Tyrant? No, I am the Villain
Chapter 33: Manipulation or Affection?

Chapter 33: Manipulation or Affection?

Galliard stood with his arms tucked neatly behind his back, eyes occasionally flickering toward the Palace gates. He pondered the identity of the guest his lord was expecting, the so-called informant Frejlurd mentioned to his lord.

The day had begun like any other. Servants moved like clockwork, sweeping marble floors, dusting antique artifacts and trimming the hedges outside. It was routine, but tension hung faintly in the air, like morning mist.

"My lord." Galliard asked as he approached Estefan, who sat lazily on a velvet couch in the large hall, a cup of coffee in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other. "When shall we expect the guest?"

Estefan didn’t glance up from the newspaper. "Soon." He muttered, turning a page. "Frejlurd said they’d arrive sometime this morning. I’d rather not look disheveled in front of someone bearing valuable secrets."

He took a small sip of tea, his brows twitching. "Bitter." He whispered, but took another sip regardless after placing the newspaper down beside him as he saw news related to his stepbrother and his son as the newspaper hailed him to be the heir.

Then he just placed the cup down on the teapoy beside him, and he spoke again. "I forgot to ask something... You mentioned the servants’ residential zone was designed for entire families, correct?"

"Yes, my lord." Galliard answered quickly.

"Then why haven’t I seen a single family member around?" He asked. "I visited the area yesterday. Entire blocks of rooms, all quiet... Almost too quiet."

Galliard straightened. "Most of the servants live in the city, your grace. Before your arrival, they had no reason to remain here. Once we got orders that you would be the Baron of Rammstein, they returned to resume their posts."

"So." Estefan said with a faint smirk, "You all abandoned your quarters to live like civilians, coming and going to the Palace like you please."

"You are correct, my lord." Galliard answered without shame. "There was little purpose in maintaining the Palace when it stood without a master but we still made sure that the Palace remained clean."

Estefan leaned further into the couch. "Do you have a family, Galliard?"

The question hung in the air longer than expected. "I am an orphan." Galliard replied finally. "No parents. But I do own a house within the city walls. It’s modest, but sufficient."

Estefan gave a slow nod. "I suppose... in that sense, we are alike. I, too, consider myself an orphan."

His tone was too casual to be dismissive. He was attempting to laugh off the pain but the truth sat beneath the words like rust on a blade. "My father wears the title of Duke, yet he acts as if I were a stranger on his doorstep." It was the sort of confession that didn’t seek sympathy but only understanding.

He went quiet after that, briefly staring at nothing, his thoughts somewhere beyond the marble pillars and golden walls. A noble with no father or A ruler with no support.

His mind wandered as he thought power without backing is called rebellion but power with title is called justice.

He understood that his strength whether it be physical, magical, or mental but that was not enough. The world didn’t fear blades; it feared banners. To act without a title was to be a demon. But with a title... even cruelty could be painted as wisdom.

He would kill his enemies but not like a criminal. He would wear a crown while doing it and none would weep for the fallen. Their deaths would be righteous in the eyes of everyone since his words would have more value since he has a title to represent it in front of the society.

"Life is strange, isn’t it?" Estefan finally said, breaking his silence. "I’ve suffered greatly. But my noble blood still lets me walk with dignity, unlike you. If you or any other commoner tried to do what I plan to do, you’d be hunted and killed before your sword even left its sheath."

"Lucky indeed." He added with a faint scoff.

Then, suddenly standing, he turned to Galliard. "Where’s Ericka? Tell her to bring me some cookies. I’ll be on the lawn."

Without waiting for a reply, he walked briskly down the corridor and disappeared beyond the doors leading to the Palace gardens.

In the kitchen, Ericka had just finished wiping down a set of copper pots when Galliard entered. "The lord has requested cookies." He said curtly. "He’s on the lawn."

"Yes, understood." She replied, quickly collecting a porcelain tray and arranging several neatly stacked, sugar-dusted cookies atop it.

She exited through the side hallway and followed the gentle slope toward the expansive lawn. There, she spotted Estefan, seated cross-legged on the grass with the morning sun warming his shoulders. The wind played with his tousled brown hair and he appeared almost... peaceful.

"My lord." Ericka called gently as she neared.

He didn’t turn to face her. "Are you from here?" he asked.

The question caught her slightly off guard.

"From here?" she echoed.

"Rammstein." Estefan clarified, still staring forward at the stretch of green before him.

"Yes, my lord. I was born here. Lived here all my life." She answered gracefully and respectfully.

He nodded slowly. "And where do you live outside the Palace?"

She hesitated, unsure if honesty would ruin whatever favor she had earned. Still, she chose to speak. "In a brothel, my lord... I was born and raised there."

Estefan finally turned toward her. His expression didn’t twist in disgust. Instead, he smiled as if it was a faint, almost invisible smile. "I appreciate your honesty." As he stood up.

Then, unexpectedly, he stepped closer and gently placed a hand over her hair, letting it rest there for a second. "Keep being honest with me."

She froze, flustered. His gesture was brief, yet far more intimate than any other men she had ever seen approaching her since everyone she met had craved her for her physical appearance.

And just as quickly, he turned and walked back toward the Palace. "Wait, my lord! You haven’t tried the cookies yet!" She called, rushing after him, the tray in her hands nearly tipping.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Those weren’t for me." It was then she noticed the distant rumble of wheels on gravel. A carriage was arriving, rolling through the gates. It was still far away, but its timing was perfect.

Estefan kept walking without stopping towards the Palace.

Ericka stood frozen, heart pounding as she wondered if that was affection? Or manipulation? Since she was supposed to manipulate Estefan, not the other way around.

She glanced at the untouched cookies, then at the carriage.

[To be Continued]