Chapter 31 – A Tutor's Worth
Geriko Arwen's Mistake
A pair of songbirds flitted past the open window, their delicate chirps weaving into the low murmur of industrious labor echoing throughout the estate. The scent of fresh timber and polished stone wafted on the breeze. Kitsaro leaned forward on the balcony rail of the second-floor corridor, golden eyes narrowing as he observed the transformation blooming beneath him.
Once a hollow, half-forgotten property, the Veyra estate now teemed with life.
Laborers moved like ants, erecting outer walls of granite and steelwood beams under the sharp instruction of construction overseers. Carpenters sanded down the skeleton of a new greenhouse near the eastern gardens, while weavers and decorators filed in and out of the estate's interior, carrying bolts of silk, rolls of carpeting, and boxes of porcelain tableware marked with merchant guild seals.
Everywhere he looked, progress unfurled like a living thing—swift, precise, and well-funded.
Kitsaro's gaze trailed toward the driveway where newly arrived merchant caravans were being unloaded. Among them was a silver carriage trimmed in duskgold, finer than anything he'd seen before. Probably one of the high-ranked merchant guilds. A badge of Sylvara's growing influence.
He blinked slowly. So fast.
It wasn't just the estate's transformation that left him thoughtful—it was how effortlessly Sylvara wielded her wealth and connections, how even nobles of middling rank now bowed their heads when speaking her name in public. In less than a month, she'd accomplished what many lesser nobles failed to do in years.
Kitsaro's ears twitched faintly, his sharpened senses catching the quiet hum of mana sigils being carved into the walls below. Reinforcement runes for estate security, he realized. Not just wealth, but foresight. This wasn't simply a home. Sylvara was preparing it as a fortress—an independent foundation that could one day rival House Vaelthyr itself.
His lips curved slightly.
"Enjoying the view, young master?" a quiet voice came from behind.
Kitsaro turned to see Galen Everard standing several paces away, his dark uniform spotless, a hand resting over his heart in greeting.
"I was," Kitsaro replied, shifting slightly. "It's strange. Every time I step outside, something else has changed."
Galen approached and stood beside him, following the boy's gaze toward the busy courtyard. "That's the pace Lady Sylvara prefers. Swift, decisive, and without waste. Veyra will rise, even without the Vaelthyr name to shield it."
"She's not doing this for herself," the five year old Kitsaro murmured, more to himself than to Galen. "She wants… the world to see we weren't discarded."
"No," Galen said, his tone soft yet firm. "She's making certain the world regrets ever thinking you were."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind carried the soft clinks of hammers, the hiss of enchanted saws cutting through wood, and the rustle of cloth banners being strung along the walkways.
"But wealth alone isn't enough," Kitsaro said at last, folding his arms. "We still don't have official noble status. As compared to other houses."
Galen's smile was barely perceptible. "Really extraordinary young master, specially for your age. A fair assessment indeed. Which is why Lady Sylvara's efforts extend far beyond renovations. You'll see. The carriages, the tutors, the recruitment… All pieces of a longer game."
Kitsaro tilted his head. "And what's my role in that game?"
"You're the cornerstone, young master. Her heir—and more than that, her message." Galen looked down at him, his eyes grave. "What you become will define how House Veyra is remembered."
~~~~~~~~~
The midday sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of the Veyra estate, casting golden beams across polished obsidian floors and silk drapery embroidered with stormcloud motifs. There was a hum of quiet tension in the air, a mixture of incense and expectation. Several carriages stood at the estate gates, each bearing the seal of a respected academy, guild, or private institution. Inside, in a richly adorned study, Sylvara Veyra sat with a cold elegance, awaiting the tutors summoned to assess her son.
Her fingers rested lightly on a porcelain teacup. Behind her, Galen Everard stood like a shadow made flesh, composed and alert. Cassian leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes flicking toward the door with mild disinterest—until the first knock echoed through the room.
One by one, the tutors were escorted in by footmen and announced.
First came Liora Venthar, a tall woman with sharp cheekbones and an even sharper gaze. Her black hair was pulled into a braided crown, and her eyes flicked across the room with practiced calculation. She bowed low before Sylvara, her voice smooth.
"Lady Veyra. I understand I am to advise a child in political maneuvering and noble strategy?" she asked, her tone unreadable. "May I inquire about the student's current exposure?"
"He is one," Sylvara replied calmly.
Liora raised a brow but did not falter. "Then we begin with legacy shaping, not rhetoric. I will observe him tomorrow."
Sylvara inclined her head. "That would be acceptable."
Next entered *Professor Jaerin Thorne, draped in worn scholar's robes. He smelled faintly of old books and sea salt, his eyes lit by a quiet obsession. "Ah, a child so young—fascinating. It is in early childhood where divine affinity often first whispers."
He gave a soft chuckle, placing a satchel of scrolls on the table. "I look forward to testing his resonance. With permission, of course."
"Granted," Sylvara said.
Master Halrek Senn followed—a beastkin male built like a fortress. Scars traced his exposed forearms. He gave a crisp nod to Sylvara.
"Five year old?" His gravelly voice didn't hide his surprise. "Then I'll design drills for movement development and balance. No point in theory until the body understands instinct."
Sylvara offered the barest smile. "Instinct is something we value here."
After Halrek came Ellis Nyre, dressed in crisp, silver-trimmed attire, posture so perfect it felt painful. her mouth was thin, Her demeanor severe.
"I assume you intend for the child to be raised with nobility in every breath," she said. "Decorum begins early. I will not tolerate behavioral negligence. Are there existing habits to correct?"
"He has yet to develop any," Sylvara said coolly. "You may shape them from the beginning."
Ellis nodded once, approving.
Then the final tutor entered.
He did not knock. The double doors creaked open as if the room itself recoiled.
Geriko Arwen, clad in voluminous crimson robes with golden embroidery, swept in with the pomp of someone who believed the floor itself should thank him for being stepped on. His boots clicked sharply on the obsidian tiles. His gaze roved over the study—the lacquered bookshelves, the storm-veined desk, the tea service—and stopped on Sylvara.
He didn't bow.
"Lady Veyra," he said flatly, his tone soaked in contempt. "I was told I would be instructing the scion of a noble bloodline. Yet here I find… no title, no herald. Not even a husband."
Sylvara didn't flinch. She set her cup down slowly, precisely, her eyes calm. "There is no husband. He died."
Geriko's lip curled. "And no title either. Curious. A widow without station—no wonder this estate reeks of desperation."
Cassian shifted at the wall, eyes flashing. Galen did not move, but the air near him tensed, a breath before the storm.
Still, Sylvara smiled. Thin. Unamused.
"Curious," she echoed. "That a man whose name I had to have repeated twice believes himself in a position to evaluate nobility."
Geriko arched a brow. "I am a senior instructor of the Beastian Royal Academy. My pupils have gone on to serve princes and warlords. I was summoned under the pretense of merit. I assumed I would be training someone worthy."
He glanced around at the other tutors—some raised brows, some lowered their gazes.
"And now," he continued, turning back to Sylvara, "you ask me to waste my time on a toddler? A one-year-old whelp born of no husband, no house, and no legacy worth the ink it would take to record it."
"Ah," Sylvara said quietly, "so you are not only prideful. You are uninformed."
He sneered. "Enlighten me, then."
She stood slowly.
The change was immediate. Subtle at first—the tilt of her chin, the silence between words growing long enough to feel like a blade hanging over one's head.
"My son," she said with chilling calm, "is of Veyra blood. Born of divine ancestry, from a line that is far more ancient than your measly bloodline. He bears the mark of the Devine beast feared in ancient times—not that your provincial institution would understand nor know its value."
Veldric waved a dismissive hand. "A fairy tale. Every noble house claims godblood. Most are just diluted superstition passed through pride and bedchambers."
That was the moment.
Galen stirred—just a step, just a whisper of movement—and the room tightened. The light dimmed, the air dropped ten degrees.
Veldric flinched, eyes darting to the towering butler, then back to Sylvara.
But Sylvara raised one hand—not to restrain Galen, but to invite Veldric forward.
"Come closer, then," she said. "Take a better look at the house you mock. Say your next words clearly. I want the others to hear the last lie you ever speak in arrogance."
Geriko hesitated.
And then he laughed.
A cruel, scraping sound. "So this is what nobility has become. Grieving women dressing up broken estates in silk and expecting the world to kneel."
And Sylvara moved.
Not a step. Not a gesture.
She simply unleashed.
Her Monarch Rank aura crashed over the room like a golden storm, a silent avalanche of pressure and presence. The ornate windows groaned. A vase cracked on a distant shelf. Every tutor in the room stiffened. Professor Thorne nearly dropped his satchel. Even Halrek, beastkin and seasoned warrior, stepped back. All of them felt the pressence. The pressure of an individual far more powerful than what they've felt from high ranked individuals.
Geriko dropped to his knees with a gasp, the strength in his legs abandoning him. His mouth opened—no words came.
Sylvara's voice was velvet soaked in frost.
"You walk into my home and insult the name of my son. You mock his bloodline. You call this house broken—when all I see broken is the man before me."
She stepped forward.
"One more word," she whispered, "and I will burn your name from every record I can reach. I will ensure the Royal Academy remembers that Geriko Arwen soiled his reputation not in failure—but in fear."
Geriko trembled.
"I-I meant no offense…"
"You meant every word," she said. "Which is why you will not speak again."
She turned her gaze.
"Galen."
"Yes, Lady Veyra."
Galen moved with silent efficiency. His hand landed on Geriko's shoulder like the judgment of the deep. Geriko flinched—but offered no protest as he was escorted out. The heavy doors closed behind them with finality.
Silence reigned.
Sylvara turned back to the tutors.
Her aura receded, but not fully. Just enough to breathe.
She picked up her tea again. "Shall we continue?"
No one spoke for several seconds.
None of the tutors spoke. One by one, they bowed low.
The scent of arrogance had been scrubbed from the room. Even Ellis Nyre's spine seemed to stiffen more out of reverence than pride. Liora offered a subtle smile, while Master Halrek gave an approving grunt.
Professor Thorne cleared his throat. "Lady Veyra… I had underestimated the standing of this household. It is now abundantly clear. It would be my honor to observe the young lord."
Liora Venthar followed. "My assessment remains unchanged. But I now see that House Veyra is not to be dismissed so lightly."
Each agreed in turn, eager not to follow in Geriko's wake.
Sylvara's expression softened faintly, the storm retreating behind composed eyes.
"You may begin your assessments tomorrow. Prepare accordingly. He is a Five year old—but he is of my blood. I expect excellence."
The tutors bowed deeply before taking their leave.
Behind her, Galen stepped forward, his voice a low rumble. "He was warned."
Sylvara gave a faint hum of agreement, eyes fixed on the fading sun beyond the windows.
"Let the world learn," she murmured. "House Veyra is not to be trifled with."