The Golden Duke’s Forbidden Lover

An Audacious Discussion at the Morning Board

The dining hall's vaulted ceiling bore an exquisite relief of nymphs cradling celestial delicacies, complemented by perimeter walls adorned with still-lifes of sun-ripened fruit calculated to heighten the palate. Positioned precisely at the chamber's center stood a carved mahogany banquet table spanning a full four feet in width, its contours softened by a cascading overlay of delicate lace. Through the sweeping expanse of the floor-to-ceiling casements, the snow-cloaked courtyard lay visible, the pristine drifts catching the first roseate flush of dawn.

Though unversed in the specific vagaries of private tutelage, Ares was well aware that preceptors in aristocratic households traditionally occupied a status barely distinguishable from that of superior domestics. Protocol dictated they refrain from unbidden movement throughout the estate, barred absolutely from central functional domains such as the drawing rooms, libraries, and salons. Custom further required that their meals be taken alongside the lower retinue within the kitchens, strictly after the patrons had broken their fast. A tutor's presence before the masters was reserved exclusively for scheduled instructional hours.

Consequently, the current arrangement was anomalous in the extreme.

A senior footman conducted Ares directly to a seat below Garrick's own station, placing him in immediate, face-to-face confrontation with Vincent and Victor. From this vantage, Ares could discern the youths affecting an air of unnatural solemnity, their expressions pinched as they listlessly toyed with the blackcurrant puddings upon their plates.

"A very pleasant morning to you, Your Grace," Ares initiated, inclining his head. "I must express my profound gratitude for your hospitality; the guest chambers are remarkably commodious, and the hearth was so generously supplied that I enjoyed the most temperate winter night of my recollection."

Garrick's attire this morning surpassed the luxury of his study vestments. His dark indigo frock coat perfectly accented the crystalline blue of his left eye, while a mantle of dense sable—which on a lesser man would have appeared cumbersome—draped his broad shoulders with singular grace. The pelt was secured across his breast by a finely wrought silver chain, from which the seal of the House of Valerius depended, glittering under the chandeliers and reinforcing his aristocratic aura.

Evidently satiated by a lifetime of sycophancy, Garrick merely offered a terse, indifferent acknowledgment. "I am satisfied to hear it."

Once the party was seated, Harley signaled the attendant footmen with a silent gesture. Three heated side-wagons were smoothly propelled into the chamber, each bearing a selection of polished domes. When lifted, they revealed a breakfast feast of astonishing variety and labor: thick beef ragout, delicate capon fricassee, baked cod, rich seafood bisques, and a multi-layered lasagna that required hours of meticulous preparation.

Like all denizens of the Draconian Empire, Ares was accustomed to a substantial morning meal designed to sustain a gentleman until a late dinner. Yet, he had never witnessed a repast of such redundant opulence. Sitting beside a host as unyielding as a glacier, however, Ares found the prospect of tasting the lobster bisque or the cod risotto distinctly uninviting. His stomach anticipated acute indigestion.

Glancing downward, he noted that the linen runner held an array of solid silver implements, from conventional knives and spoons to several bizarrely shaped utensils whose specific culinary applications were entirely obscure to him. Deciding against pretense, as the first course of veal salad tossed with shaved curd was served, he simply employed a standard fork to lift the greens.

Vincent caught the movement, immediately cast an expressive glance toward Victor, and began to ostentatiously cut his meat into microscopic fragments before grinding them laboriously into the cheese. It was an act of deliberate, theatrical superiority.

Ares found the childish provocation mildly amusing. Turning his attention to the host, he gestured toward a stemmed crystal chalice containing a raw egg. "Pray forgive my ignorance, Your Grace—is this egg intended to be broken directly into the cod risotto?"

"As you prefer," Garrick replied smoothly. "Season the dish to your own liking; we do not suffer excessive formality at this board."

Ares took his spoon, cracked the shell, and tipped the yolk and albumen directly into his veal salad instead, casually incorporating it with his fork. The act was a silent, definitive counter-move to Vincent: I am entirely indifferent to peerage etiquette, and your childish attempts at humiliation are utterly impotent.

Finding his sport spoiled, Vincent pouted, abandoned his torture of the veal, and swiftly dispatched the remainder of his plate. The bitterness of the kale caused his features to contort in temporary misery, but under his uncle's vigilant eye, he dared not indulge his usual fastidiousness.

Garrick broke the silence, his deep voice commanding the room. "I had occasion to read your treatise published last March in the Journal of Verity—'The Evolution of Imperial Weaponry: An Analytical Examination of Alchemy and Ancient Thaumaturgy Through Gemstone Enchantment.'" He paused, stoking his pipe. "A highly irregular thesis. To my knowledge, few within the Empire possess the inclination to interrogate that specific field."

In truth, there were none. Conventional, delicate scholars rarely concerned themselves with the brutal mechanisms of military history; they preferred the bloodless taxonomy of sonnets over the heterodox assertion that combustible firearms represented the inevitable trajectory of modern warfare.

Ares felt a prickle of astonishment. He had not anticipated that Garrick would seek out his academic output, much less possess the specialized vocabulary to comprehend it. The text relied heavily upon obscure seventeenth-century codices that even seasoned historiographers found impenetrable, and its central assertions directly contradicted current mainstream dogma. Indeed, the essay had been rejected by numerous conservative presses before the Journal of Verity accepted it after six months of intense peer review.

Yet, upon reflection, Ares realized the Duke's intellect was logical; an unlettered provincial could never have consolidated the vast networks of the mining and smelting industries under a single monopoly. Since Garrick's ascension to the lordship, the brass output of the Valerius veins single-handedly regulated the liquidity of the Imperial mint.

Garrick's narrow golden vertical iris shifted toward Ares. "You appear to hold alchemy and the thaumaturgic arts in remarkably low esteem, Professor." The tone was unreadable—neither overtly hostile nor entirely detached, but rather the calculated probe of a man measuring an opponent.

Ares weighed his response carefully. He knew his thesis was widely condemned; from the common peasantry to the high imperial household, status was tied to elemental affinity, and to be a magus was the pinnacle of societal achievement. Every day, new incantations were etched into steel, and the suggestion that magic was inferior to steam-driven, iron machinery was considered an absurdity. He could not allow Garrick to dismiss him as a charlatan and banish him from the redoubt before his search for Catherine could begin.

"Your Grace may well find my conclusions distasteful," Ares responded, his lips set into a firm line. "However, they were formulated after exhaustive archival analysis and field research. Every assertion within that paper is anchored by empirical evidence, and I harbor no professional shame regarding them."

Had he been born of blue blood, his scholarly achievements would have earned him a serious hearing despite his radical views. But his common Red-Blood heritage ensured that any departure from orthodox thought was weaponized as proof of his natural intellectual inferiority and lack of rigorous rationality.

Garrick rotated the heavy jade signet ring upon his thumb, a faint glimmer of amusement touching his dark features. "To sustain such an unpopular dogma, you will find you have an army to convert. Yet, it is evident that despite the consensus, you do not suffer from self-doubt." He offered a microscopic nod. "An admirable trait, Professor."

The commendation was left frustratingly ambiguous, and the topic was summarily dropped. The Duke's manner of consumption was rapid, and before the dessert service could be introduced, he arose to depart.

Standing at his full, imposing height, Garrick looked down at Ares. "Professor, I commit Vincent and Victor to your governance. Should their behavior deviate from propriety, you have my full authority to correct them. Do not compromise your station out of deference to their lineage; instruct them as you would any ordinary pupil."

The injunction was intended less for Ares than for the youths, a stern reminder against aristocratic arrogance. Upon receiving Ares's nod of assent, the Duke exited the refectory, directing his steps toward the northern wing where his studies lay.

The moment their uncle's shadow cleared the portal, Victor's restless nature reasserted itself. "Harley," the boy demanded, leaning across the lace cloth, "At what hour must these lectures endure? Surely we are not to be confined for the entirety of the day?"

Harley deliberated for a moment. "His Grace placed no specific limits upon the hours. The determination of the schedule, the duration of the sessions, and the curriculum rests solely within the purview of Professor Norcross." The majordomo delivered the statement with his eyes fixed directly upon Ares.

Victor's countenance visibly darkened; he clearly expected no leniency from the new preceptor.

Ares, however, harbored no desire to antagonize his charges; prolonged instructional periods would only prove mutually destructive and hinder his own freedom of movement. "We shall adhere to the standard public school registry," Ares announced calmly. "Four sessions daily: two in the forenoon, two in the afternoon. Each lecture shall endure for precisely one hour, punctuated by a fifteen-minute interlude for recreation. The morning sessions will be dedicated to review and consolidation, while the afternoon will introduce advanced materials."

Vincent's mind evidently perceived an opportunity. He turned to his twin, his eyes crinkling into calculated crescents of pure compliance. "We shall perform our duties with the utmost... cooperation. Is that not so, Victor?"

Victor caught the unspoken signal, his melancholy vanishing instantly behind a sharp, predatory grin that revealed his prominent canines. "But of course, brother. We shall be models of industry."

Ares observed the exchange with quiet resignation; the twins' sudden compliance was a definitive declaration of war.