Wielder Of The Dragon Flame

Chapter 31

His footsteps echoed on the marble floors as he made his way through the Xavier mansion's corridors. The building was massive,three centuries of additions and expansions had created a labyrinth of halls and chambers, all decorated with the wealth and power accumulated over generations. 

Portraits of previous Xavier clan leaders stared down from the walls with painted eyes that seemed to follow him as he passed. Suits of ceremonial armor stood at attention in alcoves, their metal still bearing the scorch marks from battles long forgotten.

 Display cases held artifacts of flame-working artistry: sculptures of frozen fire, weapons that still glowed faintly with residual power, ancient texts bound in flame-proof materials.

Malachar ignored it all, his pace steady and unhurried as he navigated toward the main entrance. Servants pressed themselves against walls as he passed, bowing slightly, their eyes carefully averted. 

The Black Flame Clan's reputation preceded them,better to show respect and stay out of the way.

He descended a grand staircase, his hand trailing along the polished banister, and finally reached the main entrance hall,a cavernous space with a ceiling two stories high and doors large enough to drive a carriage through. 

More servants waited here, ready to assist departing guests, but they wisely kept their distance from the Black Flame leader.

Malachar pushed open one of the massive doors and stepped out into the evening air. The sun had set while they'd been inside, and now the sky was painted in shades of deep purple and indigo, the first stars beginning to appear overhead. 

Lanterns had been lit along the mansion's exterior, their flames dancing in the slight breeze, casting shifting shadows across the cobblestone courtyard.

To his right was the parking area, an expansive space where carriages and the more modern flame-powered vehicles that some clans had started using were arranged in neat rows.

 Drivers and attendants stood beside their respective vehicles, talking quietly among themselves or checking equipment, waiting for their employers to finish their business inside.

Malachar had taken perhaps three steps toward where his own carriage waited when movement caught his eye. Three figures were crossing the courtyard from a side path, heading toward what appeared to be a service entrance.

 They were dressed in simple clothing,not the refined uniforms of the mansion's current servants, but the plain, practical garments of laborers. Each carried something: two of them had baskets that looked heavy from the way they walked, and the third,

Malachar stopped walking, his eyes narrowing as recognition struck him like a physical blow.

The third figure was an older man, perhaps in his late sixties, with grey hair and a lined face that spoke of decades of service. He wore clothes that had once been fine but were now faded and patched, and he moved with the careful precision of someone whose body hurt but who refused to acknowledge the pain. 

Even bent with exhaustion and age, even dressed in common labor clothes, there was something dignified about his bearing, something that spoke of better days.

Malachar knew that face. Had seen it countless times over the years, standing behind Lord Ignatius at formal gatherings, managing the Xavier household with quiet efficiency, representing the clan in a thousand small but important ways.

"Gregor!" 

Malachar's voice cut across the courtyard, sharp and commanding.

The three figures froze mid-step. The older man,Gregor,turned slowly, his expression transforming from weary resignation to shock as he recognized who had called his name. 

His eyes went wide, his mouth opening slightly, and for a moment he just stared as if unable to believe what he was seeing.

"Lord Malachar?" 

Gregor's voice was rough, uncertain, like he wasn't sure if he was seeing a mirage or reality. 

"Is that... is that truly you?"

Malachar was already moving, his long strides eating up the distance between them. His black robes billowed behind him, and his face,usually so carefully neutral,showed clear concern, clear anger at what he was seeing.

He reached the three figures and stopped just in front of Gregor, his dark eyes scanning the old butler from head to toe, taking in every detail: the worn clothing, the exhaustion in his posture, the calluses on his hands that spoke of manual labor, the dirt under his fingernails, the slight tremor in his limbs that suggested both physical strain and emotional distress.

"Gregor." 

Malachar said, and now his voice was softer, though no less intense. 

"Why... Why are you looking like this? What happened? What are you doing here dressed as a common laborer?"

Gregor's mouth worked, but no words came out immediately. He glanced at his two companions,both of them middle-aged, both clearly exhausted, both watching this exchange with wide, frightened eyes like they weren't sure if this powerful clan leader's attention was a blessing or a curse.

"I..." 

Gregor started, then stopped. He looked back at Malachar, and something crumbled in his expression, years of holding himself together suddenly giving way.

 "My lord, I... we were..."

He turned to look at his two companions again, and Malachar followed his gaze. He recognized them too, now that he was paying attention. 

The woman on the left had been one of the Xavier mansion's head cooks;he remembered her preparing a meal for Lord Ignatius once, a complicated dish that had required three days of preparation. 

The man on the right had been her assistant, always quiet, always competent.

Now they both looked hollow, broke

n, their fine clothes replaced with rough fabric, their skilled hands bearing the marks of menial labor…