The Kingdom

Chapter 2: The Aristocratic Survival Code, Rule One: Interests Above All

In the early morning, gentle sunlight streamed through the ancient castle’s windows, its soft rays settling upon the bed. Rubbing his weary eyes, Hudson indulged in a languid, expansive stretch.

Indeed, he had resolved to venture out. After two interminable days confined to his sickbed, Hudson felt as if he were beginning to decay. With neither a mobile device nor a computer, and bereft of any diversions, his enforced seclusion had become a veritable torment.

Had he not feared exposure—being mistaken for a demon fated to meet the grill—he would have gladly forsaken his feigned illness. Over these past two days, the castle’s prominent figures had all visited, and with his remarkable memory, Hudson was certain not to mistake a single face. In this rigidly stratified aristocratic realm, it sufficed to merely cultivate favor among the elite.

His breakfast was a sumptuous repast: a generous goblet of beast’s milk, a slice of bread, a fruit reminiscent of the tomato, an assortment of condiments, a dollop of butter, and a serving of roasted meat. Undoubtedly, such lavish fare was far beyond what an ordinary baron’s son would typically enjoy.

Surely, Father Quinn’s intervention had played its part—excessive energy expenditure necessitated an equally extravagant replenishment. Barely had he stepped beyond his chamber when he collided with the baroness, striding toward him—a clear sign that word had been leaked.

There was little need for further inquiry; as mistress of the castle, she could effortlessly secure the loyalty of a few trusted aides. “Hudson, it is such a relief to see you well! May the Great Lord of Dawn bless you—you must know, I have been terribly anxious these past few days…” she exclaimed.

Hudson found himself inclined to accept her words at face value. Indeed, she had been profoundly worried—not for the former self’s health, but for her own natural son, now suspended upon a pillar. Though he had been bedridden, Hudson was not entirely oblivious to the stirrings within the castle.

From whispered accounts relayed by the servants, he learned that on the day of the incident, an incensed Baron Redman had savagely beaten Lysur. Even the baroness, who had attempted to mediate, had not escaped unscathed, receiving a lash herself. Perhaps in a fit of unresolved indignation or to offer a semblance of explanation, the baron had ordered Lysur to be bound to a pillar.

Had he not usurped his rightful place and supplanted Hudson, it is likely that Lysur would have suffered a similar fate.

“Swapping the Life Essence”—a minor prank in one light, yet in another, an act tantamount to fratricide. The awakening of the Life Seed had always been fraught with peril; in ancient times, success was a rarity, until the illustrious alchemist Kemberi of the Yastrant Continent invented the Life Essence, thereby transforming the odds. Not only was the success rate doubled, but even in failure, a life could be spared—unlike the unforgiving, win-or-die trials of old.

It was this very invention that dramatically enhanced the prospects of awakening the Life Seed, allowing knights—allegedly blessed by the divine—to gradually emerge as the continent’s foremost warriors. Whether they were truly “divinely blessed” remains a subject for further inquiry, yet history records it as such. Nevertheless, those knights who awakened their Life Seeds enjoyed considerable boons: augmented physical prowess and a deepened affinity with beasts. Virtually every knight now possessed a personal steed; while such an advantage might be negligible in solitary combat, it became overwhelmingly decisive on the battlefield when forces clashed.

Noble youth matured swiftly, and Lysur, nearing his fifteenth year, was undoubtedly aware of the inherent dangers of awakening without the aid of Life Essence—a mere prank could scarcely be excused.

“Respected Lady Tasi, one must be accountable for one’s actions. To err is to incur the necessary penalty; such is the rule binding any true noble,” Hudson retorted with unabashed mockery.

Frankly, he harbored no desire to engage in a bitter confrontation with the baroness at that moment. Yet, the inextricably fraught relationship between his former self and the baroness left him little choice; under the present circumstances, maintaining an amiable façade would have drawn undue attention.

“Hudson, do not speak thus. Lysur is your brother—he is but a child…” began the baroness, only to be curtly interrupted by Hudson’s feigned indignation: “Indeed, he remains a child. Yet that does not absolve him from the rules of our game—unless, madam, you contend that Lysur is not a noble!”

His sarcasm was unvarnished and blatant. His lineage had always been the baroness’s greatest insecurity, forever barring her from fully integrating into the noble circle. Under different circumstances, such a remark would have provoked an immediate rupture; now, with her cherished son suspended upon a pillar, she found herself powerless to retaliate.

Observing the baroness, rendered speechless by fury, Hudson inwardly sighed. His subtle insinuations had gone unnoticed, rendering his performance all for naught. Clearly, such an elevated game was not suited to everyone.

Yet, in reflection, it was fitting: had the baroness been so formidable, such debacles would scarcely have occurred—indeed, her own progeny might never have survived. Perhaps it was precisely her excessive brilliance that doomed her to the role of stepmother.

After a moment’s pause, Hudson sighed in resignation, “Very well, madam. In deference to your honor, I shall let Lysur off this time—but only upon proper compensation.” His sudden pivot left the baroness momentarily disconcerted; indeed, her innate acumen visibly trembled at the mere mention of “compensation.”

“What is it you demand?” she inquired.

Barely had the words left her lips before she recognized her own indiscretion. Already in a disadvantaged position, hastening to make such an overt request was clearly at odds with the principles of sound commerce.

Frowning, Hudson dismissed any pretense of nobility and broached the matter with plain frankness—a crude act, yet compelled by the meagerness of his purse. “Five hundred gold coins,” he declared.

It was not that he desired anything else; after all, the true master of the castle was his father, and the baroness wielded little authority beyond her modest wealth. “Why don’t you simply seize them?” she blurted almost instinctively—a tacit acknowledgment that Hudson’s seemingly reasonable figure far exceeded her expectations.

“Madam, pray maintain your decorum,” he chided coolly. “According to the customary practices of continental warfare, the ransom for a noble knight is set at five hundred gold coins. My demand is entirely in keeping with established protocol; I implore you to abide by the rules.”

With an impassive visage, Hudson affirmed that once rules were invoked, all matters assumed a grave solemnity. Though the practice of equating a captive’s value with ransom might seem preposterous, it was not entirely without merit.

The baroness knew that Lysur would not perish, yet as long as Hudson held firm, the matter remained unresolved. If this issue were not settled swiftly—before word spread and other members of the Coslo family intervened—it would surely escalate into an affair far more complicated than it presently appeared.