"Hey, you!" Killian hissed through clenched teeth.
"How could you keep on ignoring all my calls? We have an emergency!" The older brother’s voice was low but fierce, his steps heavy as he stormed into the booth of House Kyros.
Only, the moment he actually looked inside, his anger wavered.
His younger brother had his face buried in his hands, shoulders hunched like the world had ended, while the rest of the cadets sat stiffly around him with equally uneasy expressions.
Killian froze mid-step. The emergency he had been so sure of... had apparently escalated into a catastrophe already.
"W-what happened?" he asked carefully, while actually wanting to turn back as the tension pressed in on him.
"Big Brother Killian," Luca finally murmured, his voice low and trembling, "it’s my good brother..."
Golden eyes peeked up, wide and anxious, as he whispered the words that made Killian’s blood run cold.
"Ollie has been taken..."
The Chief of Staff’s entire body stiffened. Memories of one hostage situation after another flashed before his eyes, and suddenly, he was imagining the worst. This wasn’t just bad—it was actually worse than the emergency he had been imagining earlier.
"WHAT?!" he thundered, composure snapping like dry twigs. "Then what are we all doing sitting here? Shouldn’t we go after him?!"
"Brother," Kyle said sharply.
"Huh?"
"The little mop was taken... by Mom and Dad."
Killian stared. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "WHAT?!"
Kyle sat ramrod straight now, his face grim as stone. "We were ambushed."
He quickly relayed what had happened. Killian could only gape, trying to decide if they could even do something about this.
Meanwhile, in a place that should have been close yet now felt galaxies away, a trembling blonde was trying to survive.
Oliver Mylor was sure that somewhere just beyond him, Master of Ceremonies Mitchel was introducing the first auction item.
His heightened senses picked up the subtle cues—shuffling movements, people leaning forward, whispered exchanges. The crowd was already excited. Whatever the opening piece was, it had to be good. His father had probably selected something to complement Luca’s creations.
But Ollie couldn’t process any of it.
He couldn’t hear the fanfare. He couldn’t hear the bids.
All he could hear was his heart hammering against his ribs and the unrelenting inner shrieking of his mind:
"Goose! It’s the minister! The son of the Drunken Goose!!!"
’Guard,’ his rational voice tried weakly. ’It’s guard, not goose.’
If Kyle were here, he’d already have corrected him with that flat, dry tone. But his Kyle wasn’t here.
Instead, Ollie was here.
Here—sitting in between Minister Kordell Nox and Marquise Evelyn Nox.
In the booth of House Nox.
To his right sat the son of the Goose—no, the Minister. Kyle’s father. His short dark-blue hair gleamed under the lights, sharper and more severe than either of his sons. His piercing amber eyes burned with an intensity that could peel skin, set deep beneath angular features carved with precision: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, with his brows furrowed in eternal judgment.
And just moments ago, those eyes had shifted briefly from the auction to him. Him—the pitiful trembling mop.
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