The red-haired elves followed their new master in eerie silence, their gazes never lifting from the floor. There was something unsettling about their absolute stillness, the way they moved as one behind the dark-skinned human man who had purchased them — silent specters trailing behind a scion who barely spared them a glance.

  The scion in question looked to be a few years older than Klarion, his gait exuding the easy confidence of someone who had visited the Hall of Bonds many times before. He strode toward the exit, ignoring another dwarven scion who had just entered the room to examine the servants in cells. He had made his selections. His business was done.

  Klarion, on the other hand, felt a mix of excitement and apprehension to get started.

  He wasn’t sure which unsettled him more — the passive, conditioned obedience of those elves or the scion’s utter indifference to them. Was that what noble blood did to people? Reduced men and women, regardless of race, into little more than property, tools to be procured and discarded without a second thought.

  It wasn’t that Klarion was na?ve. He was beginning to understand the way this world — this Empire — worked. He had spent enough time on campus to grasp the edge of the rigid hierarchies of power — from titles to bloodlines to mere proximity to power — determined one’s worth. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

  Suppressing the thought, a distraction from what he should be focusing on, he returned to scanning the chamber, trying to find one of the attendants who had been helping the scion that had just left. His gaze landed on one standing at the far end, near the entrance. Unlike the others that had returned to moving through the hall, assisting scions deeper in, past the first-year section, this one stood still, her presence poised and professional.

  She had the same impassive, slightly detached demeanor of many of the other attendants he had seen — her uniform crisp and utterly unwrinkled despite the fact she had likely been working in the Hall of Bonds for more than a few hours already. A carefully cultivated presence: unobtrusive, yet immediately available when needed.

  The moment their gazes met, she strode over to him, offering a practiced, formal bow as soon as she came within five steps.

  “How might I assist Scion Blacksword?” she asked, tone flawlessly polite yet impersonal.

  Klarion straightened slightly, adjusting his posture to assume the authority that was starting to become more comfortable for him. “I’m looking to fill multiple positions for Blacksword Manor. Is there a private room where I can conduct interviews?”

  The attendant gave a small nod, already anticipating the request. “That is a common request. We can provide a private chamber for selection and bring forth potential candidates based on your criteria.”

  That was exactly what he needed, and what he hoped they would be able to provide. Trying to evaluate people in the middle of the crowded chamber, with other servants standing in their cells observing, was far from ideal. And he preferred to at least treat this like as much of a hiring process as possible.

  “Good,” Klarion said, feeling some relief. “I have thirty Coins of Service to spend and need to fill the following positions: Steward, Butler, Housekeeper, Maids, and a Cook.”

  The attendant was already consulting a glowing interface that shimmered into existence before her. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, scanning through the available options with an efficiency that suggested she had done this hundreds of times before. A moment later she spoke.

  “There are a number of candidates available for these positions. However, with your available Coins of Service, it would be most efficient to limit your interviews to select options for the Steward, Housekeeper, Maids, and Cook.” She paused, then added with professional neutrality, “There are no Butlers within your budget.”

  Klarion had been worried about something like that happening. A Butler would have made things smoother, particularly in a household that he was just in the process of assembling. With a trained hand overseeing the domestic affairs of the manor and supplementing the Steward as needed, Klarion would have been able to focus on his studies and training that much more.

  Still, there was no point in lamenting a position that he simply was unable to afford yet.

  “Alright,” Klarion said evenly. “That’s fine. Let’s move forward with the interviews for the rest of the positions.”

  The attendant inclined her head. “Follow me.”

  She led him through a side doorway, exiting the large chamber and into a narrower corridor that ran behind the main selection area. Here, the atmosphere shifted, giving way to something more controlled, more refined.

  Klarion took in the change instinctively. The air was cooler here, the walls lined with smooth stone instead of the grand displays of the main rooms. It was clearly designed as a place for business, separate from the theater of scions selecting their servants like prized possessions.

  They stopped outside one of the sturdy wooden doors that lined the wall, and the attendant pushed it open, gesturing for Klarion to step inside.

  The interview chamber was simple yet elegant. A single ornate chair sat at the center of the room, clearly intended for him. The walls were lined with thick curtains, muting any noise from outside.

  Without prompting, Klarion took the seat, adjusting his posture to get comfortable. He ran through his priorities once more — his budget, his household needs, and the gaps Hatsune had suggested he fill to turn Blacksword Manor into something more than a half-abandoned estate.

  The attendant remained by the door, poised as ever. “The first candidate will be brought in shortly. If you have any additional preferences as you proceed, you may inform me.”

  Klarion nodded. “Understood.”

  It was only a few minutes later that the door opened again, and Klarion straightened further in his chair as the first candidate entered. To his surprise, she was human.

  The middle-aged woman strode inside with crisp, efficient steps, every movement exuding discipline. She wasn’t beautiful, nor did she possess any striking features beyond her sheer presence — the kind of quiet authority that came not from rank or titles but from sheer competence.

  Her graying brown hair was pulled into a severe bun, not a strand out of place, and her simple, uniform-like tunic was impeccably clean despite the unremarkable material. Nothing about her appearance was ostentatious, yet she carried herself with the unmistakable air of someone who had long commanded respect.

  “Margaret,” the attendant announced. “Candidate for the position of Housekeeper.”

  Margaret inclined her head — not a bow, but a brief acknowledging nod. Her dark eyes swept over Klarion in a single, assessing glance, cool and analytical, before she folded her hands in front of her, waiting.

  Klarion had the distinct impression that, rather than her being interviewed, he was the one being evaluated.

  It was an unsettling yet oddly reassuring feeling. He had spent the past few days maneuvering through a world that saw him either as an unknown threat or a known target. Yet here was someone who wasn’t trying to flatter or stick a knife in him — only determine whether he was competent enough to be her employer.

  He felt like he just got a glimpse of why she, a human woman, was within the price range of his Coins of Service. The other scions had probably hated her general demeanor.

  More fool them.

  Klarion kept his voice steady as he began.

  “You’ve been put forward as a candidate by the attendant for the Housekeeper position at Blacksword Manor. Before we go any further, tell me about your experience.”

  Margaret responded without hesitation, her tone clipped and professional.

  “I previously managed a household of a small noble estate — six staff under my direct supervision. Duties included overseeing cleanliness, coordinating maintenance, managing household supplies, and enforcing household discipline. Before that, I worked under a Senior Housekeeper in a larger estate for twelve years, learning all required duties firsthand.”

  Twelve years under a Senior Housekeeper, then managing an entire estate herself. That was a solid track record.

  She paused briefly, then added, “My class is Estate Manager — Uncommon rarity.”

  Klarion blinked. That was better than he expected.

  An ordinary Housekeeper would have been useful, but an Uncommon Estate Manager? That likely meant she had the skills and abilities tied to efficiency, delegation, or even household management magic. If such existed. It also meant that she had experience in leadership, which is what he needed.

  It also explained the way she carried herself.

  Still, Klarion needed to be sure that she was the right choice.

  "How much authority are you comfortable with?" he asked. "Would you expect to have full control over the domestic staff, or would you defer to a higher-ranked Steward?"

  Margaret’s lips pressed into a thin line. "I do not overstep. A Steward would be my superior in household affairs, but within my own sphere—domestic order and staff efficiency—I expect to be trusted to make decisions. If you prefer someone who waits for permission to act, you should choose someone else."

  Klarion held back a chuckle. She reminded him of one of those old headmistresses back on Earth. One of those terrifying, no-nonsense women who ran entire institutions like military outposts.

  But that wasn’t a bad thing.

  He needed someone who wouldn’t falter, wouldn’t hesitate, and wouldn’t let things descend into chaos just because he was busy with training, classes, or politics. If she ran his household the way she carried herself—like a force of nature that brooked no nonsense—then he had no doubt Blacksword Manor would be running like a well-oiled machine in no time.

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  "And your expectations?" he asked. "What do you need from me to do your job effectively?"

  Margaret’s expression didn’t change.

  "A clear chain of command," she answered immediately. "A Steward, if you hire one, should know their place in relation to me, and the same goes for the domestic staff." Her gaze sharpened slightly. "Authority must be clear. If staff see weakness in the chain, they will exploit it."

  Klarion believed her.

  He also realized, in that moment, just how much he didn’t know about running a proper household.

  He was still getting a grasp of the rivalries his House had with other scions on campus, and all the things that went with that, not to mention his studies which were still so new to him. But an entire manor? That was something else entirely. He wanted — no, he needed — Margaret.

  He leaned back slightly in his chair, meeting her gaze. “I agree to your terms. I’ll hire you."

  Margaret didn’t look relieved or even pleased. She simply nodded, as if this was the expected outcome. As if she had known she would be hired the moment she walked into the room.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The attendant came over to Klarion’s chair. “That will be five Coins of Service.”

  A pop-up appeared before Klarion, and when he selected his agreement to the terms, five Coins of Service were deducted from his total on his character sheet. The transaction was smooth—silent, professional.

  Margaret inclined her head again. “With your permission, I will wait outside until your other selections are complete."

  At his nod of agreement, she turned on her heel and strode out of the room, every movement precise and controlled.

  The door clicked shut behind her.

  Klarion exhaled. One down. And with Margaret in charge of the domestic staff, he had a feeling things were going to get a lot stricter around Blacksword Manor.

  Within moments of Margaret exiting the room, the door opened again, though this time three figures were led inside.

  Klarion’s first impression was that they were small—quite a bit shorter than Hatsune, with slender frames and hunched postures. Their green-scaled tails dragged just slightly behind them, moving with a hesitance that spoke of uncertainty, if not outright fear.

  He recognized their race from several others he had seen outside in the main chamber.

  Kobolds.

  These three were different from the chattering, bold scavengers from fantasy he had encountered during his roleplaying sessions back on Earth. The kobolds before him — all female — were silent, withdrawn, and visibly nervous. They moved as one, their bodies close together, their postures instinctively defensive.

  The moment he opened his mouth to ask his first question, all three flinched.

  Klarion froze.

  He turned his attention to the attendant, who, to her credit, didn’t hesitate to explain.

  “The three kobold sisters were interviewed the other day by an adherent of The Ivory Banner.”

  That was all Klarion needed to hear, and he waved off the rest of what the attendant had been about to add. His jaw clenched briefly in understanding as to what had likely been said to them. He had a damn good idea of what that ‘interview’ had been like. To them, races like kobolds were lesser — servants by birthright, tools to be discarded at will.

  But he wasn’t them.

  He kept his voice soft as he addressed the three kobolds. “I promise, I’m not here to scare you,” he said. “I just want to learn more about you before I make any decisions.”

  The three sisters exchanged quick, sidelong glances, the younger two shrinking slightly behind the eldest. It was a subtle movement, but Klarion noticed it immediately. They were used to protecting each other.

  Finally, after a moment of hesitation, the oldest sister stepped forward.

  She was barely over four feet tall, her green scales muted in the soft light of the room. The other two huddled just behind her, clutching the edges of their simple tunics as though making themselves smaller would make them invisible. Despite her timid demeanor, she spoke up, her voice barely above a whisper.

  "Hard-working," she said quickly, as though afraid he would interrupt. "All three of us."

  Klarion didn’t interrupt. He nodded encouragingly, waiting.

  The eldest took a small breath before continuing.

  "We… we are trained as House Maids. Common class."

  From the class mentioned, Klarion could guess what experiences they had, so he did not press further.

  They likely were responsible for cleaning, laundry, and general upkeep of their previous residence. Perhaps with experience, they could take on more specialized roles. But more importantly, Klarion could tell that they weren’t just three individuals. They were a unit that worked together, relied on each other, and probably had for years.

  Keeping them together isn’t just a kindness—it’s an investment.

  "That sounds perfect," he said, offering them a small smile.

  For the first time since entering, the three kobold sisters looked hopeful.

  Their tails twitched slightly, their wide yellow eyes flicking between him and the Attendant with a mix of relief and disbelief. As if they hadn’t expected to hear anything remotely positive today.

  The Attendant cleared her throat lightly, moving to approach Klarion’s chair again. "Each will be one Coin of Service, for a total of three Coins of Service."

  If Klarion hadn’t known about the prejudice against races like the kobolds, he would have thought something was wrong with them. Instead, all he thought about was how that was an incredible deal. Three trained workers for the price of a single higher-class servant? Klarion didn’t hesitate. He indicated his agreement on the pop-up as soon as it appeared, three more Coins of Service being deducted from his character sheet.

  The Attendant then gestured for the kobold sisters to step back.

  "Your employment has been secured," she informed them. "You may wait in the main room until Scion Blacksword has completed his remaining selections."

  The three bobbed their heads quickly, backing out of the room in small, shuffling steps before disappearing beyond the door.

  As the door clicked shut behind them, Klarion let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  That had been… heavier than he expected.

  Not because the decision itself was difficult, but because of the weight of what it meant—for them.

  He hadn’t just hired three maids.

  He had saved them.

  And by the look in their eyes, they knew it.

  He was still thinking about the potential ramifications of that when the door opened once more several minutes later. Though unlike the previous candidates, this one was escorted by two Sentinels. As they both stepped in, flanking the latest candidate, Klarion immediately understood why they had come into the interview room as well.

  The ogre that lumbered into the room was a mountain of muscle and brute strength, standing easily over eight feet tall. His broad shoulders trained against the simple tunic he wore, thick cords of sinew and knotted muscles bulging beneath the fabric with every slow step. His gray-green skin was a patchwork of scars, old wounds crisscrossing his powerful frame like trophies of violence — proof that he’d been subjected to a lot of pain before, but never enough to break him.

  He wasn’t just strong. He knew he was strong.

  Small, beady eyes gleamed with an unpleasant sort of amusement as he surveyed the room, his thick lips curling into a grin that did nothing to soften the menace of his presence. He rolled his shoulders, the motion slow, lazy — predatory.

  Hatsune tensed beside Klarion, her ears flicking in unease.

  Klarion had seen his fair share of intimidating figures since arriving at the Academy. But something about this ogre set his instincts on edge. It wasn’t his sheer size or the raw, brutal power of his frame either.

  And then it hit him.

  It was the way the ogre carried himself.

  Arrogance dripped from his every movement. The slow, rolling gait of someone who believed the world belonged to them, that they could take what they wanted because no one could stop them.

  Klarion looked from the Sentinels to the Attendant, eyebrow arching in silent question.

  The Attendant, standing stiff-backed and, for once, clearly uneasy, did not take her eyes off the ogre. "His name is Grognak. We’ve… had problems with him in the past."

  A low, rumbling chuckle filled the space, thick with amusement.

  Grognak turned his attention fully to Hatsune, his beady eyes dragging over her form with slow, deliberate scrutiny.

  Klarion felt it instantly.

  That look.

  It wasn’t just ogling. It wasn’t just arrogance. It was ownership. The gaze of a creature that saw something small and delicate and thought, Mine.

  Hatsune’s ears flicked backward. Her entire body shifted, hand drifting to her sword, ready to fight.

  Klarion’s fingers twitched against the armrest of his chair.

  Then, before Klarion could even begin his questions, Grognak opened his mouth.

  "If you take me on," the ogre said, his deep, gravelly voice laced with lazy arrogance, "might I receive part of my pay as time with the cute bunnykin?"

  Silence.

  The air itself seemed to still.

  The warmth of the interview chamber bled away in an instant, the atmosphere shifting with something sharp and deadly.

  Hatsune went rigid beside him.

  The attendant’s face paled, her mouth parting slightly as if to intervene —

  She didn’t have to.

  Klarion did not move. Did not speak. Did not so much as blink.

  But something in the room changed.

  The shadows seemed to lengthen, creeping along the floor in thin, twisting tendrils. The faint murmur of noises outside the room suddenly felt distant, swallowed by an encroaching pressure that filled the space like black clouds gathering on the horizon.

  Cold fury settled into Klarion’s bones, slow and deliberate, spreading through him like ice creeping over stone in deepest winter.

  For the barest second, Klarion thought he felt something.

  An… Essence?

  Then the feeling was gone.

  Grognak, still leering at Hatsune, shifted.

  Then he felt it.

  The ogre’s smug amusement faltered, his beady eyes darting toward Klarion as if sensing—truly sensing—him for the first time. A flicker of unease passed over his brutish features.

  His posture, once so casual and overconfident, stiffened ever so slightly.

  That flicker of unease deepened into something closer to fear.

  Klarion let the silence stretch.

  Long enough for Grognak to start to understand his mistake.

  Long enough for the weight of his own words to settle, hollow and damning, in the thick stillness of the chamber.

  Then Klarion spoke.

  His voice was smooth, even—like a blade drawn slow and sharp from its sheath.

  "I will not be taking Grognak with me."

  A simple sentence. A dismissal.

  And yet, it carried the unmistakable weight of finality.

  The Attendant exhaled quickly, as if she had been holding her breath. She nodded once and turned to the Sentinels.

  "Remove him."

  Grognak scowled, but he did not argue.

  For all his size, for all his strength, the ogre did not even attempt resistance as the Sentinels seized his arms and dragged him back toward the door. His thick fingers twitched at his sides, as if his body had to fight the ingrained urge to lash out—

  Yet he didn’t.

  Because some instinct, buried deep in whatever passed for his mind, screamed at him that it would be unwise.

  The door slammed shut behind them.

  The moment stretched for a beat longer, the lingering weight of Klarion’s anger still thick in the air. Then he exhaled, letting it go, rolling his shoulders slightly as if shaking off the last remnants of… whatever Essence he had begun to feel. He’d have to see if he could recreate that feeling later.

  He turned to Hatsune. "You okay?"

  Hatsune blinked up at him, her ears twitching back to a neutral position.

  Then, to his surprise, she grinned. "You felt like you did at the end of the duel against Ort, Klarion."

  "Yeah, well. Some people deserve it."

  The Attendant, still slightly pale, cleared her throat. "Apologies for that… unpleasantness. Shall I bring in the next candidate for your Cook position?”

  Klarion nodded, his tone smooth and unshaken, the earlier unpleasantness already forgotten. "Please."

  The door opened again, and this time, the potential Cook that stepped through was very different.

  The young orc that entered was tall but lean, lacking the sheer bulk and raw muscle most of his kind were known for. His dark green skin was unmarred by scars, a rarity among orcs, and though he held himself straight-backed, there was a nervous energy in the way he clasped his hands behind him. His yellow eyes darted across the room, sharp but not challenging, assessing the situation rather than posturing.

  Unlike Grognak, he did not leer or try to fill the room with his presence. Instead, he paused just inside the doorway and gave a polite, short bow before standing attentively.

  Klarion already liked him better than the ogre, and he hadn’t even answered a single question yet.

  He asked the orc his first question. “What is your name and class.”

  “Baruk,” the orc answered in a deeper tone than Klarion had been expecting, given his build. “I hold the Common class of Camp Cook.”

  Not a full-fledged chef, but Klarion hadn’t expected to afford one of those with his current budget anyway. But perhaps that was ok. If a Camp Cook was experienced with anything similar to what he had to do while camping when he was younger, then Baruk wasn’t just a simple meal-maker—he would be adaptable, used to working under rough conditions, often with limited resources. They knew how to stretch supplies, how to forage when needed, how to turn whatever could be eaten into something worth eating. That was a kind of practicality Klarion appreciated, especially because he had yet to sort out an income source for Blacksword Manor. Otherwise, the gold he had earned in the Dungeon and from the duel would not last long.

  Klarion leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands together. "Tell me about your experience, Baruk."

  The orc nodded firmly, his expression shifting—growing more confident as he answered. "I grew up in a warrior camp," he explained, voice steady. "Cooking for warriors on the march, foraging when needed, stretching what we had into full meals."

  So the orc had much of the experience Klarion thought he might have, given the name of his class.

  Klarion nodded approvingly. "And your long-term goals?"

  Baruk’s yellow eyes brightened slightly, a subtle but noticeable shift. "I want to evolve my class," he admitted, a little excitement slipping into his voice. "I’ve heard of others doing it. A Camp Cook can become a Provisioner, and a Provisioner can become a Battlefield Chef. If I keep learning, one day I could even—" He stopped himself abruptly, ducking his head slightly as if embarrassed. "…I could even become a real chef."

  Despite himself, Klarion was intrigued. Not just by the orc’s ambitions, which he could appreciate. But by the other thing he mentioned: evolving a class.

  He had seen brief mentions of it in the primer he’d read, but he hadn’t had the chance to look into it in detail yet. The idea that Baruk was already thinking that far ahead—already planning the path to advancement—spoke volumes. This wasn’t just some orc who cooked because it was all he knew. This was someone with drive. Someone who wanted more. And Klarion respected that.

  Klarion smiled, putting Baruk at ease. "That sounds like a solid goal," he said, voice firm. “With that drive, I think you’ll get there."

  Baruk’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and for a brief moment, he looked completely caught off guard—like he hadn’t expected to hear that. But then, just as quickly, he masked the reaction, turning it into a slight bow.’

  Klarion turned to the Attendant. "Cost?"

  "Two Coins of Service."

  A good deal. Without hesitation, Klarion beckoned the attendant over and selected yes on the pop-up once more. Two more Coins of Service, gone.

  Transaction completed, the Attendant turned back to Baruk. "You may wait with the others that have been selected by Scion Blacksword.”

  The young orc stiffened at the name of Klarion’s House, then bowed deeply once more before turning on his heel and heading out into the hall. For all that he briefly had reacted in fear to learning about his new scion, his posture was still straight, still measured—and there was something lighter about his steps now.

  As the door closed behind him, Klarion exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.

  That was three positions filled. Housekeeper. Maids. Cook. His staff for Blacksword Manor was coming together.

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