Autumn of the Fourteenth Year
Promotion
At times, the party as a whole may be bestowed official titles as rewards for quests or in exchange for reputation points. However, role-playing is a vital element in TRPGs, and as such, their newfound standing in society may add restrictions on certain actions, causing the players to have to change their approach to playing their characters. The strictest GMs may even demand their players act and speak in accordance with their stature.
Just as intellect is not something that can be fabricated, not even the most earnest attempt will allow the undignified to don the veil of true class.
Delicate fingers lifted the spoon from an orderly row of silverware with confidence and silently submerged the tip in an amber soup. Hardly any ripples wrinkled out as the spoon sank deeper, navigating past an array of stewed ingredients to scoop up a few drops of liquid that were unspeakably flavorful. The little globule was then gracefully carried up, disappearing behind lips without so much as a slurp.
This was the work of a noble, through and through. I would know: I had the great misfortune of attending high-profile social gatherings with not-uncommon frequency—as a servant, of course—and was used to seeing these exact mannerisms.
At least, I would have been, had it not been at the hand of my lovable baby sister.
“Dear Brother? Whatever might be the matter?”
“Oh, nothing. Don’t worry, Elisa.”
Elisa must have noticed me looking as I worked through my daily chores, because she turned around and flashed me an elegant smile. Autumn had begun, and the official imperial succession was close; the season also marked my fourteenth year, and Elisa would follow suit at nine in another few months.
My oh-so-very-adorable sister’s refinement trended ever closer toward the boundary of true class. Not too long ago, she had been hard-pressed to sip her soup, and achieving a willowy stride had been a struggle.
Yet now, the plainclothes—though markedly more eye-catching than the festival threads back home—Lady Leizniz had gifted her felt perfectly tailored for the young lady she’d become. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought that her first bath had been in scented oils and her baby clothes woven from silk.
Two seasons later, I still wasn’t used to the new her. It wasn’t as if she’d changed completely: her tastes remained the same, and obviously she retained all her memories.
“Is that so? You’re so silly, Dear Brother.”
Oh, of course. She’d grown.
Until now, Elisa had been a bit underdeveloped for her age. Eight-year-olds were naturally expected to be childlike, but even then, she had been too immature; her years of stunted development meant that, for a while, her accelerated growth had only been catching her back up to where she should have been.
But now look at her: ever since coming to the capital, she’d grown up nearly beyond recognition.
Elisa spoke a refined palatial dialect reserved for the upper crust, her every mannerism betraying an education just as privileged. Maybe I should have expected this: we’d been away from the canton for over a year, and she’d spent every day since learning directly from a noble. Truthfully, the children around her age whom I saw around the College unfailingly displayed class and intellect beyond their years; being official students, they were certainly blue-blooded, and clearly their education had been the key to their dignity, much like my sister’s.
Still...it wasn’t so long ago that I’d left Konigstuhl behind at the age of twelve—from the time when my baby sister could hardly form sentences and clung to me like a duckling. The rate at which she was leaving those days behind ran too fast for my comfort.
Or was that my ego speaking? Was it my own selfish wish that Elisa would forever remain a cute little baby...who had to rely on me?
No matter how it begins, people are creatures of growth; as her brother, it was my job to accept that. Elisa was Elisa. She was the adorable little girl I’d pampered until now, to be sure, but she was also the grown woman that she wanted to become.
It turned out that I was far more self-centered than I’d realized. Looking back, the fear that had enveloped me when Elisa clung to me in tears hadn’t been unease at the thought of how she would change; it had been the anxious emotions of a man who’d based part of his identity on being the dependable older brother.
Elisa may have been a changeling, but more importantly, she was her. My place wasn’t to fear her; it was to accept her, growth and all. The dreadful tricks my mind had played on me were mine to sort out.
Besides, there were plenty of things that hadn’t changed in the slightest. No matter how refined her movements, her fork always reached for her favorite dishes first; her knife always cut the things she didn’t like into tiny pieces; and her spoon always scooped up too much of her favorite pudding, leaving less dessert to be savored later. Even as she approached mastery in palatial speech, she never referred to me as “Brother Dearest”; hints of “Mr. Brother” lived on in the flipped order.
You know, maybe I was just experiencing the loneliness of a parent whose child was experimenting with independence. As they grew up, children tried their best to make themselves seem tougher: they refused to walk beside their parents, turned down after-school snacks while pretending they didn’t like sweets, and quit waiting by the television to watch anime at six o’clock.
In a similar fashion, Elisa must have realized the need to grow up—she must have wanted it. With her mind governed by her fey half, my changeling sister was fated to mature in ways alien to mensch. The dramatic changes had frightened me, but only because I was a mere mensch myself.
So it was time: I would accept her and celebrate.
Sure, the clingy baby Elisa stumbling over words was cute, but the adult Elisa would definitely be just as adorable. Knowing her, she would grow up to be a stunning beauty at the center of high society. Taking after our mother, she’d blossom into a pristine lily, gracing the world with willowy elegance...
Wait. A beautiful, successful, magus?!
Elisa lacked the catastrophic character flaws of our rotten master and that irredeemable pervert; there was nothing to impede her popularity. At this rate, all sorts of disgusting insects would crawl around to pick at the petals...
“...Dear Brother? Are you certain that everything is all right?”
“Oh, Elisa. Don’t worry. I was just trying to recall which glove I’m supposed to throw in someone’s face for a duel.”
“A duel?! U-Um, if I’m not mistaken, I believe you’re meant to throw it at their feet...”
The face of a stupid punk trying to mess with my sister was no better than the floor anyway: both were getting stomped on sooner or later. Elisa still seemed concerned, though, so I told her that she didn’t have to worry about a thing and went back to my chores.
Eventually, Elisa finished up her meal—which doubled as etiquette training—and I figured it was time for us to clean up and head back to the low quarter.
But in that same instant, the long-sealed crypt that was the madam’s laboratory opened. I heard the cataclysmic creak of a gate bolted several times over and rusted shut by centuries of neglect as it swung. Obviously, the well-oiled hinges of a door unopened for a mere few months—I would have waited on Lady Agrippina if she’d called, but terrifyingly enough, she never had—did not actually make any sound.
Yet when the door silently fulfilled its purpose, it unveiled a terrible demon hidden within.
The fiend was beautiful. Her dark-blue and light-jade eyes drooped cordially into an elegant smile, and she wore lavish clothes that I hadn’t so much as seen before. Woven from material impossible to come by in the Empire, the satin’s wet gloss was unlike anything she generally preferred to wear; furthermore, the jet-black robe was a great departure from her usual partiality for subdued primaries.
This was no ordinary robe. Mystic formulae were woven in at every angle to protect and support the wearer while threatening terrible harm to any attacker—it could only be described as enchanted armor. She could choose to stand absolutely still and it would still be dubious whether I could kill her with a blade in hand.
As an extra surprise, she was holding a staff. While I’d seen her pull one out a few months ago when she visited Lady Leizniz, that had been a fashion item that prioritized its lavish form over its middling function.
Methuselah almost never needed staves. Their organic capacity to turn mana into physical phenomena was outstanding enough to outstrip most catalysts entirely. Someone as rational as Lady Agrippina would never go out of her way to employ a tool in service of making herself weaker, so the fact that she was wielding this one proved it was worthy of her power.
Frankly, I could tell as much by the ominous glow of the gem that crowned it. As much as I wished I could wipe the memory away, I’d seen this hue of jade before: it was the same disconcerting green that had overflowed from the madam’s eye upon removing her monocle to read the Compendium of Forgotten Divine Rites... That thing was definitely bad news.
Wait, hold on. Let me get this straight. Are you telling me this monster of a magus is in a position where she needs help forming one of her spells?!
A dangerous person had appeared looking dangerously motivated, equipped with dangerous gear, capped off with a blatantly dangerous grin. I unconsciously groped for a sword in panic. For all her training, the sheer surprise had thrown Elisa’s manners out the window, causing her to drop the napkin she’d been wiping her mouth with and stare at our master in blank amazement.
“My, my. It’s been so long. I’m glad to see you two in good health.”
Who the hell are you?! I only just managed to stop myself from shouting and leveling the Craving Blade—which I had not called for but appeared in my hand anyway—at her.
No, really. What in the world happened? As far as I remembered, Lady Agrippina was verifiably not the type to smile with genteel grace, and this noble aura around her was utterly foreign to me. If this was the madam ready for battle, then nothing could possibly scare me more.
She stepped forward, ignoring our befuddlement with such grace that it was as if she hadn’t registered us at all. Then, out of nowhere, she said, “Prepare to depart. And you’ll be coming along too this time, Elisa.”
After months of silence, the madam immediately wanted to go outside? Not only that, but this was a woman who could teleport this way and that whenever she pleased, and she was ready to walk on her own two legs; if our presence as her retainer and disciple was needed to save face, then we were headed somewhere gravely serious.
“R-Right now?” I asked.
“Of course. Dress yourselves in your finest threads, because we will be going to the imperial palace. Lady Leizniz has gifted you something suitable, I’m sure. Ah, and bring the carriage out as well.”
The need to dress up to visit the palace was beyond obvious. However, the fact that she demanded the carriage be prepared for such a short distance meant this was no business trip: she was to participate in some kind of solemn ceremony.
Imperial style prized efficiency, but it considered ritual to have its own utilitarian value. At times, carriage rides covered comically short distances in order to keep up airs. If we were about to ride in through the front gate... My trembling was cut short by the sudden ejection of a wooden box from a tear in empty space.
“What the?!”
I took a step back—a ten-meter step back—and slid to catch myself. Lady Agrippina smiled and told me it was a gift to celebrate my fourteenth birthday.
Huh? Why? Now? But you didn’t give me anything when I turned thirteen...
Still smiling, she wordlessly pressured me to open it. I reached out as gingerly as I could, taking the box in hand as though it were a nuclear land mine needing to be defused. Cracking it open, I was surprised to find it filled with nothing but books and leaflets of paper.
“Huh?!”
But upon closer inspection, it really was a nuclear bomb.
The tome I’d picked up was titled Intersections of the Prosaic World and Forms Corporeal and Thaumaturgical. The edges were singed, hinting at a failed attempt at censoring the text. If nothing else, I was sure the central topic delved into themes Rhinians forbade. The more I dug, the more chilling material I found: some touched on unblockable magicks, others focused on strengthening barriers and attacks, and the box even contained essays stamped with the words “SALE PROHIBITED.”
This was the mystic equivalent of a vat of poison. Possession alone would see me cuffed, but after forcing it into my hands, my villainous master gave a simple thumbs-up without letting her ladylike facade crumble for a second.
“By my estimate, you’ll be needing those in the near future. Make sure you look through them when we return.”
“What?!”
“On top of your duties as a servant, you’ll likely find yourself occupying the seat of my personal retainer, so do try your best.”
“Hold on!”
“Anyhow, I shall leave the preparations to you. Be ready to leave in two hours at the latest.”
I couldn’t do anything as the madam lazily waved her hand and returned to her room. I would have at least liked to flip her the bird, but Lady Agrippina hadn’t changed since we’d first met her in Konigstuhl: appearing like an unforeseen cyclone, she vanished just as quickly, whisking us siblings away into her trouble.
No, seriously. What the hell happened?
[Tips] Personal spats are criminal in the Empire, but official duels registered in the books are perfectly legal. Sometimes, shame can only be dispelled at the edge of a sharpened blade—a belief well understood by the monarchical system.
The white imperial palace in the heart of the capital was home to twenty-five meeting halls, each named after a flower. Of them, the Rose Rot was the most splendiferous, famous even abroad for its resplendence; the austere Lily Weiss was well-known as the most dignified location in the palace.
But one room was spoken of only in hushed whispers tinged with dread. Opened only when the College professoriat convened with His Majesty, here stood the Water Lily Schwarz. Rows and rows of seats rippled out from the podium at the center of the room, colloquially referred to by those less carefully spoken as the executioner’s platform.
Who could blame them? It was no exaggeration to call this the home turf to the most brilliant minds in the whole nation. Even the most influential figures found themselves mercilessly berated by the magia here if they dared misspeak: the annals of history recorded occasions in which prestigious bureaucrats had come here to plead for the magia’s help, only to literally die of indignation when the crowd ruthlessly poked at every hole. It was, in many ways, hell.
The harvest period was a delicate time, as most of the nobility were home to collect their taxes, and those gathered for the professorship examinations were bracing for pandemonium. Of course, this event preceded the winter social season every year, but this time, the occasion had been accompanied by a notice from the Emperor...and one who was to take the throne as autumn came to a close. Whatever he had to say, it was certainly no frivolity.
While the pedagogical class of the College had its fair share of diehard academics who cared little for politics, it had just as many who waded deep into the system to procure the funds needed for the never-ending hole of expenses that was research. Yet whether an honorary noble or one with the rights to an estate, they were all sensitive to the goings-on of high society.
The hearts of the most notable minds in magecraft pounded at the trouble brewing in the air, ready to evaluate the presentations of those who wished to join their ranks.
That said, this performance was in truth no more than a final confirmation. All the professors in attendance had already been given copies of the applicants’ dissertations and thus knew what was going to be said.
This was but a matter of course. Unlike a musical recital, the results of thaumaturgical trials were difficult to convey to others. They required careful scrutiny to validate, as even experiments accompanied by a practical illustration could be dubious: was it sheer coincidence that the caster managed to do what they claimed, or was it true magic, based in unshakable theory? One look was never enough to tell.
The professors had already completed their analyses, waiting with bated breath to utter their thinly veiled mockery: “I’m not precisely an expert in this field, but...” and, “I apologize if I missed this in your earlier explanation...” were the fluff to conceal their critical sneak attacks.
So, as ever, they snapped the souls of a handful of bright hopefuls...when a methuselah took the stage. Her dazzling silver hair was bound in a chignon, and her heterochromic eyes gleamed with provocation. The professoriat welcomed Researcher Agrippina du Stahl to take the podium.
Her preference for reds and blues was nowhere to be seen in her black satin robe lined with intricate geometric patterns. More unusual still, she had appeared holding a staff meant to bolster her casting power. Few were the times a methuselah felt the need to reinforce their natural arcane capacity: only when they delved into spells too grand or when the social situation called for it.
However, the sickening and sinister green of that which she’d chosen was proof enough that it was unfit to be ferried about in public. She wasn’t scheduled for a practical illustration, but perhaps preparing her full combat dress was her own way of displaying the intensity of her will.
“If I may be excused, I should like to begin my presentation.”
Clear and crisp, the methuselah’s voice was devoid of hesitation. Yet the members of the audience oozed with anticipation nonetheless, wondering which inaccuracy they ought to pick at first. Unintelligent work could simply be struck down, but inventive ideas presented with wording that was just a touch shy of perfection tickled the sadistic hearts that made up the crowd; they, too, had risen to their post enduring a barrage of insults from those who had come before.
But of all the professors, one found herself quivering in anxiety as opposed to excitement. She was the girl’s master: Lady Magdalena von Leizniz.
When she had first read her pupil’s dissertation for peer review, she’d spat out her tea and wondered if her student had somehow ruined her health. The essay was simply too full of holes for a girl verifiably capable of passing this examination. How could the dean relax when she’d explicitly told her that she must not fail?
Naturally, Lady Leizniz had attempted time and time again to contact her apprentice before today, asking if the girl truly believed this would be enough. Yet every letter had come back with a reply not to worry, and even when she’d employed a second official summons, she’d been declined with the perfectly reasonable excuse of needing time to complete the essay she’d assigned.
Tormented to her core, the wraith could feel the stomach she’d long since lost churn. At this rate, everything would come crashing down.
After all, she would never approve of an essay like this.
Alas, it was too late. Once started, the presentation could not be stopped. The wraith clutched at her heart and gut as the methuselah’s resonant voice began to fill the hall.
Speaking with the smart clarity of an actor onstage, she went through her thesis...and someone in the audience cocked their head. Another person flipped through their copy of the work with a curious “Oh?” and another still rifled through their notes with a puzzled “Hm?”
The speech was straying from the written material.
But make no mistake: this was not the trite, unplanned tangent of a woman who’d forgotten her script from a lack of preparation. She was stitching up the holes in her argument in real time, filling each with elaborate explanations of magical theory. Furthermore, she was injecting new material—no, she was embroidering the patches in such a way that recontextualized the whole of what she’d written. Though she stuck close to the words on the page, her speech was implying a completely different conclusion, causing the hall to stir.
No normal person could have understood. Even if one could decipher the processes outlined in a magus’s writing, true comprehension in the art of magecraft was prerequisite to seeing the crux of any sufficiently deep essay.
Yet the audience was made up of the scholastic monsters that ran the College. They had not fluked their way into a position where they could teach others...but unbelievably, the woman before them spoke as if she were honoring them with her instruction. Without her elucidations, with only the text, the reader could only draw so many conclusions; its meaning changed with every word.
They knew—they were made to know—that this was not A Treatise on Efficient Mana Transmissions Through Non-Euclidean Planes. This was a work that borrowed that title...to delve into an art forbidden by the Trialist Empire; one that had been abandoned as an unattainable impossibility; a peak of mystic pursuits that could put magecraft on negative timescales.
This was an essay about the fundamental principles of time reversal magic.
The methuselah ignored the unbridled murmurs of the crowd, concluding her presentation completely unharmed. In the end, she had perfectly tailored her speech and essay to balance on a knife’s edge, giving the impression that the technology was feasible, but that its implementation remained precarious to navigate. Not bothering to offer the floor to those with questions, she moved on to close out.
Her every word was venom.
“I humbly thank you all for spending your precious time considering these lowly ideas of mine. While I am most aware that the thesis of an inexperienced soul must ring presumptuous in your learned minds, I shall endeavor to not let the finer secrets of this craft that I have just so begun to grasp escape me in my continued research.”
Devoid of intent, her smile would have rivaled those of the most beautiful marble statues; with context, it was the sneer of an irredeemable fiend. Death had failed to stop Lady Leizniz’s complexion from worsening, and the color of her face had grown paler and paler at exponential rates since the presentation had begun—she most certainly understood the true message of that grin.
“Allow me to offer thanks to my master, Professor Magdalena von Leizniz, for her full cooperation and support. And to Professor Martin Werner von Erstreich, for his powerful backing over the course of this project.”
I’ve been had! The talented wraith was on the verge of forgetting the public eye and throwing her head down.
The College’s stance on forbidden arts was that they could be unearthed in times of need and wielded by those fit to use them. Considering how the professoriat was a collection of inhuman beings deeply entrenched in such pursuits, the taboo nature of Agrippina’s discovery was not an issue.
No, the problem lay with how she’d devised a means to accomplish something heretofore written off as impossible. This one breakthrough was a singularity—a basis upon which countless long-abandoned dreams of sorcery could be explored. This was an irreversible paradigm shift, sure to change the world’s understanding of spells and cantrips forever.
It was a finding that all the schools of thought, and all the scholars in them, coveted deeply. Now one cadre had begun to uncover its secrets—or perhaps this was an insinuation that they knew even more than they let on—and had gotten an imperial grand duke involved. Not only that, but it was the grand duke who was slated to become Emperor; the methuselah had hinted at the idea that His Majesty knew this breakthrough was coming.
Who was to say what kind of anarchy would result from a single faction laying claim to one of the highest heights of magecraft? Terrible omens of the cooled cadre wars reigniting flashed through Lady Leizniz’s mind.
Of course, this wasn’t a predestined future. If she and the other deans of the College navigated the tumultuous political climate with great attention, it was possible that the whole affair could be settled peacefully behind closed doors; in fact, the discovery might even become fuel to propel her flock further ahead of those around them.
However, if she made the slightest error in judgment, that fuel would turn into an explosive ready to massacre everyone in range.
Unfortunately, the systematic regime of Rhine meant undoing the process of ennoblement this late was infeasible. They were locked into their planned arrangement, where a supermassive bomb could use the Emperor and her professorship to do as she pleased in the name of count palatine. Too late to reverse, the Empire would be forced to push forward on its current course. The papers granting House Ubiorum and the position of count thaumapalatine upon successful ascension to professorship had already been signed.
Had the monarchy been absolute, perhaps the tale would be different. Alas, imperial citizens prized their national assembly and would not forgive wanton vetoes. Otherwise, the Trialist Empire of Rhine would cease to be itself; the cogs in the machine continued to turn, upholding the righteousness of the imperial regime. Despite its cataclysmic creaking, the system moved along, ferrying the Emperor and dean both toward equal parts ruin and distinction.
“Well, ahem. I hereby commence the vote of approval on the ascension of Agrippina du Stahl. Will those in agreement please rise.”
The professor serving as this year’s master of ceremonies managed to keep a steady voice as he pushed the show forward. As with all his peers, he was beside himself with intrigue and the frustration that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself, but his self-worth as a noble managed to keep him from breaking conduct by shouting.
Slowly but surely, the audience crawled back to reality...and stood up.
They all knew that this was a catastrophe. They knew that mismanaging this affair could end the Empire as they knew it. Yet to fail to acknowledge this discovery left them no ground to stand on as magia who had won their positions with genius. Deny her, and the pride that anchored them at the top of the social ladder would crumble.
And so, Professor Agrippina du Stahl was sworn in with the first unanimous vote in many years.
Envisioning the torrent of hardship that would follow, her master and the Emperor were paler in undeath than any corpse. Ready to claim her position as count thaumapalatine, the newly christened Agrippina von Ubiorum turned to them with the sweetest of smiles.
I shan’t go down alone.
[Tips] Though the crown holds immense power in the Trialist Empire, the Emperor cannot confer, remove, or revoke a noble title on his own—a trivial, obvious check to prevent corruption at the hands of a single bad monarch. Simply put, His Majesty is not to go back on his word.
While those in attendance could listen to the end if they so chose, they were also permitted to leave early if they were no longer needed. The official announcement of Agrippina’s new title and deed was His Majesty’s to make, and the actual person in question did not have to stay.
Today was not the day she would kneel at the Emperor’s feet and endure pompous rites of pens and swords. Ceremony was best partaken of in befitting settings—that is to say, there was a process to vanity. Water Lily Schwarz was home only to the trial of academia, and the relevant facts alone were fit for the hall.
As such, Agrippina took her leave, neither staying with her fellow professors nor returning to the drawing room for those who’d presented. She was free to go.
“...My sincerest congratulations on your rise to professorship.”
“Um... Congratulations?”
Hurrying home, the master was trailed by her servant and apprentice, who followed to offer their well-wishes—though with markedly unenthused tones of voice. The boy had pieced together the meaning behind his birthday present and why he’d be promoted to being a noble retainer; his words oozed bloodlust. On the other hand, the girl had followed her into the presentation hall and seen her moment of glory with her own two eyes; she wasn’t quite sure what had happened, and her celebration was tinged with befuddlement.
“Mm. As much as I loathe the thought of promotion, thank you both.”
However, the master remained nonchalant, and her sour mood was plainly visible on her face. This had been a terrible fate that only barely edged out the alternative of killing her own master and fleeing the country; being jealously “applauded” by the walking corpses that lined the waiting room had done nothing to uplift her mood either.
Frankly, Agrippina was at her wit’s end. She was going to go home, artificially weaken her resistance to alcohol, and get absolutely soused—any less, and she couldn’t go on.
“I take it this is why you warned we might be getting busier?”
“Quite. Today’s announcements are all but unofficial, but in due time I will be summoned for my induction of professorship and a formal ennoblement. Following the Emperor’s inauguration, I suspect I shall be pulled around to various swearing-in ceremonies and the like. You shall be in charge of preparing and managing my assets; I’ll be a count or so by my estimate, so have that in mind.”
I’m just a servant! I’m not even a damn noble! The blond runt would have actually shouted had they not been in the imperial palace; in fact, he would have gone so far as to grab his master by the collar.
Of course, most of the heavy lifting would be completed by state bureaucrats. This process was one that would tolerate exactly zero failure; the brightest minds in the imperial cabinet would be put in charge, and would provide detailed instructions that would make sure everything would work out. Still, this was not the sort of thing one would ordinarily leave to their servant—it wasn’t something that ought to be left to a servant either.
Alas, pity the boy: Erich could get it done. He had enough skill to see the task through if he set his mind to it. His servile palatial speech was serviceable enough to accompany Agrippina even in front of the Emperor, and his divine levels of dexterity afforded him the ability to pen calligraphy beautiful enough to act as his master’s proxy. The accounting for a noble estate was a quick matter with parallel calculations, and a smattering of Unseen Hands and Farsight spells would swiftly take care of any investigative work.
Best of all, he could be entrusted with vital documents without the risk of dying along the way, and Agrippina had a tight grip on the root of his loyalty. Counterintuitively enough, finding someone more fit for the task would be much harder.
“Fret not, I shan’t throw all of my responsibilities to you. In any case where personal action is required or where your abilities would fall short, I shall take matters into my own hands. And as bothersome as it is, I’ll hire help—overseen by you, of course. Your title will be that of my seniormost retainer, and your salary will be updated to match.”
“...Very well, Madam Count.”
The boy replied in picture-perfect palatial speech. Pleased by her vassal’s ideal response—his spite was hardly enough to bother her—the baron heiress turned imperial count decided to put the unwelcome business of career advancement behind her and triumphantly returned to her atelier.
[Tips] For those who join the ranks of the aristocracy without notable preexisting fortune, the crown supplies a stipend to help them prepare to take their position.
Even unigenerational nobles require mansions, formalwear, and hired help to fit in with their peers in the upper crust. As such, the government awards a celebratory gift upon assumption of the title. The tradition was founded to honor those who win distinction in the face of poverty and hardship, and as such, the funds come directly from the imperial treasury.
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