again," he warned, "I'm going to exile you to the chicken coop."

Day 3 – Aristocats

Philip declared that everyone in the estate was a cat.

"Bonjour, Madame Chaton," he greeted the cook with a bow.

(Good morning, Lady Kitty.)

I tilted my head toward the butler. "Regardez, un chat très sérieux. Il pense qu'il n'est pas un chat. Quelle tragédie."

(Look, a very serious cat. He thinks he's not a cat. What a tragedy.)

Luciana pranced around the main hall purring, then dropped to all fours and knocked over a vase. "Oops. Cat instincts."

Matthew sighed and picked up the vase. "Ma'am, you're a duchess, not a feline."

Luciana hissed at him. He just kept cleaning.

Yumi brought us tea and whispered, "I've labeled your cups. Lord Fancy and Lord Chaos. Choose wisely."

Day 4 – Fashion Revolution

We declared it was Robe Day.

Everyone had to wear a robe. No exceptions.

The estate staff went along with it (bless them), even the guards.

Philip walked into the kitchen with a feather fan. "C'est très magnifique," he whispered, waving dramatically.

(It is very magnificent.)

"Even the soup smells wealthier today."

I nodded approvingly. "I'll knight this pot of stew."

Then we actually tried to knight it with a butter knife before Peter walked in and smacked both of us with a rolled newspaper.

Day 5 – Les Miaulements (The Meows)

We refused to speak anything but French.

Luciana meowed her sentences.

"Je suis un chat très important," she said while lounging on the library couch.

(I am a very important cat.)

"Oui, Chat Impérial," I replied. "Votre majesté féline mérite du saumon royal."

(Yes, Imperial Cat. Your feline majesty deserves royal salmon.)

Philip demanded a throne made of pillows. He got it.

He sat like a Roman emperor stroking a plush toy cat while sipping milk from a teacup. "Ce lait est acceptable. Bring me the cheese servant."

(This milk is acceptable. Bring me the cheese, servant.)

Yumi brought a cheese plate without blinking. "His Highness likes the brie."

Day 6 – Chaos Royale

We wrote formal decrees.

One demanded that everyone must nap at 2 PM. Another made yawning an act of noble etiquette.

We knighted the estate cat.

"Sir Meowsalot of House Pawthorne," I declared, placing a spoon on its head.

Philip wiped a tear. "He is now one of us."

The cat scratched him and ran away.

Day 7 – The Collapse

Peter banned all French.

"No more aristocats. No more robes. No more pillow thrones."

We stared in betrayal.

Luciana flopped onto a fainting couch. "He has dethroned us…"

"Trahison!" Philip shouted.

(Treason!)

I whispered, "It's okay. We still have the cheese."

Yumi walked by, dropping off a small wheel of camembert. "Vive la résistance."

(Long live the resistance.)

We smiled in secret rebellion.

Later that evening…

Matthew stepped into the library, his posture as straight as ever, his expression unreadable. Meanwhile, Philip, Luciana, and I were lounging like refined nobles—sipping tea from delicate porcelain cups and laughing softly like we were attending a royal opera.

"Master Victor has summoned you, young master Aurelius," Matthew announced.

I set my teacup down on its saucer with a gentle clink, the humor fading from my face as seriousness settled in. The atmosphere shifted. I nodded once, stood up, and followed Matthew out of the library.

We walked down the long corridor—silent, save for the echo of our footsteps on marble.

When I entered Father's office, he was already seated behind his desk, holding four profile folders in his hands—each one bearing names and faces I recognized. Too familiar.

I said nothing and sat on my usual place on the leather sofa across from him.

His eyes didn't lift from the documents as he spoke.

"You have a new mission that must be accomplished tomorrow."

Then Father slid the three documentary profiles across the desk toward me. I stared down at the names stamped on each file.

Yumi Elowen.

Peter Langford.

Philip Langford.

My hands trembled as I opened them one by one. No... no. My heart pounded louder with each word I read, each familiar face staring back at me from the pages. These weren't just names. They were my people. My family. My anchors.

I looked up, eyes meeting his—cold, calculated.

He didn't blink.

"Those three..." His voice was calm, unbothered. "...eliminate them. Finish the job by tomorrow afternoon."

My mouth went dry.

"And if you don't..." His tone lowered—sharp, venomous, deliberate. "I'll drag Luciana out myself and put a bullet through her skull. She's useless now. Nothing more than a pretty ornament that's collecting dust."

My breath hitched.

I dropped the profiles. The sound of the folders hitting the floor felt like gunfire in my ears.

What?

The room spun. Rage. Panic. Disbelief.

He just declared war on everything I still had left.

End of Chapter 59.