Arno was no degenerate, so he had no intention of claiming Celeste abruptly—too cruel. Though her young form stirred a flicker in his jaded soul, he maintained self-control. No saint, he had desires like any man, yet he refused to exploit the girl. Time with her flew by pleasantly, and he saw no need to shatter that peace anytime soon.

  A new day dawned, noble and commoner schedules diverging as always—lords rose three hours later than those scraping for survival. While Pramisburg’s poor began their day at dawn, Arno slept until after nine, roused by the chief maid’s knock at the door of the city lord’s mansion.

  Sunlight pierced crimson tasseled curtains. Yawning, he sat up, his lean, angular frame—ideal for attracting noblewomen—contrasting with his regal lineage. Countless noble ladies and wanton matrons lusted after the Golden Noble’s bed, not for marriage, but to taste his status.

  Throwing aside the velvet blanket, he stood naked, two attendants blushing as they followed him to the washroom. No impropriety here—nobles required elaborate morning rituals, all handled by servants.

  Nearly an hour later, Arno was dressed and ready. Too tedious, he thought. What if there’s an emergency? Such reforms would have to wait for the Capital—mavericks fared poorly in noble circles.

  Celeste, however, had risen early, uneasy in her new surroundings. Like Arno, she’d endured a torturous toilette, worse for the bone-stiffened corsets and stays that deformed even her young frame. Bright God, an eleven-year-old forced into a cleavage-baring corset—barbaric!

  Arno summoned the chief maid, gesturing to Celeste, who blushed, unsure of her attire. “No corsets for anyone under sixteen in this mansion. Older women may forgo them too if they wish.” His tone made clear this was no joke. “This is abuse, understand?”

  The chief maid suppressed a grimace, nodding. She’d comply even if he ordered nudity. The younger maids grinned—they hated corsets but had feared his wrath. Celeste seemed to sigh in relief.

  “Breakfast?” Arno asked, eyeing the three greasy plates before Celeste. Smoked meat at dawn? Appalling.

  The chief maid recited the menu. Arno groaned, “A bowl of wheat porridge—no milk, no spices. None.”

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  “And sides?”

  “Two green leaves. No cream, butter, spices, or wine. Nothing.”

  “As you command, my lord.”

  Meeting Celeste’s startled gaze, Arno shrugged. “Greasy mornings ruin my appetite. The only decent thing here is the black tea.” He sipped, the bitter ruby liquid sliding down, its aftertaste a rare comfort. Green tea, he reminded himself. Must task the gardeners soon.

  “What will you do this morning?” he asked.

  Celeste hesitated, still intimidated. I didn’t cry last night—miracle! “Read, perhaps?”

  “You may use my study, but don’t disarrange the books.” He set down his cup, eyeing the glutinous porridge like chewed sludge. He nibbled lettuce, stood abruptly. “I’ll be busy, but I’ll take you out once things settle.”

  Her eyes lit with anticipation; she nodded vigorously.

  Arno’s duties were many—the Blackfire Warriors at the farm outside the city had begun training, and as the master of these consumables, Arno needed to inspect them. He arranged his tasks… in truth, there was little work, as the city had long operated without interference from the city lord’s mansion. Afterward, he departed with Blair for the farm outside the city.

  The streets remained a mix of apathy and vice—thieves, extortion, daily rot. Pramisburg’s residents endured; what choice had they?

  Ten minutes beyond the city gates, a man-made forest shielded a sunlit slope. The carriage entered as two farmers bowed, closing the gates behind them.

  Harvey awaited, spiked whip in hand, smiling obsequiously. “Welcome, honorable Lord Mayor.”

  Arno emerged, his golden thorn badge gleaming. He nodded curtly, “Show me my warriors.”

  Harvey led him to a vast warehouse where Blackfire Warriors stood packed yet immaculate, discipline etched in their stances.

  “Your master, the Lord of Pramisburg. You’re blessed to serve him.” Harvey offered the whip reverently.

  Arno accepted—it was ritual, symbolic of ownership. These Black Barbarians, survivors of bloody trials, were trained into obedient machines. Past rebellions had been crushed by their own kind; slavers now perfected control.

  Approaching a towering Barbarian, Arno drew a sapphire-hilted dagger, pressing the tip to the man’s chest. The Capital-crafted blade pierced skin, Arno pushing it an inch deep. No flinch, no fear—stone-cold composure.

  He wiped the blade on the Barbarian’s tunic, satisfied. “Excellent work, Harvey.”

  The slaver preened—these hundred were handpicked, the best. They could crush triple their number in imperial soldiers.

  Arno’s earlier qualms faded. Black Barbarians were “lowly,” true—slaves, castrated or not, ranked below even free peasants. But utility over pride: all soldiers were consumables. What did dignity matter?

  He eyed Harvey. “I need 500 more like these—uncastrated. Six months enough?”

  Harvey exhaled, grinning. “More than enough, my lord. You’ll be thrilled.”

  Arno pressed the whip to Harvey’s shoulder. “I favor wise men. You qualify.”