CHAPTER 1

As with the commander of any army or the leader of any enterprise, so it is with the master of a house. He is the king of his nation, the law of his land, and the ruler of the palace. His presence is felt through the whole of the household. Of all positions a man may hold with respect to a house that of the Master requires the most particular of personalities. The Master must be strong, not afraid to discipline those who have done wrong; the Master must be brave, able to handle stressful situations that allow him to have such a high position; and the Master must also be intelligent: without his wit behind him, the Master is nothing more than a servant to another will.

Nevertheless, is it not also true that without servants of his own, a man cannot ever hope to adopt the title of, "Master?" One lonely King is not enough to win a chess match. He needs people below him and at his side. Most of all, the King needs a Knight – someone who can strike with stealth, with force, with class; catering to the King's wishes with every part of his being. Most importantly, a Knight must see to it that the King remains the King.

So, then, is it really the King who is the one in power?

To Sebastian, the answer was blatantly obvious. However, sometimes, the answer does not really matter. After all, it was not like old times anymore. These days, he was merely a butler. It was his sworn duty to serve his master – his king.

Smiling to himself, Sebastian put such needless thoughts out of his mind. He needed to focus: the rice was almost ready to be switched over.

Placing the partially cooked rice into an oven-safe dish on the counter, the butler set to removing the bones from the smoked fish and flaking it into large pieces. Once that was done, he allowed a generous chunk of butter to melt down in a pan on the stove and quickly diced up a small onion, which slowly began to brown in the golden liquid burning over the flame. Finally, Sebastian added the fish to the concoction – but not before adding some curry spices and a few special items to thicken the mix.

Turning off the stove, graceful fingers wrapped themselves around the handle of the pan. Bringing it over to the container with the rice, Sebastian stirred the two dishes together. Covering it with a lid, the now nearly completed work of art was set in the heat of the oven to mature.

With only twenty minutes before the food in the oven was done, Sebastian readied the morning tea – the Young Master had taken a particular liking to Earl Grey, which, interestingly enough, complimented today's breakfast.

Now, then...

Once everything was done, and all the dishes and food were in order in the dining room, Sebastian's next task was to wake the Earl – one thirteen-year-old Ciel Phantomhive.

One would think it was hardly the place of a thirteen-year-old boy to be the head of the family – or to run Funtom Company, the highly successful toy and candy business known far and wide for its excellence. However, Ciel was not like most boys of his age. His reality was a special one: he had had his position thrust upon him similar to the way in which cold water is doused on a passed-out drunkard.

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Ciel was born on December 14, in the year of the Lord 1875, to doting parents Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive. For the first few years, Ciel had a normal life, and was, essentially, a happy child. However, being a noble family would cost the Phantomhives much.

Ciel's father served Queen Victoria as one of her so-called "Watchdogs" - a noble who would do Her Majesty's "dirty work," ridding the state of its enemies, removing things that could be potentially embarrassing to the Royal Family, and similar tasks, not all of which were even close to ethical boundaries. Vincent, though a kindly soul, earned many enemies in the name of his country, and one day it came back to haunt him.

On Ciel's tenth birthday, a group of men attacked the Phantomhive manor, murdering Vincent and Rachel. Ciel was kidnapped and branded with a mark of slavery. His new owners, wicked Satanists of the London underground, wanted to use his organs –the blood of a pure, innocent child– for a sacrifice in the name of their deity, practicing a form of black magic that thrived in the dark recesses of England's white city. That day, the happy child of the Phantomhive family died a slow, painful death.

However, it was not the end.

Sebastian remembered when he had first set eyes on the boy. At just ten years old, the depth of the anger and hate that poured from the tiny form that lay all but dead on the altar was enough to bring him into this world. Blood poured from the youth's nose, dripped steadily from his mouth and ran through eyes glazed over with the oncoming touch of death, but his soul had not yet departed from his body.

So, Sebastian approached the boy.

"Well, aren't you a very small master?" he had said, and he could not help but smile as the tortured soul managed somehow to gaze up at him through those lifeless eyes. "You've summoned me," the demon went on. "That fact won't change, not for all eternity. What has been lost can never be regained. I know what it is you want, and I'm willing to help you obtain it.

"So," he said, "…choose."

There was no hesitation.

"This is an order," Ciel screamed, his body suddenly convulsing on the altar as he returned to life – one blue iris glowing with a Faustian mark, the pentagram sign that was the seal of his contract with evil. "Kill them!"

Luckily for Sebastian, he had always been fond of the color of human blood.

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Just as suddenly as he had fallen in, the butler emerged from the depths of his memory to find that he had now arrived at his destination. Wheeling a tea-laden tray into the Young Master's bedroom, he glanced over at the four-poster bed, where the former was all but hidden underneath layers of blankets, still quite asleep. Rather accustomed to this, Sebastian momentarily ignored his sleeping master and went to the windows, throwing back the large navy curtains and letting dawn shine freely into the large, elegant room. However, it was not always like this: there was once a time when Sebastian's mere presence was enough to disturb the young boy's slumber.

But, that was a long time ago.

"Young Master," Sebastian ventured, moving over one side of the bed, "it's time to get up." When the figure inside the cocoon of sheets did not immediately respond, the butler tried once more. "Young Master," he said with more force.

When there was still no response, Sebastian knew it could not be helped. Frowning slightly, he reached out to nudge the boy. "Young Ma-!"

An arm emerged from the blankets to snatch his own. "Sebastian," Ciel's voice emerged with the rest of the boy's torso from under the sheets. Now sitting up, butler's arm still firmly in his grip, the young Earl glared through bed hair at the man before him. "I've repeatedly told you not to do that."

"My sincerest apologies," Sebastian replied, bowing his head, "but perhaps if the Young Master did not stay awake so late I would have less trouble waking him."

Ciel's frown deepened to one of annoyance. He said nothing, and instead focused on wiping sleep from his eyes, scowling down at his blankets as though disgusted with the soft fabric in which he had relished only moments ago.

Sebastian barely hid the smirk of amusement that threatened to shatter his demeanor. He hastily converted it into something of a smile, spinning on his heels and returning immediately to the tea tray.

"For today's breakfast I have prepared hot kedgeree," he said, handing Ciel a cup, "served with the Young Master's favorite Earl Grey tea. On today's schedule, the French tutor will be arriving at eleven, and after lunch you must go to the library, where we will discuss the Roman Empire. Later on in the evening, we have a guest arriving…"

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Why is it that most businessmen are such poor chess players? Ciel vaguely turned this thought over in his mind, waiting more than patiently for his guest to make his next move. That guest was one Lewis Barlow, a Lord and the president of an up-and-coming candy company in Queenborough. As was scheduled for today, in the late afternoon the older gentleman had come on business, seeking what he referred to as a, "mutually advantageous alliance" between Funtom Company and his own.

"Since I am located closer to the sea," the chubby, pasty-faced redhead with mutton-chop sideburns had explained, "it would be easier for shipments of your products to be sent faster internationally, and it could possibly make it twice as fast or more on a domestic scale." With that, he moved his remaining rook to the left of Ciel's attacking bishop, boxing it in.

Ciel sat quietly for a moment, calculating. The pawn to the diagonal right of Ciel's bishop was quite open – an easy target. And, if he were to remove this bishop the opposing king would be in check and would be forced to move in a way that may benefit the Earl. However, it was clearly Lord Barlow's intention to trap Ciel. The boy now faced a choice: save his bishop by removing the enclosing pawn - which would take the bishop out on the next move anyway if he didn't - or somehow find a way to win without one of his key pieces. However, if he saved the piece, his opponent would only be one move away from the satisfaction of, "Check mate."

This scenario was similar to that which the head of Funtom Company now faced with the so-called "alliance." If Ciel accepted the proposed agreement, which at face value seemed like a good idea much like taking the pawn, there may have been something to gain... initially. But upon closer inspection, it too was a trap.

In reality, Ciel's opponent was trying to stick filthy fingers into a jar that was not his.

Much like the other businesspersons to pass through Phantomhive Manor, Lewis F. Barlow was a bad chess player. Without paying attention to the entire board, he had failed, like so many others, to notice the true danger. Lord Barlow had failed to notice that for all its strength and valor, it was not his bishop that deserved the most attention.

Ciel did not take his eyes off the board. "Children are especially fond of games," he said quietly, "but there is one thing about games that they cannot stand."

"Oh?" Looking up, Ciel noted the way in which Lord Barlow's lips twitched. This deformed half-smile was indicative of only one thing: any moment now, he was expecting surrender.

"Cheaters."

Silence.

"The only reason you came here today," Ciel explained simply, "was to try and convince me that you could turn an already smoothly run operation into 'something even better'. It was never about being able to benefit my company or yours – you knew that if you somehow got me to sign this contract, close to half of Funtom Co.'s profit would go directly to you. Yet despite the massive implications of your plan, you disguised your intentions in a poorly written document confident that because of my young age, I would not bother to read it." Ciel gestured to his desk, which was currently cluttered with several documents detailing the anatomy of this vile beast-of-a-plan.

"You made one critical mistake: underestimating your opponent." Moving his knight, made of the blackest ebony, Ciel cornered Lord Barlow's king. "Check mate."

Lord Barlow's pasty face regained a bit of color as a purple vein began to pulse in his forehead. From his throat emerged several sounds which seemed to be the start of words, but which came out more like gagging on an Adam's apple. Unable to find his tongue, Lord Barlow removed a handkerchief from one of his pockets and dabbed at his face, which was beginning to look more like a beet the longer he sat there.

"N-no, you... I-!"

It was at that moment when Sebastian entered the office with this afternoon's snack. Ciel pounced at the opportunity.

"Sebastian," he said quickly, "escort our guest to the door. We are finished with negotiations."

Immediately, and much to the Lord's chagrin, the butler complied. "Yes, My Lord." Without hesitation, Sebastian had a noticeably thunderstruck Lord Barlow on his feet and in what seemed like less than a few seconds, the "businessman" was out of Ciel's sight.

Leaning up against the arm of the royal green high-backed chair he was so fond of with a heavy sigh, Ciel now allowed himself to relax, awaiting Sebastian's return. Glancing over at the tray Sebastian had brought in, Ciel paid no mind to the extra set of dishes that would now be going to waste. He knew the butler would not mind – he almost never did. It was only on those rare occasions where he had put a bit of extra effort (on top of his traditionally extraordinary performance) that Sebastian's otherwise calm attitude would begin to fade. Though he didn't particularly wish to admit it, there were times when, despite himself, Ciel was grateful for having such an obedient butler.

But then, he remembered where those skills came from.

Still irritated by the meeting, Ciel fidgeted with the eye-patch that hung faithfully over his right eye. It hid his Faustian mark from the outside world, but even though it was a necessity, it could be such an annoyance sometimes.

Footsteps coming down the hall told Ciel that Sebastian was returning. Sure enough, the butler suddenly reemerged though the half-closed doorway, though not exactly as Ciel had expected him to.

"Young Master," Sebastian said mildly, "there was a letter for you on the doorstep. It must have just arrived." Sebastian turned the envelope over in his hand, a look of distaste marring his face. "How careless, leaving it on the steps like that."

Neither of them was curious as to the sender of this letter. The envelope was so distinctive - the tan color, and the elegant style and shape of the envelope, along with a crest-impregnated seal of red wax – it was enough to answer any questions they may have had, save one: its purpose.

Once the letter had exchanged hands, Ciel promptly cut the seal with a letter opener. Taking his time, he read it through slowly, being sure to catch everything: Her Majesty was not one to disappoint. Meanwhile, Sebastian busied himself by returning to his previous task and poured his master a cup of tea, presenting it with the afternoon snack: a strawberry tart, as only Sebastian could make.

These, Ciel took up after he had finished reading – but not before placing the letter back into the envelope, away from his butler's crimson eyes. Ciel knew this would annoy Sebastian; it was a fact that pleased him greatly. But even if it did annoy him, the butler gave no outward sign of indignation, as a servant of the Phantomhive household is wont. Rather, he stood patiently awaiting orders he knew were coming: a letter from the Queen deserves an immediate response from one of her Watchdogs.

Finally, those orders came:

"We leave for London in an hour."

Like the faithful creature he was, Sebastian bowed his head. "Yes, My Lord." Turning swiftly, he exited the room, heading immediately towards the bowels of Phantomhive Manor.

There was work to be done.