[AFYC] Chapter 5

The Marquis’ lips curled into a wry smile as he quietly listened to the secretary’s trembling words. His gaze shifted from the grovelling man to the uninvited guest seated comfortably before him. With deliberate clarity, he spoke, his voice carrying an unsettling calmness.

“Interesting. Very well, you may leave,” he said, dismissing the secretary with a flick of his fingers. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” the secretary stammered, bowing respectfully before retreating from the room, leaving only three people behind: the Duke, the courtesan, and the one who held their fates in his hands—Oscar von Reinhardt. 

Oscar sat languidly; his tall frame draped in the shadows that filled the room. The cigarette perched between his long, straight fingers continued to smoulder, the ember burning bright against the dim light. Occasionally, the smoke that drifted from his lips would momentarily obscure his features, but nothing could dull the intensity of his strikingly blue eyes. They remained sharp, vivid, and disturbingly focused. 

Oscar was a man whose lineage spoke of greatness. His father, a revered general of Luxen, was immortalised in stone before the royal palace, his statue standing tall even two decades after his death. His mother, known throughout East Norfolk for her breathtaking beauty, was a figure of legend in her own right. Yet, despite these illustrious origins, there was something in Oscar’s presence that evoked a sense of dread, as if he were not a man born into the light of a resplendent castle but rather one forged in the dark, unyielding depths of a mine. 

He was known as the “Wolf of Luxen,” a title that carried a weight of fear and respect. His reputation had grown so formidable that even the King of Felphe hesitated to cross him. The territory under Oscar’s control was vast, more expansive than the entirety of Felphe’s city-state. Even among the nobles of Luxen, few had the privilege of catching a glimpse of his handsome yet forbidding face, as his time was far too precious to be wasted on mere formalities. 

When Oscar had sought out the Duke of Felphe, the latter’s spirits had soared to new heights. To be in the favour of such a man, one whom even kings approached with caution, was a boon beyond measure. The Duke had revealed his newfound status due to Oscar’s assistance. It was Oscar who had manoeuvred him into the presidency of the Felphe Bank and secured his entry into the Norfolk Royal Union Assembly. These achievements had elevated the Duke’s standing, making him a figure to be reckoned with among Felphe’s nobility. He seemed to be on the brink of possessing everything he had ever desired. 

Yes, it had seemed that way until Oscar’s smile became unsettlingly cold. 

“Lord Reinhardt, what is the meaning of this disrespect?” The Duke’s voice carried a mix of confusion and indignation, but an underlying tremor betrayed his growing fear. 

“Disrespect?” Oscar’s voice was a dangerous whisper, his blue eyes gleaming ominously through the smoke that curled from his cigarette. 

“Yes,” the Duke pressed on, though his bravado waned. “I told you to continue with your activities. Didn’t I say I would wait?” 

“Marquis!” The Duke’s usually commanding voice faltered as it rose in pitch. 

“If you’re referring to my lateness, I must apologise,” Oscar replied, his tone laced with amusement. The cigarette remained hanging from his lips as he spoke. “What was supposed to be a discreet meeting was somehow leaked, and uninvited guests arrived.” 

The Duke’s heart sank as the realisation dawned upon him—Oscar knew everything. The cold dread that had settled in his chest now spread like ice through his veins. He had been trumped, and Oscar, with that lazy smile and mocking tone, was letting him know just how thoroughly. 

“But that aside...” Oscar trailed off, his smile widening in a manner that was anything but reassuring. “I’m curious to hear about this interesting news.” 

Oscar’s appearance, with his tousled black hair falling carelessly over his forehead, seemed disturbingly well-suited to the decadent atmosphere of the room. Despite his noble blood, there was an undeniable aura of a ruffian about him, as if he belonged more to the shadowy backstreets of a lawless city than to the grand halls of power. This duality—nobility mixed with a raw, primal edge—made him so dangerously unpredictable. 

The Duke’s earlier sense of sexual satisfaction, which had so recently inflamed his senses, dissipated faster than steam from a boiling pot. The sweat that had slicked his skin began to dry, leaving him with a bone-deep chill. The fine hairs on his arms stood on end as his instincts screamed a warning. 

The man before him was furious, and the Duke knew that his fate was sealed unless he did something to quell that anger. 

His mind raced, darting from one thought to another as he considered his options. About three years ago, when Oscar had first approached him, the man had made two specific requests, promising to elevate the Duke to a status befitting his title. The first request was that the Duke align himself with the person Oscar had assigned to him upon entering the Norfolk Royal Union Assembly. The second request, however… 

“The vault you’ve been eyeing.” 

“...” 

“What was the number again? Was it in the four thousand range? No, wait...” 

The Duke’s eyes, wide with panic, met Oscar’s cold, unwavering stare. The Duke’s mouth went dry, and he struggled to swallow the lump in his throat. There was no faint trace of a smile in those chilling blue eyes, only a calculating malice that sent a shiver down his spine. 

“5555,” Oscar finally said, the word hanging in the air like a death knell. 

The Duke’s heart pounded so fiercely that he thought it might burst from his chest. The secret vault 5555 at Felphe Bank. The vault that Oscar von Reinhardt had been intent on opening. The Duke had tried to delay, to mislead, but now the game was up. 

Oscar leaned forward slightly; his posture relaxed yet radiating an unmistakable menace. “The key to that vault… have you still not found it?”