The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 277: Negotiation

Cleora, who remained silent, sighed loudly and smiled at her son.

”We should greet him properly,” Cleora decided, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress. ”Jolthar, will you accompany me?”

It wasn’t truly a question. As her betrothed, certain ceremonial duties were expected, regardless of his personal inclinations.

”Of course, my lady,” Jolthar said with an exaggerated bow, his voice laced with mock formality. He dipped low, one arm across his chest like a court fool performing for royalty.

Cleora chuckled, the sound light and genuine, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Jolthar wanted to meet the old man anyway, so he agreed to go with her.

Roblan, his embarrassment fading beneath obvious concern. ”Grandfather... it’s the first time he came to the barony. Will it be all right, Mother?”

Cleora walked to her son and said, ”Don’t worry. I’m sure he came here on the request made by Nora.”

Jolthar observed Cleora; her usual demeanour disappeared, and she was now hiding her unease. Jolthar only heard about the old man from Nora, but from what she said, her father never talked to Cleora much, and the father-daughter relationship seems complicated.

The three departed toward the mansion that served as the barony’s administrative heart—a structure far more modest than its grand title suggested.

While walking, Jolthar thought about the old man and his early arrival.

-

The great hall of Tekkora’s mansion fell silent as Lord Bertelot Aravain entered.

Despite his sixty-seven years, he walked with the straight-backed confidence of a man half his age. His silver hair was impeccably styled, his clothing rich but understated—the attire of a merchant lord who had no need to flaunt his considerable wealth.

His wealth alone could rival that of a quarter of the empire—a fortune vast enough to sway kings.

Jolthar looked at the old man; he could tell the age and experience etched into every line of his face.

His hawkish gaze swept the room, ignoring Cleora and Jolthar as he spotted his grandchildren.

”Roblan!” His stern face transformed with a genuine smile as he embraced his grandson. ”You’ve grown broader in the shoulders since last winter. The work here agrees with you.”

”Grandfather,” Roblan returned the embrace warmly.

”Your journey was well?”

”Well enough. The eastern roads remain an embarrassment—something your mother might consider addressing before building fantasies of iron.” His criticism was pointed but delivered casually, as though Cleora weren’t present to hear it.

Turning from Roblan, Lord Bertelot’s eyes softened further as they fell upon Nora. ”And my brilliant little fox! Come, let me look at you.”

Nora approached with a practised curtsy that balanced formality with familial warmth. ”Grandfather. We’re honoured by your visit.”

”Nonsense. When my favourite grandchild writes of treasury concerns, I come. Simple as that.” He took her hands in his, examining her face with genuine affection. ”You’re too thin. Working too hard, no doubt, to compensate for impractical ambitions forced upon you.”

Only after thoroughly greeting his grandchildren did Lord Bertelot acknowledge his daughter with a curt nod.

”Cleora.”

”Father,” she replied with equal coolness. ”Welcome to Tekkora.”

”Hmm.” His grunt conveyed volumes of disapproval as his gaze finally settled on Jolthar.

The young man stood slightly apart; his silver hair was tied into a ponytail behind his head. His features, his silver hair, his eyes, and his face too, reminded Bertelot of Kaezhlar’s.

”And this must be the... fiancé.” Lord Bertelot’s tone made the word sound like an infection. ”The Kaezhlar boy who abandoned his clan name yet still trades on its influence.”

Jolthar met the older man’s gaze without flinching. ”Lord Bertelot. Your reputation precedes you.”

Jolthar waited for his turn to talk; for now, he greeted the old man.

”As does yours, young man.” The merchant lord’s eyes narrowed. ”Cast out by your family—or fled from responsibility, depending on which tale one believes. Now engaged to a baroness twice your age, involved in spending her treasury into oblivion on... what was it? A forge?”

The deliberate provocations hung in the air, challenging Jolthar to react with the impetuousness of youth.

Instead, he smiled slightly.

”I would be happy to discuss Tekkora’s development strategy if you’re genuinely interested in understanding our investments.”

Lord Bertelot’s eyebrow rose a fraction. ”Bold of you to say ’our’, considering your recent arrival.”

”Fate makes strange partners of us all,” Jolthar replied evenly.

”Shall we sit? After your journey, refreshment would be appropriate.”

A flicker of surprise—and perhaps reluctant approval—crossed the older man’s face at Jolthar’s composure. He hadn’t expected a young man, who he believed was still wet behind the ears, to be maintaining a composure of such maturity and confidence.

The siblings and their mother watched with worry as they saw how Bertelot was insulting Jolthar, and they were afraid that he would lose his temper and lash out at the old man.

They moved to the long oak table where servants had prepared wine and light fare.

Lord Bertelot positioned himself at the head, with Nora and Roblan at his right and left, forcing Cleora and Jolthar to sit further down—a deliberate statement of his view of the hierarchy.

Once the servants withdrew, Lord Bertelot leaned back in his chair, studying Jolthar over steepled fingers. ”So, boy. Tell me why I shouldn’t allow my daughter’s foolish barony to collapse under the weight of its ambitions.”

”Nora’s been writing me letters, stating the progress of the barony and how its development was faring.” Nora, in her enthusiasm to tell her grandfather about the development, failed to mention what Jolthar was doing for the barony.

Cleora stiffened but remained silent. This was clearly a test for Jolthar.

”Because shortsightedness is poor business strategy,” Jolthar answered without hesitation. ”And whatever your personal feelings toward your daughter, you’ve never been known for poor business decisions.”

Lord Bertelot’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ”Careful, boy. I tolerate much from my grandchildren, but you have yet to earn such privilege.”

”I seek to earn respect, not privilege. The distinction matters.” Jolthar reached for his wine glass with deliberate calm. ”Tekkora’s transformation represents an investment opportunity that would interest you regardless of familial connection.”

”Bold claim. What could this forgotten outpost possibly offer that my established enterprises don’t already provide?”

”The mines.” Jolthar set down his glass.

”The forge we’re constructing will produce dratium in its purest form using techniques unknown in these territories. Dratium with superior properties commanding triple market price.”

Lord Bertelot scoffed. ”Every ambitious smith claims revolutionary methods. Most produce little beyond hot air and wasted coal.”

”I don’t deal in claims, Lord Bertelot. I deal in demonstrable results.” Jolthar reached inside his vest and withdrew a small object wrapped in cloth. He placed it on the table and unwrapped it, revealing a dagger no longer than his palm.

The blade gleamed with an unusual blue-black sheen, its edge impossibly thin.

”A test sample from our preliminary work. The edge holds sharpness four times longer than the conventional metal they use. The tensile strength exceeds anything currently produced in the eastern territories.”

”It’s forged from Dratium—the purest form of the metal known.”

Lord Bertelot’s eyes sharpened with genuine interest despite his attempt at continued disdain. A merchant’s instinct for profit overriding personal animus. He reached for the dagger.

”May I?”

Jolthar nodded. The older man examined the blade with expert eyes, testing its edge and weight with practised movements.

”Impressive... if it performs as you suggest.” He set the dagger down carefully. ”But quality alone doesn’t ensure market success. Production scale, distribution networks, exclusive contracts—these determine profitability.”

”Precisely why Tekkora needs proper investment now,” Jolthar agreed. ”Our current treasury limitations restrict our ability to complete the infrastructure necessary for full-scale production.”

”And whose fault is that?” Lord Bertelot turned his sharp gaze to Cleora. ”Ambition without proper capitalization is simply recklessness.”

Cleora opened her mouth to respond, but Jolthar spoke first.

”The initial treasury allocations were appropriate for standard construction timelines. The unexpected availability of master masons from Esraven accelerated our schedule, presenting the opportunity to complete crucial structures before winter. We chose to seize that opportunity, understanding it would create temporary cash flow challenges.”

Lord Bertelot looked back to Jolthar, reassessing him. ”You speak like a merchant, not a swordsman.”

”I speak like someone who understands value extends beyond a single dimension.” Jolthar met his gaze steadily.

”Just as you’ve diversified your holdings beyond your initial timber concerns.”

A subtle test—revealing knowledge of Lord Bertelot’s business history that wasn’t commonly discussed.

The elder lord’s eyes narrowed fractionally.

”You’ve researched me.”

”Knowledge is the foundation of effective negotiation,” Jolthar replied without apology. ”As I suspect you’ve researched me as well.”

”What little there is to know of an eighteen-year-old vagabond,” Lord Bertelot said dismissively, though his tone lacked its earlier bite.

”I left House Kaezhlar by choice,” Jolthar clarified. ”My reasons were my own, but they reflect principles rather than irresponsibility.”

Lord Bertelot studied him for a long moment. ”They say you’ve demonstrated unusual abilities since arriving in Tekkora.”

The shift was deliberate—probing for information about Jolthar’s rumoured beast king status. ”I’ve been blessed with certain talents,” Jolthar acknowledged carefully. ”Talents I’ve employed in Tekkora’s service.”

”Including securing a convenient engagement to its baroness?” The barb was delivered with precision.

For the first time, Cleora interjected. ”Our arrangement is not your concern, Father.”

”It becomes my concern when you request funds from me,” Lord Bertelot countered sharply. ”I would know whether my investment goes toward genuine development or merely subsidizing your latest romantic folly.”