The Sinful Young Master - Chapter 48

Chapter 48: Baron’s brother
Once the prisoners were secured, attention turned to the rescued workers. They have returned to the town where people stayed.

Baroness Cleora, moving with her characteristic grace, took charge of their care. She dispatched servants to bring food and water while organising teams of healers to tend to the injured.

The healers worked efficiently, their hands glowing with healing magic as they moved from patient to patient.

Mira and her mother were among the first to receive care.

The little girl had finally fallen asleep, exhausted by her ordeal, while healers tended to her wounds. Her mother held her hand throughout, tears streaming down her face as she watched colour slowly return to her daughter’s cheeks.

As the situation with the workers stabilised, Lady Maena organised the return to the baron’s manor.

Baron Rothgard stood at the top of the steps, pacing nervously. His fine clothes were dishevelled, suggesting he hadn’t slept all night. When he saw the approaching procession, his face went pale.

Cleora ascended the steps past him without a word, her burgundy dress somehow still immaculate despite the night’s events.

The contrast between husband and wife couldn’t have been more stark—he a bundle of nervous energy, she a picture of composed control.

Lady Maena dismounted at the foot of the steps, her armour caked with dried blood and mine dust. She looked up at the baron, her expression unreadable. The truth about his brother’s involvement still hung in the air like a drawn blade, waiting to fall.

Jolthar remained near the rear of the procession, still processing the night’s events.

The pieces were there—Oteys’s involvement, the Savage Creed’s presence, Cleora’s careful passivity, and somewhere in the background, the still-missing son. He searched for Oteys and found him standing behind the baron, still his gaze focused on Baroness.

Jolthar couldn’t understand what he was doing. Was he just stupid, or was he blinded by pure lust that he couldn’t see what was happening in front of him? From the first encounter with the bandits, then to the revelations in the mines, Jolthar felt like it was a plan that was done by a stupid man.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t have acted in such a way when the knights from Kaezhlar were involved.

Oteys looked like the kind of man who’d sell his own shadow for a penny. From the little he was here, Jolthar could tell that the entire time he noticed Oteys looking at Cleora, and Jolthar felt she had something to do with his whole fiasco.

The only time her expression changed was when she found out the people in the mines, and she wasn’t surprised to find that this was done by Oteys.

The rising sun cast long shadows across the manor’s courtyard, shadows that seemed to whisper of secrets yet to be revealed.

Baron was anxious as he asked, “What happened?”

Lady Maena showed the prisoners and said, “They claim that this was all your brother’s doing.”

Oteys, who was standing behind Baron, suddenly his expression cracked. Until now, he was confident that the men he hired wouldn’t slip a word to anyone. He believed them to do as he was such a naive man, being played by a woman.

And even now, he hadn’t realised that fact.

The great hall of the baron’s manor had become an arena of truth, where years of lies and manipulation were finally unravelling.

Baron Rothgard’s face drained of colour as he turned to face his younger brother.

Oteys stood near the massive fireplace, his usually placid features twisted into something darker.

The flickering flames cast dancing shadows across his face, making him appear almost demonic.

“Brother,” Baron Rothgard’s voice trembled with rage and disbelief. “Speak. Tell me this isn’t true.”

Oteys had always been the quieter brother, the one who stayed in the shadows of his sibling’s success. But now, as if a dam had broken, decades of resentment poured forth.

“Isn’t true?” Oteys spat, his carefully maintained facade of servility cracking. “What isn’t true, brother? How you’ve always looked down on me? How you’ve treated me like a servant rather than blood?” His voice rose with each accusation.

“Or perhaps how you stole another man’s wife and her fortune, using it to build your precious barony while I watched from the sidelines?”

The assembled knights and servants pressed themselves against the walls, trying to become invisible as the family drama unfolded.

Jolthar, still battle-worn from his encounter with the orc, watched intently as years of family secrets spilled into the open.

“You know nothing of-” the baron began, but Oteys cut him off with a harsh laugh.

“Nothing? I know everything, brother! I know about the mines, about how you’ve enslaved your own people, working them to death for a few more coins in your coffers.” His eyes gleamed with a fanatic light.

“The precious vault where you hoard your blood money – did you think I wouldn’t find out? That’s why I hired the men. To take it all, to finally claim what should have been shared between us!”

For a moment, Rothgard stared at his brother in silence. Years of familial love, care, and attention—it all seemed nothing—in this moment.

The baron’s response was explosive.

With a roar of rage, he launched himself at his brother. His fine silk doublet tore as he grabbed Oteys by the throat, slamming him against the stone wall. The younger brother’s head cracked against the stone, but he continued to laugh—a horrible, broken sound.

“You ungrateful wretch!” Baron Rothgard shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “I fed you, clothed you, gave you a place in my household!”

The fight that followed was ugly, lacking the elegance of trained warriors. It was the brawl of brothers, fuelled by decades of resentment and betrayal. Fists flew, blood spattered on the expensive carpets, and neither man noticed the calculating look in Baroness Cleora’s eyes as she watched.

Jolthar, who was so invested in her reactions at this point, watched her.

Finally, the baron stood victorious over his beaten brother.

But his triumph was short-lived as a new realization dawned on his face. He turned slowly to face his wife, his eyes narrowing.

“You,” he whispered, then louder, “YOU! You’re the one who corrupted his mind!” He advanced on Cleora, his hands clenched into fists. “I saw you with him, whispering in corners, feeding him poison about me. I know you did this!”

“What are you talking about?” She asked, shocked at his accusation.

“I knew you did something to him; you are a conniving bitch.”

That’s when their daughter stepped in; she stood between them and said, “Father, haven’t you done enough?”

The sound of Baron’s hand striking Cleora echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap.

She stumbled backwards, her hand pressed against her reddening cheek, but her eyes remained defiant. The young girl—her daughter—cried out and tried to run to her mother, but Baron roughly shoved her aside.

Jolthar went and helped her regain her balance, and that’s when he felt it—the unmistakable aura the goddess had described. It radiated from her like moonlight through water, subtle but unmistakable to those who knew what to look for. Her features were a younger echo of Cleora’s, but there was something else there—something behind her eyes that spoke of a soul far older than her teenage years would suggest. When he first saw her, he didn’t have time to notice as he was busy with his own thoughts.

“Another one,” he thought, recognising in her the same mark of reincarnation he carried within himself. The goddess had been right—he wasn’t the only one.

Baron’s voice cut through his thoughts, harsh and cruel as he towered over Cleora. “You witch! You corrupted my brother’s mind with your common blood!” His hand raised for another strike.

Jolthar’s eyes flickered to Maena, who stood watching the scene unfold with the stillness of a statue. Her face betrayed nothing, but her silence spoke volumes.

She was waiting, testing, and observing how events would unfold.

“Baron,” Jolthar’s voice carried the weight of steel, “you have done enough. Or have you forgotten you stand in the presence of Lady Maena?”

Baron turned, his face flushed with rage and drink. Spittle flew from his lips as he shouted, “This is family matter! You have no right—”

“Perhaps it was,” Jolthar cut him off, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. “But you made it the clan’s concern the moment you called us here. Shall we discuss the children in your mines? The ones working day and night, their small hands perfect for reaching into narrow seams? Or perhaps we should talk about your illegal trading?”

“I am a noble of the empire!” Baron drew himself up, puffing out his chest. “You can’t touch me. One word from me and you will be disappeared from the face of earth.”

Maena was still silent; Jolthar watched her, trying to gauge what she was thinking. What Baron said was the truth; he was not some man who achieved holding the rank of baron my merits; his family has deep connections within the empire, and it was the reason Cleora selected him in the first place.

Jolthar watched the girl; she hurt when she was pushed aside, crouched beside her mother, whose face reddened by the slap.

This man, human filth, made those little children to work, and now he was not even showing remorse for his actions, instead flaunting his power and connection.

Maena was still not opening her mouth.

Baron then said, “You have done enough; now just get out of my barony.”