...Then, to his surprise, a sigh echoed below.
"It's the useless prince again," one of the guards muttered.
Oliver's eyes widened slightly.
Another guard chuckled. "Figures. He's probably just sneaking around to find a place to sleep. Let him be."
Oliver nearly laughed. His old habits had unwittingly saved him. These guards were so used to his antics that they dismissed his presence entirely.
Shaking his head, Oliver continued crawling forward.
Let them think he was useless. As long as it worked for his good, he did not care.
The vent's metal grating let out a faint creak as Oliver slowly pushed it open. A rush of cooler air met him, carrying the scent of parchment, aged leather, and the faint lingering musk of his father's cologne.
He lowered himself carefully, his bare feet landing soundlessly onto the thick, woven carpet. The soft texture beneath him was such a stark contrast to the cold, hard floors he had grown accustomed to in his past life that he had to pause for a second.
A pang of nostalgia struck him as he took in the room.
To the him that had been reborn, it had been years since he had last stepped foot here, back when he was small enough to run to his father and eagerly sit on his lap. Back then, his father had been a towering, awe-inspiring figure. Like any child seeking parental affection, he was someone Oliver desperately wanted to be close to. But that feeling had been shattered the day his father had sent him away with nothing more than a dismissive wave, never once looking up from the documents in his hands.
Oliver exhaled slowly, shaking his head. That was a long time ago.
The study was grand, befitting a ruler of his father's stature. A massive ebony desk sat near the far wall, covered in neatly arranged scrolls and royal decrees. To one side, an elaborate bookshelf stretched to the ceiling, filled with rare tomes and historical texts, their spines adorned with gold lettering. A single chair with deep crimson cushions rested behind the desk, draped with a velvet cloak embroidered with the family crest in silver thread. On another wall, a rack displayed ceremonial weapons—ornate but sharp enough to be deadly. And near the farthest corner, a bed was positioned in such a way that it had full view of the entire study, a testament to a man who never truly let his guard down.
Oliver wasted no time and began his search.
Drawers were pulled open and shut, stacks of parchment sifted through, the bed checked for hidden compartments. But no matter how much he searched, the Alchemist's Seal was nowhere to be found.
___
Meanwhile back at the banquet, Sir Fen Bolton had led Velma to his private table.
Although tagged as just being a table, it might as well have been an open booth as a result of its location, adjacent to a pillar and closed off on one side by a wall.
To say he had not been looking for an excuse all night to bring her here would be a lie.
Bolton looked her up and down. There was something stubbornly about Velma that pulled him in.
If anything, his infiltration of this royal family had gifted him a possible play thing.
He had held back for a long time. But tonight was the night.
A part of him coukd not wait any more, and he wanted to feel her slightly more.
But Velma had maneuvered him, sitting with her half brothers and sisters instead.
But the issue with Oliver gave Bolton the opportunity he was looking for.
As they arrived, they were young noble ladies that passed by, giving Bolton courteous looks. One or two even came up to him, finding one excuse or the other, in an attempt to strike conversation and flirt.
But he quickly dismissed them. Noble circles were always more than met the eyes, and even though Sir Fen Bolton was an eligible bachelor, they were more this night than usual.
Something even Velma took note of.
Like the gentleman that he was, Bolton helped her into the seat. It was a long, curved chair, meaning that Bolton woukd sit close to her.
Velma was not very comfortable with this, but she could not refuse him. After all, the plan was still to wed him. He did have power in the royal court.
But as Bolton entered into the seat, he intensionally pushed in deep, ensuring that he was almost slamming into Velma.
Their were so close that only the fabric of Velma's long velvet gown, and Bolton's tunic separated their skin from meeting.
Uncomfortable—very uncomfortable for Velma.
She tried to adjust a bit, but then Bolton's hand had gone to cup her waist, fixing her in place.
To those that managed to catch sight of them, it looked differently — at least translated differently. Many of the noble women spoke in low tone.
"Look at the commoner child throw herself at him."
"Yes, she is practically trying to pull him to her bed. Hmphmm, what a lack of shame."
"It's just like her low bloodline mother threw herself at the Crowned Prince. Like Mother, like daughter."
Velma could not exactly hear what they said, but this was not her first rodeo. Vile, was the noble circle. She was long used to it.
But to the man trying to initiate skin contact by her side, it was an entirely different matter.
"Are you still worried about your brother? He is a young man you know? Babying him would only do him more harm than good in the future."
"I am aware of that." She replied with a sigh, "but Oli–Oliver is... he is different."
"You are talking of his lack of an Awakened Blood–"
"Yet to AWAKEN," she instantly corrected him.
"Of course," he nodded. "And that's why I am here..." He drew even closer, placing a hand on her thigh, hidden by the dropping table cloth from the eyes of others. The sitting angle, added this invasion even more.
Velma unlike most women trained hard. Her thighs were toned fine. Fine enough for him to feel them underneath the fabric of her clothes.
Velma's eyes alternated between the table fork, and glass of wine.
"...I'm here, to take care of him with you. At least until he awakens one. You don't want your brother to suffer the life of a commoner, now do you?"
She shook her head. "But you know that I can't do it without you." His voice had become mellow, understanding, but had an underlying venom to it, as his fingers attempted a glid up her skirt. "Of course, it has to be with your... cooperation."
–Her hand moved. And the wine glass tumbled.
Clang.
"Oh, my God I'm so sorry."
It's content poured on the table some of it on Bolton's tunic.
"How careless of me. That shouldn't have happened. Let me help you get a cloth to clean that."
The snap out of the moment surprised Bolton.
But before he could say anything, Velma had found away to squeeze herself out claiming she was helping him clean up, and then like the wind, she was out of sight–dodging out the banquet as fast as she could.
It was not much of a commotion, but it was Sir Fen Bolton. Naturally this drew attention.
"First the younger one cries at such an occasion, and now the other one causes chaos. These commoners always looking to drag attention to themselves." One noble woman whispered to the other, and many of them nodded in agreement.
Velma could not be bothered with them. She grew up too right to let a man take advantage of her like that.
"He is just like all the others!" She muttered to herself as she stumped away.
Only now she she realized that Oliver was not back to the banquet.
She suddenly became worried and headed out to look for him.
Some ladies came to help Bolton out as he wiped himself. "Dare I say, Sir Bolton. You should really be careful with the brutish wild ones."
Bolton simply gave a hunter's smile. "But they are usually the best..." he stood and left their company.
–––
Oliver on the other hand, was very busy.
With each passing minute, his frustration grew.
He finally paused, closing his eyes in thought. If I were the crown prince, proud as I act, where would I hide something so valuable?
A smirk twitched at his lips as he straightened his posture, putting on a mock air of superiority.
"Hmph! I, the mighty and wise crown prince Richie Von Rich, would never store such a treasure in plain sight," he said, mimicking an exaggerated version of his father's voice. "No, only a fool would think such a thing!"
He rolled his eyes at himself and kept searching, muttering his thoughts aloud as he overturned chairs and examined the corners of bookshelves.
Time ticked away, and soon, an entire hour had passed.
The mimicking joke earlier was to ease his heart. But time, on a tango with the knowledge he had from a certain future mocked him a better punchline.
Oliver's fingers trembled slightly as he clenched them into fists. The air in the room felt heavier now, pressing down on him like the weight of his past life. He couldn't fail. He couldn't go back to that life again.
He couldn't.
A cold shiver ran down his spine at the mere thought. The chains. The hunger. The helplessness. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memories back, but they clawed at the edges of his mind like a beast waiting to pounce. His breath came quicker, shallow and uneven.
I can't do it again.
For a moment, he just stood there, gripping his arms, trying to steady himself. Then, finally, he let out a slow, shuddering breath and lay down on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling in exhaustion.
Above him, golden light from a chandelier flickered over a grand mural depicting King Solomon at the height of his reign. The legendary king stood with his staff raised high, commanding a legion of demons and mystical spirits against a dark host of fiends. His presence alone seemed to bend the forces of the supernatural to his will, an undeniable force of power and wisdom.
Even orphaned children in the slums had heard this story. The greatest man who had ever lived.
Even though it was thousands of years ago, that legend was still fresh through the generations.
Oliver stared at the painting, lost in thought. His mind drifted, the familiar tale intertwining with his own struggle. 'Solomon had once faced an empire of demons and conquered them. And here I am, trying to steal from my father just to survive.'
He exhaled sharply, pushing himself upright. He didn't have time to reminisce. If he couldn't find it here, then he needed to try elsewhere. The mansion was massive, but searching blind was better than sitting here doing nothing.
At least, he could still guess a few places here and there that he could check.
There was still the treasury protected by that old man and his greedy daughter. Worse case scenario, he would have to call in his elder sister for a favour.
Regardless, he had to move fast.
There was barely two hours before
With renewed determination, Oliver climbed back into the vent, making his way towards the corridor. He carefully pried the grate open and lowered himself down—only for a hand to seize his hair and yank him upward with brute force.
Pain exploded across his scalp as he was lifted off the ground, his feet kicking uselessly in the air.
"Got you, demon snort!"
Through the haze of pain, Oliver's eyes snapped up to see his stepbrother Leston's smug face twisted in satisfaction.
Before he could react, a fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. His body instinctively curled inward from the impact as pain erupted through his ribs. His vision wavered, but one thing was clear.
He had been...