The desk in the study room of Highmere Manor always smelled of old paper, wood, and wine.
"Look at this blade, Marius," a booming voice had once said.
A large, ring-covered hand slammed a fancy steel sword onto the desk. The handle was covered in rubies, the crossguard made of gold. It was far too heavy for a ten-year-old boy to lift, but young Marius reached for it anyway, his eyes wide with wonder.
"It is beautiful, Father," the boy had whispered.
The Marquess of Highmere let out a loud laugh, running a hand over his thick mustache, his sharp eyes gleaming with pride.
"It is expensive, boy! That is what makes it powerful. The gold on that hilt tells every minor lord in the realm who we are before the blade even draws blood. A Valmont does not fight in the dirt like a common soldier. A Valmont stands above, dressed in the finest steel, commanding those beneath him."
Young Marius looked at his own small, eager face in the polished blade.
