Silencing the Whispers

Ludenberg Lavante strode toward the maids, who had been spouting nonsense about him being cursed. As the distance between them shrank, the maids fell silent in stunned horror.

"What's wrong? You were having such an entertaining chat just moments ago."

Their faces drained of color by the second, turning ashen blue. In that instant, they regretted their carelessness. But it was far too late. They had been quite a distance away and never imagined their young master could overhear them—a fatal mistake.

"So, I'm that frightening, am I? What a pity." His tone might have passed for a jest to casual ears, but Ludenberg's expression was etched in stone-cold severity. The maids' already pale faces went ghostly white at his offhand remark.

"Since when did the servants of a noble house gain the right to gossip about their betters?"

"Forgive us! Please, mercy!"

Trembling in terror, the maids bowed their heads low. Ludenberg regarded them impassively and pressed on with icy resolve.

"That's not happening. I'm your employer, after all. What employer lets loose-lipped fools run their mouths unchecked?"

"We swear, never again. Please..."

"How can I trust you?"

"......"

The maids were speechless. For a mere boy of twelve, Ludenberg's presence and pressure were overwhelming, threatening to buckle their knees.

In the tense air, thick as thin ice, Ludenberg spoke.

"Get out."

They squeezed their eyes shut against their fate and obeyed. One more word, and they feared their heads might roll.

Dismissing the maids, Ludenberg sought out the head maid at once. He recounted the incident in detail, fixing her with a chilling gaze.

"My apologies. This is my failure."

"You won't claim ignorance, will you? Then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠explain—why let them run wild? Isn't culling such vermin the head maid's duty?"

Under his stare, she bowed deeply. Ludenberg gave a cold smile.

In that moment, she felt an inexplicable tension coil around her, like a blade hovering at her throat.

"My apologies. I didn't want to trouble you unnecessarily..."

"Unnecessary? The very existence of such talk is an insult to the house. As head maid, how can you feign ignorance?"

Desperate, she pleaded with Ludenberg. "I've warned them repeatedly, but the rumors spread beyond my control. No matter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠how harshly I punished them..."

"You weren't badmouthing me behind my back too, were you?"

"How could I?!"

Her genuine outrage only irked him further.

"Head maid, even a child like me knows the value of trust. Yet you've failed in your duties. That means you've lost my trust ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as the young duke. So how can I believe in you?"

"......You can't."

Her lips trembled as she forced the words out.

"Exactly. You understand. So you know what to do next. Of course, I lack the authority to strip your title—that's Father's prerogative. But surely you know I can sway his decision somewhat?"

"......Yes."

"This is your last chance. If I hear such drivel again..."

"It won't happen again."

"Good. If you've done your utmost and the maids still defy you, report to me."

"Understood. My deepest apologies once more, young master."

"Fine."

Ludenberg departed with a satisfied expression. But the head maid remained frozen even after he left. Having served under Duke Leonard Lavante, she had seen countless knights and grown accustomed to their auras. Yet this twelve-year-old had paralyzed her completely.

At the same time, she recalled who Ludenberg Lavante truly was: a genius who could silence even the prodigious Duke Leonard himself.

From that day, the head maid clamped down ruthlessly on her subordinates. Any maid caught spreading odd rumors was personally expelled by her hand. The male servants fared no better. The butler oversaw them and, having received a stern warning from the head maid, redoubled efforts to avoid offending Ludenberg.

Their tireless vigilance paid off over time. Within the ducal household, no one dared badmouth Ludenberg anymore. He rewarded those servants who served without flinching or slacking—useful tools in his eyes. Yet he gave them no warmth or affection. To Ludenberg, underlings were merely that: tools to wield or discard.

With the household stabilized, Ludenberg threw himself into training with renewed fervor. To shatter the world's conviction that one needed divine power to become a knight.

He refused to surrender. No lamenting his lack of power, no despair—only relentless self-forging. He yearned to be a knight and chased his dream unyieldingly. To preempt any future claims of inadequacy from the family, he honed not just his body but his talents across every domain.

Ludenberg's growth was phenomenal. His innate genius, fueled by a mad resolve to crush contempt and prejudice, propelled him ever higher. As years passed, the madness, drive, and distrust festering within him only deepened.

Thus, five years slipped by.

A dark night. In the training grounds, Ludenberg heaved for breath. The daily ritual. He swung his sword, thrust his spear. No divine power infused his weapons; he simply repeated the motions with mechanical calm, as if compelled by duty.

Five years, now. Time enough for a child to mature into a youth on the cusp of manhood. Ludenberg had transformed astonishingly: towering height, chiseled physique. But the innocent confidence of his childhood—that unshakeable belief he could conquer anything—had vanished. In its place: mania for greater strength, distrust, and cold ruthlessness etched on his face.

He left the grounds for his room. Spartan to the point of shock: desk, bookshelf, bed, wardrobe. Nothing more. No ornaments one might expect. One could scarcely believe this was the chamber of Lavante Duchy’s young duke, heir to the empire's mightiest house.

He tossed his clothes aside and washed in the adjoining bath. The water, drawn by a maid, had cooled slightly; he paid it no mind. Clean, he donned fresh attire laid neatly on his bed and sat at the desk. Time for Father's daily assignments, as always.

But as he settled, something caught his eye. Amid the discarded tasks peeked an imperial-sealed letter, slightly crumpled.

Ludenberg examined it. The sender's name was as expected.

Ashytara Solenute.

A letter from the closest friend he'd severed ties with of his own volition, five years prior. Of course, he'd never replied—not once. He'd read them out of bare courtesy.

Thinking her persistent, he fetched a letter knife and slit the seal. Unfolding it with a rustle revealed Ashytara's elegant script.

Finishing the letter, Ludenberg frowned at "most precious friend," picturing Ashytara. Save their first meeting, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she always greeted him with a bright smile. Training partners, sharing dreams. From age eight onward, his memories were filled with her—leaving him with a pang of complicated emotion.

Five years apart, yet she hadn't forgotten him, inquiring after his well-being.

But...

Ludenberg couldn't bring himself to reply. Distrust of others had already rooted deep in his heart. What if even her kindness was a ploy? A political maneuver to prevent rift between the imperial family and Lavante?

Far-fetched, perhaps. Yet he couldn't dismiss the possibility.

Besides, the Ashytara of now might not be the one he knew five years ago. Everyone changes with time. He couldn't gauge her new self, nor trust it.

Because he himself had changed utterly in those five years.

Five years ago, Ludenberg trusted easily, approaching everyone with a naive smile. Now, he believed humans would betray anyone for their own convenience.

Five years sufficed to upend his fundamental view of humanity. Trust had long morphed into distrust within him.

Thus, even his dearest friend, Ashytara, lay beyond belief.

Of course, Ludenberg knew it wasn't her fault. It was all his own doing—the man he'd become.