The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 332: Like a cat in the middle

"Your technique is... unusual," Heddokin said, watching as Jolthar shaped a piece of steel with movements that seemed to bend the metal to his will rather than forcing it.

"I’ve been working for forges for over two hundred years, but I’ve never seen anyone with such natural instinct for the craft."

They were in Jolthar’s personal workspace, a smaller area that Cleora had designed specifically for him.

Every tool was perfectly placed, every surface exactly the right height. It was a space where he could lose himself completely in the act of creation.

The dagger they had been working on together was nearly complete.

It was not a large weapon, but every line of it spoke of perfection. The blade was folded steel that showed patterns like flowing water, while the handle was wrapped in leather that had been treated to never slip, even in the wettest conditions.

"There," Jolthar said, making the final adjustment to the dagger’s edge.

"It’s finished."

Heddokin examined the weapon with the critical eye of a master craftsman, testing its balance and studying the quality of its edge.

Finally, he nodded in approval.

"Aye, it’s fine work. Better than fine. This blade will serve whoever wields it for a lifetime and more."

He looked up at Jolthar with grudging respect.

"You have the gift, lad. In another few years of practice, you might even be able to teach this old dwarf a thing or two."

When Cleora introduced the two of them to each other, the dwarf had an unapproving look on his face, but seeing Jolthar working his way with the metal changed his mind.

He put his mind and soul into smiting, and it made Heddokin give his sign of approval.

And also Jolthar brought Kotane. Jolthar used to use his workshop previously, and now Kotane was working in the forge.

The mines and the forge were yielding much profit together.

-

Jolthar said his goodbyes to Heddokin and came out of the forge.

He checked on Maelruth, who was resting in the shed, which was built specifically for her. It had its food storage and enough space for her to move.

Roblan was busy with a task that Jolthar had given him, so he was out of the city right now.

And Nora was busy with her restaurant, as it seemed to be doing rather well. She had put her cooking recipes into menus, and people are loving the food there.

The heavy oak doors of the mansion were opened as he approached the entrance. Two guards standing sentinel at the entrance straightened and struck their spears down in salute.

The warmth from within rushing against his frostbitten cheeks.

"My lord," they said, their voices steady though their eyes carried that faint mix of respect and unease—born from the memory of that chaotic night.

He gave them only a curt nod and stepped inside.

The mansion’s hall was lit with golden firelight, shadows dancing across tall pillars. The scent of wax and roasted meat lingered faintly in the air.

And then came the soft, measured voice he had grown to hate.

"Lord Jolthar."

Raelyn, the baroness’s appointed butler, materialized at the foot of the grand staircase.

He was dressed in black velvet, posture straight, his gloved hands folded neatly. His gaze was polite, but it was the politeness of a knife slipped into the ribs.

Raelyn always bowed too deep, smiled too smoothly, and spoke as though everything—Cleora, the baroness, even Jolthar himself—was something to be managed under his quiet authority.

He couldn’t say anything to him because he was appointed by Cleora’s father.

Jolthar’s jaw tightened.

He had never liked the man.

Raelyn was a gift—or rather a leash—from Cleora’s father, a reminder that even here, in Tekkora, someone else’s hand still lingered over the barony.

And ever since Jolthar’s return, Raelyn had been there at every corner, whispering to Cleora what she must do, what she must not, how the barony should be run, and how her days should be spent.

Jolthar had watched in silence, his patience stretched thin.

The past days had already been chaos, burdened with rebuilding, merchants, and endless mouths to quiet.

And always, Raelyn was there, smiling his thin smile, as if daring Jolthar to push him aside.

"Where is Cleora?"

"My lord," Raelyn continued smoothly, stepping forward, "the baroness is occupied with matters of state. If you would wait, I shall—"

"Lord Jolthar."

A different voice cut across, warm and commanding, like velvet wrapping steel.

Miranda, the head maid, appeared from the side corridor, her eyes sharp and calculating beneath her calm demeanor. She dipped her head in respect, but it was to Jolthar, not Raelyn.

"Forgive me, Master Raelyn," Miranda said with an edge in her tone that was almost a smile, "but I must borrow you. The eastern wing has sprung a problem again—one that only your expertise can address."

Raelyn’s brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation betraying his otherwise unshaken mask. "Now? Surely the matter can wait. I was about to—"

"No," Miranda interrupted firmly, her gaze narrowing just a fraction.

"It cannot."

For the briefest heartbeat, their eyes locked—a duel of subtle wills—but Miranda’s won, as it always did.

She did not move until Raelyn, with thinly veiled displeasure, bowed to Jolthar once more and allowed her to lead him away, vanishing into the shadowed halls.

Jolthar let out a silent breath, the tension in his shoulders easing.

Without a word, he turned from the grand staircase and slipped down a quieter passage.

Raelyn would be busy for a while, tangled in whatever "problem" Miranda had invented for him. That was good.

Jolthar had no desire to endure another moment of his polished barbs or his suffocating presence.

Jolthar slipped through the corridors like a shadow, his pace quick. His boots barely whispered against the polished floor until he stood before a certain door—the door he had longed to open for days now.

He was worried that Raelyn might come back.