The Sinful Young Master

The grand hall was alive with activity as the guests continued to pour in, their voices blending into a melodic hum of laughter and conversation. The scent of roasted meats and exotic spices wafted through the air, and the glittering chandeliers above reflected off polished armour and delicate silks.

Jolthar, seated in his quiet corner, observed everything with a practiced eye, his demeanour calm and uninterested—until Liliana and Lorryll made their entrance.

The pair walked in, their presence immediately commanding attention as they led with red-robed men around them.

Liliana, with her graceful yet assertive stride, wore an elegant dress that subtly emphasized her authority and beauty. Beside her, Lorryll moved with equal confidence, but his expression carried a distinct air of entitlement.

Flanking them were ten robed men, their dark attire stark against the vibrant backdrop of the hall.

Red-robed men were elite mages of the Naemarys clan; they weren't an easy force to move or to command. They were rarely seen on the outside and moved with important people of the clan. And now they must have come with Liliana, but was it just for protection or to provoke the clan, they are yet to see.

The sight of such an entourage entering a formal clan banquet immediately raised eyebrows.

Whispers spread like wildfire among the guests, their conversations tinged with curiosity and discomfort. Even Jolthar, who rarely showed interest in such affairs, arched an eyebrow as his gaze shifted toward the commotion.

-

The knights stationed at the hall's entrance were quick to react.

Their leader, a stout man named Clifton, stepped forward with authority. His polished armour caught the golden light as he raised a gauntleted hand to halt the procession.

"These men must wait outside," Clifton said firmly, his voice carrying over the murmur of the crowd.

"This is a family banquet. Only guests and their immediate retinues are permitted inside."

Lorryll's expression soured. "These men are with us. They will remain at my side." His tone was curt, laced with impatience.

The knights exchanged glances, their unease evident. Allowing such an unconventional group to remain would not only breach protocol but also risk upsetting the already delicate balance of the gathering.

Clifton stepped closer, his stance unwavering.

"With respect, my lord," he said, his tone still firm but measured, "the rules of the hall are clear. These men must wait outside."

Lorryll's jaw tightened, his displeasure plain for all to see. Before he could respond, Liliana placed a calming hand on his arm. She turned her sharp gaze toward Clifton, her voice smooth but commanding.

"They are here for our security," she explained, her tone almost dismissive. "Surely you can make an exception for the sake of diplomacy." Clifton raised an eyebrow at her, wondering what the heck she was spouting. Why would they require protection in his own clan?

Clifton, to his credit, did not waver. "This is not a matter of diplomacy, my lady. It is a matter of tradition and respect for the clan's customs."
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Lorryll's frustration deepened. "They stay."

The air grew heavier, the tension between the knights and Lorryll's party palpable.

Just as the situation seemed poised to escalate further, a pair of figures entered the hall, their presence cutting through the tension like a knife.

The second young master strode in with a commanding presence, his every step exuding confidence and authority.

Beside him was Lady Elowen, her serene composure masking the sharpness of her gaze as she quickly assessed the scene.

"What is the meaning of this commotion?" the young master asked, his voice calm but with an undertone of impatience.

Clifton turned and bowed slightly. "My lord, Young Master Lorryll wishes to bring his retinue into the hall. I was explaining that it is against tradition."

All eyes shifted to Elowen as she stepped forward, her presence immediately silencing any murmurs. She looked at Lorryll, her tone firm yet polite. "The rules are clear, Lorryll. Only guests may enter. Your men can wait outside. They will be safe."

"Mother, I can't even bring my men inside into my own clan?"

Elowen knit her brows. "Lorryll, this is your brother's birthday feast, so stop your tantrums and be done with it."

For a moment, Lorryll hesitated, glancing toward Liliana for support. She gave a subtle nod, her expression unreadable.

Elowen couldn't believe that her own son wasn't listening to her words, and the way he ignored her, it made her heart ache. He seemed to listen, but it wasn't her word that carried weight—it was his wife's.

The woman stepped forward, her disappointment evident as she touched Lorryll's arm. "Let them wait outside, Husband," she said softly.

"It is of no consequence."

Lorryll's shoulders sagged slightly as he relented. "Fine," he said curtly, motioning for the robed men to step back.

-

As the group entered the hall, the tension between Lady Elowen and Lorryll's wife was impossible to ignore.

Elowen's disapproval was subtle but evident to those paying attention. She glanced at Lorryll, her lips pressing into a thin line as if to say, You should have known better.

Meanwhile, Lorryll's wife maintained a calm, almost indifferent demeanour. Her poise was impeccable, but there was a certain defiance in the way she carried herself, as though she were silently challenging Elowen's authority.

The subtle battle of wills between the two women created an undercurrent of unease that rippled through the hall.

Those close enough to notice exchanged cautious glances, aware that this was more than a simple disagreement—it was a reflection of deeper, unspoken divisions within the clan.

From his seat in the corner, Jolthar watched the entire interaction unfold. His sharp eyes missed nothing—the tension between Elowen and Lorryll's wife, the hesitation in Lorryll's stance, the calculated calmness of Liliana.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping idly on the table.

He found it amusing how people so desperate to assert their importance often revealed their weaknesses instead.

He took a sip from his goblet, his expression neutral once more.