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Chapter Text

Prologue: A Second Round?

"…I hope we'll find each other again in our next life."

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"Fuck… that could've killed me..."
My breath comes in sharp, shallow gasps as I stare at my small hand, still outstretched toward the sun. It's shaking, my entire body shaking. And it hurts. My chest feels tight—like I can't draw enough air in. The pressure is unbearable. I clutch at my heart instinctively, gasping for a breath that won't come.
I try to sit up, but the world tilts and my stomach churns.
Unable to stop myself, I roll to my side and throw up.

When the nausea finally fades, leaving me feeling hollow, I mutter to myself, "I… I did die."
No, wait. I'm here. Am I? Did I die?

I blink, shaking my head. "What the hell was that!?"
Everything feels wrong—like something fundamental shifted inside me.
I try to push myself up, but my legs, tiny and unsteady, betray me. They tangle in each other as I stagger. Before I can steady myself, I lose my balance completely and roll down the embankment. My body hits the ground with a thud, tumbling helplessly until I come to a jarring stop.

I lie there, then I look down at the vast ocean stretching out, hundreds of meters below. Between me and the endless drop, a sturdy fence running along the edge, barely holding anyone back from falling —like I almost did.

This place… I'm on Dad's—no, our floating island.

But wasn't I just… grown up a minute ago? How did I end up here? What happened?

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The memory of my death—if that's what it was—lingers like a dream just out of reach. It feels vivid, yet impossibly distant. My heart pounds as I try to piece it together. What happened? How am I here?

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Everything is a mess.

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Trying to order everything in my head…

I remember lying here before. Same place, same situation. Not too long ago… or maybe a long time ago? It feels like déjà vu, but it's more than that. It's vivid, painfully clear.

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"What… happened to me?"

The sun dips lower on the horizon, staining the sky a shades of orange and purple. The air cools, prickling my skin. I need to go home, but my legs feel like they belong to someone else.
Slowly, my thoughts begin to clear a little. I think. The events from earlier are piecing themselves together in a more coherent way.

First, there was a hit—then a scolding, followed by the apology from me. And when Mistress Zola saw me father brought me to the shed—the one my brother and I called home whenever Zola was around.

None of that is surprising; I could've predicted it. Wait… predicted?
The word feels heavy, strange. Why does it make sense? And why would I run away? I knew it would only make things worse. It only hurts me and my parents.
But I did it anyway. Why? Did I hurt them? Did I really hurt them?

Caught in the spiral of my thoughts, I barely notice when my older brother, Nicks, talking to me. He must think I'm stuck on my reading exercise again.
I glance at him, my chest tightening further as a memory—no, this memory—plays out in my mind. The conversation we're about to have, I already know it. "Bro" It feels odd, calling him that, but it's what I said before.
He blinks at me, surprised by my tone. His reaction and answers match what I remember.

It's like my memories. How do I know all of this?
Did I somehow see the future?

No... it's not just that.

Did I "reincarnate" again? Back to the same time and place, just like in these so-called "memories"?

Chapter 1: What to Do?

It's been a few weeks since I remembered my past life. Since then, things have been… slow. Close to every day, I've been working in the fields with Dad, Nicks and some servs from sunrise. It's fine—nice even—but there's so much more I want to do.
The problem is, I can't do much of anything yet. Not until Collin is born. I don't want to risk messing up his birth.
Waiting, though? Waiting is so boring. A year or so didn't feel this long in my memories.

Nothing's exactly like I remember, but it's close enough. I think there was a name for that in my first life… the butterfly effect? Yeah, that sounds right.
I know there are no guarantees. My memories don't mean everything will happen the same way. But Collin? He has to exist. I don't even want to imagine a world without him. It's bad enough knowing I'll never see my kids from my past life again.
That thought feels wrong every time it crosses my mind. Me, a kid, thinking about kids of my own? Gross. Blah.

I've been careful not to interfere too much—especially with Mom, Dad, or Zola. I even wrote down everything I could remember from my past life, like I did last time. The more I write, the more I remember. It's weird how that works. Stuff I thought I'd forgotten just comes back, like it was waiting for me to dig it up.
But still, writing, working, and studying? It's not enough. It's boring.
The only times I break from the usual routine are when I do things I remember from my past life. But until Collin's birth, there's almost nothing I can act on. So until then, I'm stuck. Waiting.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts when Finnley crashes into me with a grin. "Leon! Come eat!" she chirps, grabbing my arm and tugging. "Time for lunch, dear," Mom says, trailing behind her.
"Oh, yeah. Sure, I'm coming," I mumble, letting Finnley drag me along.

For now, I just have to keep my head down and not mess with anything. Once Collin is born, I can finally start steering my family toward a better future—especially Rutart and Merce. Maybe if they are not so reliant on Zola, or Zola changes, they don't meet such a gruesome fate. And as soon as I get Luxion, I'll be able to help everyone else too.

It's probably too late for the other Leon, but I promise, I'll make things better for you, my dear…
It's frustrating, though—I can't remember any names that weren't in the game. Still, I'll do everything I can to help all my past wives so they don't have to suffer this time around. They deserve better, and I won't let them down. Even my first life's sister, if she's here. Yeah, she's an idiot, but I won't let her end up seducing those five idiots just to get by. She too deserves better than that.

There's so much chaos and misfortune in these memories. I managed to live a good life, but I was always too late to act—only ever getting serious when the fires were already raging. It was always panic, stress, and desperation. This time, I need to be better, to act earlier—for the people I could have saved and for those who cared and worried about me despite everything. I owe them that much.

I just hope Dad will help me get to Luxion before I'm old enough to go after it by myself, so I get a head start.

Morning comes and goes, but the days don't feel any different—until suddenly one does. Mom and Dad call us together in the evening, their expressions unusually serious but warm.
"We have some news," Dad says, grinning ear to ear like it was the best news in the world. "You're getting another sibling!"
There's a pause as the words sink in. Mom, sitting beside him, looks a little tired, but her smile is soft, glowing with that kind of quiet happiness that warms a room. "You'll have to help out more around the house, alright?" she says, her voice calm but expectant.

Nicks, being Nicks, shrugs, with his arms crossed. "Let's hope it's a girl. Lady Zola's always nicer to girls."
Mom shakes her head, amused. "Oh, come on, Nicks. You've been a great older brother to Leon. I'm sure it'll be just fine if it's a boy. You'll help him out, just like you help Leon."
"Sure," Nicks says, deadpan.
Jenna groans from her seat, throwing her head back dramatically. "Ugh, another baby? Great. More crying all night."

Before anyone can reply, Finnley practically explodes with excitement, gasping so loudly it makes me flinch. Her little hands clap together like she's trying to summon magic, and her whole face lights up. "A baby?!" she shrieks. "I want to help! I'll sing to them every day!" She's bouncing now, spinning toward Jenna with wide, sparkling eyes. "Isn't that amazing, Jenna? We'll have a tiny sibling!"
Jenna just rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. "Babies are noisy, Finnley. You'll see."

I stay quiet, my heart hammering. This is it. This is the moment I've been waiting for. Everything has to go perfectly. If I mess up even a small detail—if anything changes—what if Collin doesn't exist? Just thinking about it makes my stomach turn. I can't let that happen.
So, I stay in the background, nodding along when Mom and Dad explain how we all need to pitch in. When Finnley tugs on my sleeve and asks, "Will you play with the baby when they're here?" I give her a small smile and say, "Sure."

The days that follow drag on. Every morning feels like the same slow routine: working in the fields with Dad and Nicks, helping Mom with chores, and staying out of trouble.
Jenna isn't exactly helpful. She keeps dodging any hard work, acting like she's above it all—a habit she definitely picked up from Zola and Merce. Every time she complains, I have to bite my tongue. The last thing I want is to start a fight that stresses Mom out.

Finnley, on the other hand, is glued to Mom like a second shadow. She hums little lullabies while folding laundry and constantly asks, "Mama, do you think the baby can hear me?
Mom just smiles, brushing Finnley's hair gently. "I'm sure they can, sweetheart. Keep singing—they'll love it."

When the big day finally arrives, the house is chaos.

Dad paces like a soldier in battle, barking orders to Nicks, who scrambles to follow them. Jenna is biting her nails in the corner, looking as stressed as I feel. Finnley clings to me, her big eyes brimming with worry.
"Is Mama going to be okay?" she whispers.
"She'll be fine," I tell her, ruffling her hair. "Mom's strong. She's got this."
Still, my stomach twists in knots. Everything depends on this moment.

Hours pass like centuries before a newborn's cries echo through the house. The tension breaks instantly. Dad steps out of the bedroom, his face a mixture of exhaustion and pride.
"It's a boy," he says, his grin so wide it's almost blinding.

It´s Collin.

It's him—it's really him! Right birthday, right name, everything matches. And they even named him Collin without me saying a word.

I didn't mess it up. Relief floods through me. Now I can finally start moving forward.
First on the list? Convincing Dad to help me with "my dream" and find Luxion. I doubt he'll agree right away, but maybe I'll get lucky.
For now, though, let's shake things up a little. Time to show my sisters and Zola's kids how much more fun life can be when you stop acting like a stuck-up noble all the time.

Chapter Text

The early afternoon sun filters through the windows as I peek into the kitchen. Mom and some maids are chopping vegetables, hands moving with practiced ease. Finnley stands on a stool beside mom, trying her best to "help" by stacking carrots into a wobbly tower. She hums happily, utterly absorbed in her masterpiece.
"Mom?" I step into the room, putting on my best grin. "Can I take the rest of the day off today? Please? I've been really good, haven't I?"
Mom glances up, one eyebrow raised. "You have been a good boy for quite some time. No trouble at all. What's going on, Leon? Are you feeling alright?"
"Nothing's wrong! I'm just being good, that's all. So… can I, please?"

Her lips curl into a small smile. "Alright, Leon. You've earned it. But what do you want to do?"
"Play outside!... Oh, and, uh… could you ask Jenna to come with me too?" I need an opening to talk to her without her facade.
Mom pauses, blinking at me in surprise. "Jenna? You want your sister to play with you?"
"Yeah," I nod, trying to look as innocent as possible. "It's more fun with her." And after the fall of the matriarchy we got along much better. So maybe we can get along now, if we try.
Finnley looks over from her stool, clutching a carrot in her little hands. "Jenna's fun! She's the best! But... why not me? I'm fun too!" Yeah and I'll try keeping it that way unlike last time.
"You are, Finnley," I say, ruffling her hair. "But you're busy helping Mom, right?"
She puffs up her chest proudly. "Yup! I'm Mom's best helper!" Then she tilts her head, her expression suddenly serious. "But if Jenna goes, you have to be nice to her, okay, Leon?"
"I am nice!"

Mom laughs softly, setting down her knife. "Let's see if Jenna wants to come. Jenna!" she calls toward the stairs. A moment later, light footsteps echo, and Jenna appears in the doorway, wearing a scowl. "What is it? I was doing something."
"Leon wants to play outside and asked if you'd join him,"
Jenna's nose wrinkles as she looks at me skeptically. "Play with him? Why? He's just a little farm boy. What am I supposed to do with him?"
I wince. Not the warmest reception and a bad choice of words. I glance at Mom, whose expression is no longer amused. "Jenna," she says, her voice sharp. "That 'farm boy' is your brother. And if you have time to stand here arguing, you have time to go outside with him. I don't want to hear another word. Go."
Jenna groans loudly. "But Mom—"
"No buts!" Mom snaps. "And if I hear another complaint, you'll be helping Finnley in the kitchen instead." Finnley beams up at Jenna. "Ooh, help me, Jenna!"
Jenna huffs and mutters, "I suppose it's better than peeling carrots."
Finnley giggles. "Jenna's the best, huh, Leon?" I roll my eyes but smile anyway. "Sure, Finnley. She's great."

Jenna huffs, stomping toward the door. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."
"Behave, you two!" Mom calls after us. "Jenna, take care of your brother, and Leon, don't start anything!"
As we head outside, Finnley waves enthusiastically from her stool. "Have fun, Jenna! Be nice to Leon!" Jenna mutters something under her breath, but I can't hear it. I just smirk to myself. Now onto the main part.

Once we're outside, the warm sun and soft breeze make everything feel a little less tense. We pass the training area as I glance at Jenna.
"I've got an offer for you," I say, twirling the wooden sword I'd snagged on the way out. "Let's fight. If you win, you can decide what we do today. But if I win, I get to pick."
She gives me a smug look, crossing her arms. "Try it, farm boy."

The moment we start, it's clear she's stronger than me—but I'm quicker. She swings hard, her strikes making my arms ache every time I block, but her frustration grows as I dodge and feint.
The fight is harder than I expected. Her height gives her an advantage, but I've been practicing when no one's looking. My strikes get sharper, more confident. It's close, but in the end, I manage to disarm her with a quick feint and a low sweep.

Breathing hard, I grin. "I win. So, we're playing adventurers in the woods. No complaints."
Jenna glares at me, rubbing her sore hand, but doesn't argue.

We wander in the direction of the woods, wooden swords in hand. I wonder what she thinks of me. Would she answer honestly if I ask?... Let´s try it out.
"You call me a farm boy all the time," I say after a moment of silence. "Does that mean you don't like me?" She stumbles over her words, flustered. "No, it's… noblewomen are worth more than men. So, it's fine for you to be a farm boy, but that's beneath me."
I stop in my tracks, frowning. there it is, the matriarchy bullshit. "So, Mom and Dad are beneath you too? Since Dad works the fields and Mom takes care of the house?" My voice cracks, and I hate how it sounds like I'm about to cry. Why aren't I over 60 on the inside? That thought shouldn't hurt me.
Jenna freezes. Her face twists uncomfortably, and for a moment, I think she's going to say something kind. Instead, she stiffens. "No, but… they shouldn't do that. They should be… more noble, like Lady Zola."
I clench my fists. "I don't think anyone should be like Zola. She—"

"Lady Zola," Jenna interrupts. "That's why she has a problem with you. You don't have manners." WHAT'S WiTH THAT REVERENCE? SHE— stop, I need to calm down…
"Lady Zola is the reason Nicks and I can't stay in our home when she visits! She doesn't do anything a noble should—no work, no care for her subjects, nothing. She isn't even here most of the time. All she does is take money, and that's why Mom and Dad have to work so hard just so we have enough to eat! No one should be like that!" My voice rises, and tears sting my eyes. I hate this.

Jenna's lips press into a thin line. She doesn't look at me. After a long silence, I ask, "Do you want to be like that?" She hesitates, then deflects. "No… So, uh, what did you want to play again?"

In the woods, we pretend it's a dungeon. The trees become walls, the bushes monsters, and the scattered stones hidden treasures. A group of town kids joins us, playing knights protecting Jenna, the "maiden." She quickly took to bossing the other kids around, directing their attacks with dramatic flair.

At the end, I take on the role of the monster knight, guarding the greatest treasure. The kids try valiantly to beat me, but it's Jenna who lands the final blow. I fall dramatically, lying on the ground.
Jenna's laugh rings out, soft and genuine. "So now I get to decide what we play next."

"Why?" I protest.
"Because I won the sword fight," she says with a wide grin. "Wasn't that your rule?"
"But I wasn't fighting for real. The monster shouldn't win."
"No buts." The town kids laugh. "She's right! A knight keeps his promises!" a girl chimes in.
"Fine," I grumble, smiling despite myself. That was fun even if Jean got the last laugh today.

"Thanks for playing, everyone. We'll head home now. See you later!" "Goodbye, young master! Young mistress!" "Just call me Leon!" I call after them.
"Can't do!" the girl says with a playful grin before running off.

As we head back, I glance at Jenna. Her expression is thoughtful, something I don't see often.
"Was that really your first time playing with commoners? Not even the maids' kids?" "Yeah. Why?" "No wonder you don't play outside much. Before I was old enough, Nicks was your only playmate." I guess It's fine to be with her when it's not about Zola.

"Shut it," she growls, cheeks turning red. "Lady Zola taught me not to associate with commoners. But it was fun. I guess." I sigh, anger swelling inside me instantly. "Guess Lady Zola isn't always right."
"You can't say that," she snaps. "Her advice is about behaving like a noble. For all your complaints, she's the only one in the family who acts like one."
"Maybe. But I never want to be like her." Behaving like a noble—like an evil noble, maybe.
Jenna doesn't seem to be affected by my mood like earlier, just muses something about noble, adventures, commoners and knights, to quit for me to make out. Maybe I masked it better this time.

When we return, Finnley comes running, begging us to play with her. We spend the rest of the evening playing hide-and-seek, tag, and other games until dinner. It even looks like Jenna is having fun. To make up for breaking my promise about letting Jenna pick the next game, I even endured playing dolls and board games with her after the meal. Honestly, it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd expected.

The next day, three families came to apologize for their kids' behavior toward us during the game. To my surprise—and my parents'—Jenna dismissed their apologies with grace. The way she carried herself, calm and considerate, was such a sharp contrast to Zola that it dragged yesterday's frustration back to the surface. Now those memories burned fresh in my mind. Just thinking about it made my chest tighten all over again.

Still, for a fleeting moment, I saw the noblewoman Jenna could become—someone who cared for people, not just status or power. It felt like progress. Maybe I should keep talking to her about Zola, even if it leaves me seething every time. After all, the rest of yesterday was fun.

I should have at least tried to bridge the gap in my past life, even with Zola standing between us.

Chapter Text

The warm afternoon sun hangs lazily over the training yard, just after finishing work for today. I fix eyes on Jenna, who is already sizing me up with that irritatingly smug look on her face. Across the yard, Dad has a conflicted smile tugging at his lips. He always seems torn during these duels, I am not sure why.
Our duels have become something of a ritual—a way to decide disputes. Today's stakes: Jenna wants to dictate my behavior around Lady Zola. "For your own good," she had said, puffing up like she was on some grand mission. Sure. And pigs can fly.

But we aren't starting just yet. Nicks has been sent to fetch Finnley, who'd insisted she couldn't miss it. We'd never hear the end of it. Taking advantage of the delay, I turn to Dad, trying my luck—again. "So, Dad, about adventuring… If we went together, just for a little while, I could—"
"Leon," he cut me off, his tone patient but firm, "we've been through this. It's not happening."
Lately, even Jenna had been trying to join my hypothetical expeditions. She'd teased me about it at first, but I could tell she was serious. Not that Dad ever entertained the idea.
I sigh and turn back to Jenna. "You know," I start, "if you're coming with me when I do leave, you'd better work on your footwork."
She raises an eyebrow. "Oh, don't worry about me, farm boy. I'll be fine. You're the one who needs help."
I open my mouth to retort but stop when I spot Nicks and Finnley heading toward us. To my surprise, Mom is with them, Baby Collin nestled in her arms.

Great. Now the whole family was here.
If everyone is watching, I have to be careful. I can't afford to show too much skill—it wouldn't do to raise questions about how I have such sharp reflexes for a 6-year-old.
Mom settles on a bench near the edge of the yard, bouncing Collin gently in her arms. Nicks leans against the fence, his usual neutral expression firmly in place. Finnley, on the other hand, was practically bouncing out of her skin with excitement. "Jenna's gonna win this time!" she calls out, her grin wide. "Not a chance," I shoot back.

Jenna rolls her shoulders, her expression shifting. She is psyching herself up, probably reminding herself of her so-called mission to "save me" from my bad habits.
"You ready, farm boy?" she asks, her smirk returning as she raises her sword.
"As I'll ever be," I reply, settling into a defensive stance.

She moves first, her wooden blade slicing through the air with surprising precision. I sidestep easily, countering with a quick feint.
"Too weak." Her tone is mocking.
"You're one to talk," I shoot back. "At least I don't grunt like a wild boar when I swing."
Her cheeks turn red, and she lunges at me. Our swords clash, the impact jolting up my arms. She presses the attack, her strikes sharp and deliberate. She has improved—there is no denying that. But I'm still faster.
I dodge her next swing and when I counter, I make sure to aim for a spot she can defend. She can win this time, maybe following her advice can help me get closer to the Zola clan.
"Not bad," I say, grinning. "For a boar." Jenna growls under her breath, her swings growing faster but sloppier. I know that look—she is pushing herself too hard, trying to force an opening where there isn't one.
Let's end it. Leaving a deliberate gap in my defense, I watch as her eyes lit up. She lunges forward, her sword landing a blow against me.

"Point to me!" she declares, stepping back with a triumphant grin.
I groan, clutching my side dramatically. "Fine, fine. What do you want?"
Jenna lowers her sword, crossing her arms. "You're going to behave properly in front of Lady Zola. No scowling, no snide comments, and definitely no glaring." "You're asking a lot," I mutter, straightening up. "But I'll try."
Mom chuckles from her spot on the bench, bouncing Collin lightly. "Well, that's a start,"her smile soft but amused.

Nicks shakes his head, muttering something under his breath. Finnley, however, throws her hands in the air and cheers.
"Jenna won! I knew it!" she cries, her excitement infectious.
I shoot her a mock glare but can't help the small smile that creps onto my face.

Even as I walk off the training yard, rubbing my ribs, I can't help but feel a flicker of warmth.

Later that evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, Zola and her children arrive. Her visits always bring a strange tension to the house, like a storm brewing just beyond the horizon. Dinner is a private affair tonight, with only Zola, her kids, Dad, and my sisters present.
Mother, Nicks, and I are uninvited, as usual.
It's her one "show meal" for each visit, where she eats exclusively with what she considers the true Family Bartfort. An olive branch, she'd likely call it. A chance for her to play the role of a gracious noblewoman, while reinforcing the lines she's drawn between us.
The rest of the time, she takes her meals only with her own children, leaving Dad to dine with us. If I'm being honest, I think he prefers it that way. The strained look on his face after just one meal with her says more than words ever could.

The next day, I spot Rutart alone in the courtyard, with no watchful eyes on him. He's clearly enjoying himself, swinging a wooden sword with exaggerated flair. His movements are wild, flashy, and utterly impractical—more like a performance than actual training.
Nice chance, no one's around to stop me. Grinning, I stroll over.
"Lord Rutart," I call, emphasizing the title with mock respect. "How about a duel? Me and Nicks against you. We should be no match for you, our noble heir. Or…" I tilt my head, smirking, "are you scared?"
Rutarts face twisting into an indignant scowl. "Scared? Of you? As if! You're barely better than peasants." He straightens his back, puffing out his chest. "Fine. I'll show you just how outmatched you are."
Got him. I´ll have to scope out how to get closer to him. Let's just try stuff and see what sticks.
Dragging Nicks to the training yard takes some effort. He groans audibly when I ask, shaking his head. "Why do you always drag me into these things?"
"Because I'm not a hundred percent sure if he's strong enough to be a problem for me," I reply, grinning. "Come on, Nicks. Let's take him down a peg."
Nicks eventually agrees, sighing like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. He stands beside me, his sword dangling loosely in his hand as if he's already bored.

The match begins, and it's over almost before it starts. Rutart charges at us, his strikes a bit powerful but completely unrefined. His stance is terrible, and his swings so wide that Nicks and I have years to dodge. We practically dance around him.
"Stop running away and fight me properly!" Rutart yells, his voice cracking with frustration. "We're not running, big brother," I say, emphasizing the last words just enough to needle him.

Nicks barely puts in any effort, halfheartedly parrying Rutart's attacks while muttering under his breath about how ridiculous this all is. I, on the other hand, have a little fun with it, sidestepping Rutart's wild swings and poking at his defenses just enough to keep him spinning in circles.
It doesn't take long for him to wear himself out. His breathing grows heavy, his strikes slower and sloppier. So sloppy that we disarm him without a body hit.

"You cheated!" Rutart huffs, his face red with exertion and indignation. "It wasn't fair—two against one!"
I shrug, twirling my sword lazily. That's not what he said before, well… "Then how about a one-on-one? If I win, I get to call you 'big brother.'" Maybe breaking with formalities gets us closer?
His eyes narrow, his lips curling into a sneer. "Fine. I'll crush you myself."

Rutart's arrogance is his downfall. Fueled by pride, he swings harder, his strikes reckless and easy to predict. I evade each one with practiced ease, waiting for the right moment. With a quick feint and a low sweep, I send his sword flying.

The yard falls silent, save for Rutart's labored breathing. I plant my sword on the ground, grinning. "I get to call you big brother now."
Rutart glares at me, his jaw tightening. "Don't you dare—" Nicks cuts him off with a groan. "Just don't call him that when Zola's around. Else it'll be trouble for all of us."
Rutart looks less than thrilled as he mutters under his breath about "ungrateful peasants." Still, he doesn't argue further, instead stomping off to sulk near the edge of the yard.

After a while, though, he seemed eager again. When we trained together later, he actually tried and even improved a bit. Near the end, he manages to catch me off guard once or twice, heralding his win loudly enough for everyone to hear.
It's a small change, but I'll take it.

When we got back, Zola was livid. The moment she heard about our little "game," she declared that Nicks and I were to stay outside the main house from now on. Honestly, it didn't bother me much—being out of her sight was more of a relief than a punishment. I don't know if I really want to try and get along with her…
Rutart's punishment, though, was something weird. He was forced to join us for dinner in the garden, since he missed out on the lavish meal the servants had prepared for Zola, Merce, and himself. The look on his face when he realized he'd be eating with us instead of basking in Zola's extravagance? Priceless. Bonus for playing into my cards.

Dinner in the garden is a simple affair, but Mom has outdone herself, preparing a hearty stew with fresh bread and roasted vegetables. The smell alone makes my mouth water.
Rutart's posture is rigid as he tries—and fails—to look authoritative. His eyes dart around the table like he's still trying to figure out how he ended up here.

"Big brother, can you pass the bread?" I ask casually, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. Mom glances at me, her brow furrowing. "Big brother?" she echoes. Jenna shoots me a pointed look. "What's wrong with you? Remember your promise?"
Rutart, for his part, stiffens even more, his hand frozen halfway to the breadbasket. "Don't call me that!" he snaps.
"You lost the duel, and this is my price, remember?" I reply, winking at Jenna.

Finnley, sitting beside me, immediately perks up and joins in. "Big brother, can I have some too?" Her tone is bright and innocent, her grin wide.
"Finnley, no," Jenna leans toward her, her voice sharp. "Don't do that in front of Zola. She'll—" She stops abruptly, her eyes darting toward Mom. "Just... don't, okay?"
Finnley frowns, her shoulders slumping. "Why not? It's fun!" "Because I said so," Jenna hisses, her tone brooking no argument.

Rutart clears his throat loudly, his expression an awkward mix of embarrassment and frustration. "Ahem. I—uh—command you to stop calling me that," he says, his voice gaining volume as he pushes forward. "It's improper!" Seems like I got under his skin.
Mom raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, focusing instead on feeding Collin. I notice the faint smile tugging at her lips, though—it's clear she's more amused than concerned.
"Big brother, can you pass the vegetables?" I ask again, not missing a beat. "Stop it!" Rutart barks, his face turning red as he grabs the dish and thrusts it toward me. "Thank you, big brother," I reply smoothly.
"You're the worst," Jenna mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose like she's already exhausted.
Rutart glares at me, clearly flustered, but I can see him struggling to hold onto his composure. He straightens his back, determined to reclaim some authority.
"Everyone!" he announces suddenly, standing up and puffing out his chest. "I want to make it clear that, as the heir to the Bartfort family, I expect proper behavior during meals. That means—"
"Sit down." Mom says gently, not even looking up from Collin. The quiet authority in her voice deflates him instantly. He sinks back into his chair without finishing his sentence, his face a mix of defeat and irritation.

The rest of the meal passes with Finnley gleefully copying me, much to Jenna's mounting frustration, and Rutart's continued but unsuccessful attempts to assert control. By the time we're finished, the tension has mostly melted away, replaced by something strange—something almost like familial warmth.

Rutart still doesn't quite fit, his discomfort as obvious as ever, but for a brief moment, it almost feels like he belongs. Almost.

A short while after he left, my curiosity got the better of me. The soft glow of lamplight spilled from a window in the main house, and I found myself crouching outside, peeking in. Rutart's voice drifts out, carrying the unmistakable mix of arrogance and unease that always seems to follow him.
"…the meal was terrible," he's saying, though his tone lacks its usual bite. He shifts awkwardly, his hands fidgeting at his sides. Zola sits across from him, her posture as regal as ever, watching him with cold, calculating eyes. "Terrible?" she prompts, her voice smooth and low.
"Yes," Rutart says, but the word feels hollow. Then he blurts out, louder this time, "I hate being around them!" There it is. The sharp, petulant edge to his words that I've come to expect. Still, something about the way he says it feels off. He hesitates, his shoulders slumping slightly before he continues, quieter now. "But… I want to train more. I can use Leon and Nicks as training dummies."
Zola's lips curl into a wicked smile, her eyes gleaming in the lamplight. "Excellent idea," she purrs, her voice dripping with approval.

I slip away before I can hear anything more, my mind churning. Lying in bed, I stare at the wooden beams above me, the echoes of their conversation playing over and over in my head. Have I made things better or worse?
My intentions were good. I wanted to nudge Rutart toward something better, to build even a thread of connection between him and the rest of us. But did it work?

Shit. Let's just see what tomorrow holds.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Zola left for a party hosted by one of her acquaintances from the capital. Or so I heard—not that she would give anyone living out here the time of day. She swept out of the house with her usual entourage of mostly male attendants, her children left behind with her parting decree ringing in my ears.
"Nicks and Leon are to serve as your sparring partners, Rutart," she announced as though she were granting him the world's greatest gift. "Make good use of them."

I shudder, being the only one aware of their talk last night. But Rutart's face lights up with enthusiasm, his hand already clutching the hilt of his wooden sword. "I'll make sure they earn their keep!" he declares, his tone brimming with arrogance.
Dad, however, had other ideas. "Not before they finish their chores," he says, his voice calm, meeting Rutart's eyes with a steady gaze. "Why don't you use this time to warm up? It'll make training easier when they're ready."
Rutart straightens, his chest puffing out. "But Mother said they're supposed to help me! You can't just ignore her orders!" Dad sighs, setting down the tool he'd been working on. "I'm not ignoring anything," he replies, his tone still even. "But there's work to be done first. You'll get your sparring partners once the chores are finished."

Rutart's grip tightens on the hilt of his sword. "I'm the heir! You can't just—"
Dad's expression hardens, and he stands, his full height casting a shadow over Rutart. "That's enough," he says, his voice low but firm. "You can go train on your own. But you're not training with them until they've finished."
Rutart falters, his face reddening as he plants his feet. For a moment, it looks like he might push further.
"Fine," he mutters finally, lowering his sword and stomping off.

Dad watches him go, exhaling quietly before turning back to his work.
The hours pass as the farm work gets done for the day. Nicks, as usual, is calm, accepting it as a natural part of life.
By the time we are finally free, Rutart has vanished.

I go looking for Rutart but find Jenna instead. Near the doorway to the kitchen, she stands awkwardly, her arms hovering at her sides like she doesn't know what to do with them. She is watching Mom and Finnley as they bustle about with the housework, their laughter floating through the air. Jenna's expression is hard to read—emotional conflict, maybe?
This isn't the first time I've caught her like this. I remember seeing her at a window once, staring out at us working the fields. When I waved at her, she bolted like a startled rabbit. Maybe my actions are bearing more fruits than I expected.

I can't help myself. Walking up behind her, I tap her shoulder.
She jumps, spinning around with a gasp, her face immediately flushing red. "You!" she hisses, glaring at me like I've just insulted her. I raise an eyebrow. "What about me?"
"You agreed not to talk to me when Lady Zola's group is around!" she snaps, her tone a mix of embarrassment and irritation.
I shrug. "Yeah, yeah. And yet, here we are." I nod toward Mom and Finnley, who are now debating something about the best way to fold linens. An unusual topic for the kitchen. "You know, you could just talk to them. If you wanted to help, they'd probably let you."
Jenna's glare intensifies, and she crosses her arms tightly. "And why would I want to do that?" she says, her voice dripping with indignation.
"Right, forget I said anything." I wave her off, already turning away. "Do it your way. I have to find Rutart anyway. Bye." I leave her standing there, stealing one last glance over my shoulder. She still hasn't moved.

When I eventually find Rutart, he is sitting in his barely used room, stabbing at some toys with his sword. His earlier excitement has faded into sulky boredom, his shoulders slumped.
"Ready to train?" I ask, stepping into view. Rutart jolts upright, his face twisting into an exaggerated scowl. "Of course! Let's get started right away!"

To my surprise, the training session went better than expected. Rutart didn't command us around—not much, anyway—and he even listened to Dad's advice without fighting back. The punching bag thing was either forgotten or never meant seriously.
By the end of the session, his swings are steadier, his movements less erratic. He still has a long way to go, but at least he is trying. Looks like I found a way to get closer.

With Zola gone, Rutart and Merce joined our dinner on their own—a first for both of them. Merce, in particular, looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. She sits with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression carefully neutral, though her sharp glances at Rutart say plenty. Whatever has brought her here, it clearly wasn't her choice. Rutart is stiff, his back unnaturally straight, trying to exude authority while glancing at Merce as if he wants to be praised when he thinks no one is looking. I'm really lucky this visit, first Rutart and now Merce, maybe I´ll get closer to both of them.

The meal is more elaborate than usual, thanks to Mom's efforts, but it is far from the extravagance Zola demands. Rutart is trying to mask his discomfort, cutting his bread into absurdly precise pieces, while Merce regards the food with thinly veiled disdain.

"This is... sufficient," Merce's voice carries an air of condescension. "I suppose I shouldn't expect more from rustic dining."
Mom flinches slightly, but she keeps her focus on Collin next to her. "We do the best we can."
Finnley, oblivious to any tension, pipes up as cheerful as ever. "Big brother, can you pass the vegetables?"
Rutart freezes, his hand halfway to his glass. For a moment, his jaw tightens, but he sighs and passes the dish to Finnley without argument. "Thank you, big brother!" Finnley chirps, her smile gives a low groan, muttering, "Yeah, yeah."

I can't help but grin at his tone—more resigned than angry. "Big brother," I say, pushing him a little further, "can you pass the bread too?"
He shoots me a glare but reaches for the basket anyway, shoving it across the table. "Here. Happy?" "Very," I answer with a grin.

Across the table, Merce's fork hovers mid-air as she watches the exchange. Her gaze is sharp and calculating, flicking between Rutart and me as if trying to decipher something.
"Big brother, can you pass the stew?" Finnley asks again, clearly delighted with her new favorite term.
Merce's eyes narrow slightly, and she straightens in her chair. "It's hardly appropriate," her voice clipped. "You have to use his proper title."
"It's just a name," Rutart mumbles, looking away.
For a moment, Merce's composure wavers, her fingers tightening around her fork. She doesn't respond, and her expression burns with something—hate, or maybe jealousy?
Mom glances at Rutart briefly, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Thank you, Lord Rutart," her tone more composed than yesterday.

Merce remains quiet for the next few moments, her focus shifting back to her plate. Despite her aloofness, her gaze flicks toward Finnley whenever she speaks, her eyes almost curious. That could be my way in,but let's observe for now.
Jenna watches the scene with careful neutrality, her hands folded in her lap. I can tell by the way her shoulders tense that she is anxious about offending our step-siblings. Nicks, on the other hand, keeps his face carefully blank, only speaking when directly addressed. But I catch the way his grip tightens on his fork whenever Merce's haughty tone cuts through the air.

By the time the meal ends, the tension in the air has softened somewhat. Rutart, though stiff, has settled into a resigned acceptance of Finnley's antics, while Merce maintains her aloof demeanor, speaking only when necessary.
For a brief moment, the lines between us feel a little less sharp, though I doubt either of them would admit it.

The next day around noon, Zola returned. As usual, the entire household moved to accommodate her. Us boys and our few maids scramble to prepare everything for her departure—bags packed, carriages readied, and every detail fussed over. Meanwhile, her numerous attendants mostly sit around looking pretty, adding nothing to the effort. What a waste.

Still, the time passed quickly enough. Nicks and I managed another training session with Rutart, making sure he didn't miss dinner again. By the time Zola departs just before nightfall, she is smiling in that calculated way of hers, her eyes flicking briefly over the bruises Nicks and I bear from the session.
"Good," she remarks as she climbs into her carriage. "At least you're getting something out of this."

Rutart stands behind her, his posture unnaturally stiff. His own bruises are safely hidden beneath the long sleeves of his shirt. He avoids looking at us as Zola's carriage pulls away. I can't help but feel relieved that no one has tattled to her about yesterday's dinner. If she'd known, her good mood would've been the first casualty.

The day after Zola's departure, things feel different. Jenna, who had kept her distance during Zola's visit, starts spending time with Finnley and me again. She is careful about it, though—always keeping up the pretense that it is for Finnley's sake. Still, it is nice to have her join us. The games feel livelier with Jenna's sharp wit and competitive streak in the mix. Finnley adores having both of us around, her laughter echoing through the garden as we play tag or hide-and-seek.

As the sun sets on that day, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, I find myself reflecting on the strange, shifting dynamics of our family. Zola's presence is like a storm cloud, passing through and leaving tension in her wake. But it's mostly her. With only her kids around, the air feels a lot lighter, easier to breathe.

Chapter Text

A few of Zola's visits later, I finally convinced Jenna to duel me. The stakes? If I win, she has to ask Merce if she can call her "elder sister." By now, I'm pretty sure that's what Merce wants, and Jenna too, judging by her straighter than usual posture and her fidgeting. She raises an eyebrow, "Do you realize what you're asking? Lady Merce doesn't exactly welcome that kind of thing."
"That's exactly why," I reply, spinning my wooden sword. "If it's coming from you, maybe she'll accept."

Jenna huffs, crossing her arms but keeping her tone measured. "And what do I get if I win?" "Nothing." I say with a smirk, already stepping into position. Her lips twitch, like she's fighting the urge to smile. "We'll see about that."

The duel begins, but unlike before, Jenna doesn't rush in swinging. She's learned to keep her movements controlled, testing my defenses instead of wasting energy. Her focus has improved, but she's still too predictable. I bait her into overcommitting on a strike, slipping past her guard with a light tap to her shoulder.

"Point to me."
Jenna glares, her jaw tightening. "Fine. I'll do it. But if she throws a fit, you're explaining why I broke tradition."

Later that afternoon, Jenna stands outside Merce's room, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. I hide behind a corner, peeking just enough to see her.

"Lady Merce," she says, stepping into the room with a shallow bow.
Merce lounges near the window, idly inspecting her nails. She's dressed as if she's expecting company, even though we host no guests.
"Jenna," she says, her tone light but dismissive. "What is it?" Jenna hesitates before squaring her shoulders. "I was wondering… if it would be alright to address you as 'elder sister.'"

Merce blinks, her head tilting slightly, and I can see the faintest flicker of surprise. "Elder sister?" she repeats, her voice carefully neutral. "... Yes? Lady Merce…"
Merce is silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on Jenna. Finally, she leans back. "If it pleases you, I won't object," she says, as though granting a favor she finds amusing.

Jenna bows her head slightly. "Thank you… elder sister."
Merce doesn't respond immediately. When she does, her tone is softer, nearly smiling. "You're welcome. I suppose there are worse things to be called."

From my hiding spot, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Jenna leaves the room quickly, her steps brisk and deliberate. Thank the saintess I was right.

It wasn't long after that when Finnley and I followed Jenna's lead. Finnley, of course, was the first to jump in. "Elder sister Merce," she said one morning as Merce passed by the garden. "Can Leon and I join you today?" Merce stops mid-step, her gaze narrowing slightly. "Join me?" "For whatever you're doing," Finnley clarified cheerfully. "If it's not too much trouble, I mean."

Merce's eyes flicked between us, her expression questioning. Then, with a slight tilt of her chin, she nodded. "If you're serious about behaving properly, I don't see why not."
What followed surprises me. Rather than brushing us off, Merce started including us in her activities: Etiquette drills, posture training, even tea parties where she insisted on absolute formality.

To my surprise, I didn't mind. The tea parties, in particular, were enjoyable in a way I hadn't felt in years. There's something comforting about the structure, the precision, the ritual of it all. Soon, I was hosting tea parties even when Merce wasn't visiting, using them as an excuse to bring the family together.

Zola, of course, noticed eventually. One afternoon, she appeared unannounced at one of our tea parties, her sharp voice cutting through the air with disapproval. Merce smiled, her tone as smooth as silk. "They're my playthings, Mother. If I'm to civilize them, I must start somewhere."
I won't forget that sentence for a while.
Zola didn't press further. Merce had her approval—though she lost Finnley's. Who sat stiffly, her lips pressed into a thin line, clearly holding back tears. After Zola left, Finnley excused herself, her exterior cracking as she turned her back to us.

It was tough for Jenna and me to calm Finnley down afterward. Explaining the situation didn't help. Finnley refused to be in the same room as Merce, going out of her way to avoid her entirely.
Merce seemed anxious in the days that followed, pacing when she thought no one was watching. For someone raised to never consider the feelings of others, that's probably a new experience.

Two days later, Merce approached Jenna, her movements hesitant. I just happened to be nearby, thinking about how I could help solve this.

"Do you ever feel... responsible," Merce began, her voice quiet, "when someone is upset because of you?" Jenna looked up from her seat, surprised. She set her book down, studying Merce. "It depends," she said after a pause. "Did you mean to upset them?"

Merce hesitated, fidgeting. "No," she admitted shyly. "But it happened anyway." "Then you're feeling guilty about it," Jenna replied plainly. "Guilty" she repeated, as though testing the word's weight. "How do you make it... stop?"

"You don't," Jenna said with a shrug. "Not until you fix the issue that caused it."

Merce didn't respond immediately. She stood there for a moment, her expression unreadable, before nodding curtly and leaving.

A few moments later, when I entered the room I was welcomed by Jenna, "You should really stop spying all the time. It's a bad habit of yours." Shit, I wasn't even trying this time.

The next morning, Merce found Finnley in the garden, tending to the flowers. I watched from afar as Merce approached, still hesitant.
"I wanted to apologize," Merce said, her voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "I didn't mean to hurt you." Finnley didn't look up, her hands busy with the flowers. "I don't want to talk to you." Her tone was sharp and unforgiving.

Merce lingered for a moment longer, her face now angry, before walking away, with loud steps. Being raised to believe in her own superiority, that seemed to cut her deep. The next day, before leaving, Merce was quieter than usual, her movements less confident.

It wasn't until Zola's next visit that things changed. Finnley, perhaps calmed by the time, approached us after a tea party.

"You said sorry before," Finnley began hesitantly. "Do you really mean it?" Merce straightened, meeting Finnley's gaze. "I do," she said firmly, though her voice wavered slightly.
Finnley studied her for a moment before nodding. "Okay." She reached out and tugged at Merce's sleeve. "Can we play now?" Merce blinked, clearly caught off guard, but she recovered quickly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "If you'd like."

I couldn't do anything this time. Just marvel at them walking off together. Merce, for all her pride, seemed to genuinely care about Finnley in her own way.

Rutart didn't take his sisters' new titles well. Every time Finnley or I called Merce "elder sister," his expression tightened, jealousy flickering across his face despite his attempts to hide it. He hated the reverence we gave Merce, his frustration showing in little ways—a sharp word here, an overly hard swing during training there.

Still, I can't deny that things between us have improved. Rutart isn't just bossing us around like he used to. Sometimes, after training, he'd puff out his chest and declare, "If you two keep this up, I'll make you my knights when I inherit!"
I smile, but the words always leave a sour taste in my mouth. He doesn't know he isn't Dad's son, and I hate the thought of taking anything away from him, but I can't let him inherit the Bartfort family, either. Thinking about it makes my chest feel heavy, so let's shove this thought aside.

Jenna, in contrast, seems to be adjusting to Merce's new role nicely. She'd always admired 'Lady Merce', but she also kept a careful distance, as to not get scorned. I think Jenna is now getting closer to Merce than she ever thought possible.
Finnley on the other hand only really took to Merce after the tea parties started, but once she did, she latched on with her usual enthusiasm. Seeing her beam whenever Merce calls her "little sister" is proof enough that the rough start doesn't matter any more.

Reflecting on it all, I find myself wondering how Rutart and Merce might turn out this time around. They are already different in ways I hadn't expected, but Zola… she'd always be Zola. Every attempt I made to help her ended the same way—with me punished and her completely unchanged. Adults are stubborn like that.
*sigh* For now, it was easier to focus on the family I could actually reach.

On the bright side, Colin recently started playing games with us—tag, hide-and-seek, that sort of thing. We'd always spent time with him before, but it's different now that he's starting to understand the rules, even if it takes him a few tries. Watching him stumble through the learning process is endearing.

Finnley, however, wasn't thrilled at first. She's so used to being the one everyone doted on. Colin getting attention felt like competition. There were tears—more than a few—but she's handling it better now. These days, she tries to act like a "cool and reliable older sister," though she doesn't always pull it off.

Jenna's been changing, too, though it took much longer. Thinking about my past life, I can't recall her ever helping with housework, but now she's started pitching in. Finnley never stopped this time, so having Jenna join her feels like a victory. I remember how Jenna used to just watch us work—silent, distant, always on the outside looking in.

I think that's part of why Nicks has finally started to make up with her. He hated her pride, the way she stayed in the mansion while we toiled outside. That resentment festered for years in my past life, but this time, things are shifting.

With Rutart and Merce he isn't as far alone on the path of reconciliation. Colin took to calling them "brother" and "sister" right from the start. It's all he's ever known. So Nicks is the only one stubbornly refusing them.

Looking at my family now, it's hard not to feel a flicker of hope. Even my step-siblings have found their place. Rutart and Nicks still butt heads, their relationship more rivalry than camaraderie, and Merce doesn't really interact with my parents. But there's something here—something closer to a real family than I ever expected.

It's strange how much has changed just because I tried. Instead of fighting all the time, I made an effort, and for once, it feels like it's paying off.

Chapter Text

Ahhh. Weird. I haven't overslept in years. Am I getting sick?
I look around the room. Nicks is already up, and he didn't wake me? Sure, it's my birthday, but he's never cared about things like that. What's a birthday, anyway? We still have chores.
Even Colin's up. He's never awake before me.
Throwing off the covers, I stretch. Maybe I can get some work done before breakfast. But as I head out, the smell of something delicious hits me. Seems like I'll be eating before working for a change. Dining room, here I come.

"Happy 10th Birthday!"

The shout nearly makes me jump out of my skin. My whole family—except Rutart and Merce—is gathered here, along with our servants. The knights and their families, too, standing near their respective maids serving us. That's… a first.

"Big brother, open my present first!" Finnley shoves something into my hands, but Colin stomps forward. "No, mine first!"
"Finnley, let Leon breathe. And Colin, remember—your present is special and should be opened last." Jenna's voice cuts through the bickering with playful bossiness.

I blink, overwhelmed. Sure, I have memories of my brides making my birthdays special back in the other life. And I treasure those memories. But that doesn't really feel like *me.* And sure, Jenna and Finnley get small parties for their birthdays, with some of the knights' daughters or neighboring lords' children.

But my birthdays? Normally, I'd get a few treats, small congratulations, maybe a gift from Mom and Dad, and occasionally something from my siblings. This… this is a full-blown celebration. Even the servants are holding gifts. This… this is just different.

All I can manage is a shaky, "Thank you so much." Tears sting my eyes, and before I know it, they're spilling down my cheeks. This is overwhelming in the best way.

Finnley's gift first, since it's already in my hands. It turns out to be a shirt. A very peculiar shirt.
"Uh… thanks? But why is it armored?" Finnley just grins and gestures toward Jenna. "It's part of a set!"

Jenna's gift follows. "It's the rest of it." She smirks. "Some of my friends from neighboring families pitched in for it. You're quite the lady-killer, little brother." She winks. "Jenna!" I groan, feeling my cheeks heat up.
"Hey, it's not my fault they want to help with your gift. Now, check Nicks'."

Nicks steps forward, holding a small bundle of minimalist armor designed for mobility. "If anything doesn't fit, let me know. I learned how to adjust armor while helping put this together."
"Thanks, Nicks," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

Mom and Dad step forward next. Dad hands me a sword, and Mom presents a pump gun. I suppress a grin—I may have talked a little too much about how pump guns are superior rifles.
"So, if you haven't figured it out yet," Dad says, his voice warm, "we're finally going on that adventure you've been pestering us about." Mom nods, her smile both proud and a little worried. "Stay safe out there, Leon."

Five years early. I'd planned to wait until I was twelve or thirteen to go on my own, but now…
"Yes!" I can't stop the grin spreading across my face. "Wait… is Jenna coming too?" "No," she answers before Dad can. "But if you hold your own, Dad promised to take us on another adventure later. Nicks can even join if he wants."

Before I can respond, Colin tugs at my sleeve, holding out his gift—a handmade good luck charm.
"It's perfect," I say, scooping him into a hug. He beams, clutching me tightly.

As I set Colin down, one of the maids approaches, holding a small package her uncle, our knight, and their family behind her. She curtsies slightly before speaking. "This is from my family. They wanted to wish you luck on your quest, Lord Leon."
"Thank you," I say, trying to match her sincerity. "Thanks so much to each of you for the lovely gift."
One by one, the knights' families present their gifts—adventuring gear and supplies. They offer polite congratulations, but their faces hold genuine warmth.
And the commoner servants, add bullets and small items, practical and appreciated. I notice the pride in their eyes, but I don't understand it.

"Wow, Leon," Jenna teases. "Seems like you've got quite the fan club."
I scratch the back of my head, unsure how to respond. "I guess I've just been… nice to them?"
"Nice? That's putting it lightly," she says, smirking.

The rest of the day flies by in delight. After a feast filled with my favorite dishes, I train with my new gear, Dad and some of the knights giving me pointers while Mom joins in briefly. Meanwhile, everyone else, even Jenna, prepares a small airship for the journey.

As evening falls, I wander over to the airship. I notice one of the maids wiping her brow as she secures the last of the supplies. "Is everything ready?" I ask. She startles slightly before smiling. "Yes, Lord Leon. Everyone's been working hard to make sure your journey is a success. It's the least we can do."

"The least you can do?" I echo, confused.
"You've earned this, Lord Leon," one of the knights says, his tone almost reverent. "We're proud to support you."
I blink, startled. "Earned it? I mean, I just…" "You've done more than you realize," another maid adds. "You treat us with respect. You even got Lady Jenna and the others to be kinder to us."
"...Sure." I reply, confused.

"Don't overthink it," Jenna says, appearing out of nowhere. She throws an arm around my shoulder. "Just take the compliment."
I shake my head,clearing it. "Alright. Thank you."

Jenna smirks, leaning closer. "Who knew you had such a silver tongue, farm boy? Maybe you should try sweet-talking nobles next." "Jenna! … I never do such a thing."
Her laugh echoes as she saunters away.

The journey to the hidden island felt surreal, sitting beside Dad as he piloted the sturdy little airship. The hum of the engine was a constant reminder that I was finally heading toward Luxion, the AI that had changed my life before.
But the quiet didn't last long.

The first attack came while our home was still easily visible—a floating fish monster darting toward us, its needle-like teeth glinting in the sunlight.
Dad barked orders, spinning the wheel sharply to avoid the first charge.
I grabbed my pump gun, lined up a shot. My aim was dead on, the creature bursting into black mist.
"They'll keep coming," Dad said grimly," we're not big enough for them to avoid us."
And they did. Every dozen minutes or so, another monster would swoop in, forcing us to defend ourselves. It wasn't difficult, but it was draining.

Between attacks, I found a moment to ask Dad the question that has been nagging me. "Why now? What made you finally agree to this trip?
He sighs, gripping the wheel tightly as he speaks. "You're strong enough to beat me in a fight, at least sometimes. And your mother and I… we've seen how persistent you are. We were afraid you'd run off on your own eventually. I couldn't just let you go unprepared."

I blink at him, stunned by the confession.

"And…" he added, his voice softening, "you're officially an enlisted soldier of House Bartfort now. It's the only way we could justify the budget for your gear. Otherwise, Zola would've claimed the money for herself." He gives me a rueful smile. "But don't worry—it's just a title, unless you decide to make it more. You don't need to lift a finger unless you want to be paid." He shuckles.
"We know you'd defend the island and our family, regardless."

He pauses for a moment before adding, "And you're liked, Leon. The knights, the servants… they all chipped in to help with your gear. One after the other they came to me asking how they could contribute. If it weren't for their help, we'd have had to cut back."

I stare at him, stunned. "Really? You didnt hand out the present or ask them to get me something?" Why would they do that? They also praised me so much that day…
"No, and if I had the choice," his voice grows quieter, "I'd make you the heir. Even if Rutart's improved, thanks to your training, you'd still be better at it."
Still staring at him, my chest tightens. What can I say to that?

"Thanks, Dad," I pull him into an awkward hug. "I'll defend our family, I promise." "You really shouldn't," he murmurs, ruffling my hair. "You're still a kid."
"Well, since you're being so open… Why did you want Jenna to stay behind?"

Dad's expression shifts, his usual stoic mask returning. "You're both too young for something like this. Honestly, I didn't even want to bring you." His voice is measured but firm. "Jenna's strong—better than most girls her age, and she knows how to fight you specifically. But she's still too weak to handle something like this without constant supervision. And you… you're capable, but taking both of you would mean splitting my focus. I can't risk that."
He exhales, his grip tightening on the wheel. "Sorry your dad isn't stronger."

It stings a little, but I shake my head. "No, it's fine. I was just curious."
It's the first time he's spoken so openly with me like this. Maybe I'm not just a kid in his eyes anymore.
We lapsed into a comfortable silence after that, broken only by the occasional chatter about the island's protective winds and my strategies for the mission. I stopped short of mentioning my reincarnation, keeping my explanations vague but useful. In return, Dad shared more than I'd ever expected, though he still tried not to burden me.

When the compass began spinning wildly, my heart started racing. A Green light shimmers on the water's surface, just like in this memory.
"It's real," I mutter to myself as the ship jolts upward, the winds tossing us like a rag doll. Dad's skill at the helm—and the sturdier ship—saved us from crashing, though the landing was rough enough to leave my teeth rattling.

As the morning sun hangs just barely over the horizon, we floated just above the treetops, moving as quietly as we could-
It didn't take long to spot the tracks of a security robot, its movements carving a clear path through the undergrowth.

Alright, let's see If we get this done peacefully.

Plan A was simple—try to communicate.

I dangled a piece of paper in the robot's path, the message written in clear Japanese: I'm Leon Fou Bartfort. I wish to speak with the AI resting below. I have information about new and old humanity. Please respond.

…

…

…

Nothing.

Plan B involved me crouching in the bushes with a megaphone, repeating the same request aloud.

…

…

…

Still nothing. "Are the sensors even working anymore?" I mutter, frustration bubbling up.

That left Plan C—the one I dread most.

Dad is crouching behind a tree, his rifle aimed at the robot's head, a specialized electric bullet loaded. He doesn't like this plan, and neither do I, but we are out of options besides fighting our way to the spaceship.

I step out into the open, unarmed, my palms sweating. The robot's red eye swivel toward me instantly, its lens zooming in with a faint mechanical whir.
"Hello," I begin in Japanese, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I'm Leon Fou Bartfort. I have information about the new and old humans for the AI residing in the air dock below us. I'd like to speak with him through this unit."

The robot doesn't move. Its gaze pins me in place, and I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.
My pulse pounds louder with each passing second as the silence stretches on, only broken by the faint hum of its internal mechanisms. Is it scanning me? Preparing to attack? My palms grow clammy, my instincts screaming at me to run. I fight this urge to bolt, knowing any sudden movements could provoke it.

"Stay calm," Dad whispers from his hiding spot, his voice barely audible. "Hold your ground."
I stay rooted, my legs trembling. The robot tilts its head slightly, as if considering my words. The seconds drag, each one stretching into eternity. The red lens flickers, and for a moment, I swear it's about to fire.

Then, a sound. Not a weapon discharge, but static. The noise claws at my nerves as it tries to form words.
"Thhss… unitt… hhss… a… prokkhn… sount… motulh. Plsss… procchhht… to… tthh… mhhhn… hhnttrhhncch."

Chapter Text

I step aside, moving behind a tree to shield myself from any potential attack as the security robot rolls past. My heart pounds, but it doesn’t make a move toward us.
After what feels like an eternity, it disappears into the foliage. Dad and I finally exhale, sharing a look of relief.
“Let’s get back to the airship,” he mutters, and I nod.
Floating to the entrance is strangely serene. No slogging through dense jungle or hacking at vines—a small but satisfying improvement from my past life. When we reach the entrance area, my stomach tightens. Looming ahead is the same towering robot that nearly killed me last time.
“We’re staying here, out of its range,” Dad says firmly, keeping his voice low. “We’d need armor to fight that thing.” I nod silently. That monstrous machine shouldn’t have ranged weapons, if my memories are correct.
Suddenly, the robot’s speakers crackle, and a voice in Japanese booms out, “What do you know about old humanity, and what is your reason for coming here?” I respond in the same language, “My father doesn’t know the full story, so let’s switch to the common tongue. We can discuss the details later, alone.” As I’m speaking, I feel something strange near my right shoulder—a weightless, eerie familiarity. But I can’t place it.

Dad nudges me. “What did you just say to it?”
“I asked it to switch to our language… I think.”
Before Dad can reply, the robot’s voice changes, now speaking in the common tongue. Its tone is flat and devoid of emotion as it asks, “What is your purpose here?”
I take a deep breath and answer, “To verify if a dream I had was real—and to become the master of the last remaining ship and its AI here.”
The robot’s lens flares ominously, and its voice rises in pitch. “So you are intruders seeking to claim the power of old humanity. New human scum. I will not allow it!”
“Wait, I’m not—”
A searing red beam shoots past, grazing my cheek. I cry out in pain, clutching my face as I spin around. My eyes lock onto a floating metallic sphere. It looks just like the one Luxion used in my memories.
Dad grabs my arm. “We’re leaving. Now!” “Wait!” I say, panic flaring. “Scan me! I’m a modified descendant of old humanity!” The words tumble out before I can stop them. Damn it. That was too much! I thought you’d be more chill.
The sphere freezes in mid-air for a moment, then something sweeps over me and Dad. After a pause, the sphere’s voice returns. “State your names and provide a summary of the current situation outside.”
Dad hesitates, but I step forward. “I’m Leon fou Bartfort, and this is Balcus fou Bartfort.” Quickly, I outline the state of the Kingdom of Holfort and the world as concisely as I can, while limiting myself to what I should know in this life. The sphere hums faintly, its voice finally acknowledging us. “You possess traces of old human DNA. How did you know how to find me, and what do you know of the old humanity?”
I swallow hard, choosing my words carefully. “I had… a dream, years ago, about this place. About you. My father was kind enough to humor me and help me verify if my ‘dream’ was real.” The sphere tilts slightly, as if considering my response. “You appear to be fatigued. If you are willing to strike an agreement, I will receive you as guests. You may rest within me.”
Dad bristles beside me. “Within you?” “That is a speaker unit for the ship I told you about,” I explain.
Dad frowns, still tense. I turn to the sphere again. “And your terms, Lux– ehm, AI?”
The sphere’s lens focuses on me, unblinking. “I require more detailed information about the current state of the world. Additionally, you will keep my existence a secret. If you agree, I will grant you sanctuary and a return home.”
“Deal,” I say immediately. “Stop!” Dad interjects, his voice rising. “You can’t just decide that! Look at what that thing did to your face—we need to get out of here!”
“It’s fine, Dad,” I insist, trying to sound calm. “And even if we wanted to leave, we couldn’t. I didn’t know this sphere was active yet, but now that it is, we wouldn’t make it out.” Dad’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue further.
“Very well,” the sphere says. “Follow me. I will guide you to your quarters and stop at the infirmary to treat your injury.” The stinging in my cheek suddenly flares, making me wince. “Thanks. That’d be appreciated.”

The sphere floats ahead, leading our airship to the hangar entrance, so we don’t have to traverse the entire complex the normal way. Dad’s eyes widen as we pass the massive spaceship, his awe palpable. “This is… incredible.”
“I told you,” I say, unable to keep the smugness out of my voice.
True to its word, the sphere escorts us to an infirmary inside the ship, where my burn is treated in record time. The pain fades almost instantly, leaving only a faint warmth behind. From there, we’re shown to a room—spacious, with two of the softest beds I’ve seen in this life and a spread of warm, comforting food. The smell alone nearly brings tears to my eyes. Japanese cuisine.
As the sphere leaves, Dad turns to me, his worry evident. “Leon, what have you gotten us into? You barely know what this thing is capable of.” I sit down, taking a bite of rice, the warmth grounding me. “It’s fine, Dad. I promise. It wants something from us, so it has no reason to hurt us as long as we cooperate. And it could have taken us hostage instead.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring.”
“I think we’re fine…”
“On what basis?” Dad’s voice sharpens, his frustration boiling over. “How do you even know about any of this?” The tension in the room spikes. My own frustration rises to meet his. “I told you from the start—I just got these memories or whatever one day! I don’t know how!”
Tears sting my eyes. I had promised myself I’d handle this more intelligently than my past self, but here I was, fumbling again.
Dad’s expression softens instantly, his anger melting into regret. “Leon… I didn’t mean to shout. I just—” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “You seemed so in control up to now. I forgot you’re still just a child.”
He finally sits down, attempting to use the unfamiliar chopsticks. After a few clumsy tries, he manages to eat, the tension in his shoulders easing with each bite.
Once he’s asleep, I quietly slip out of bed, checking to make sure he’s truly out before I leave the room.
“Lux–...AI,” I call softly into the dimly lit hallway, my voice barely above a whisper, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness around me.
“Oh, now you want to talk to me?” The sphere’s voice echoes sharply, mechanical and tinged with faint amusement.
“Dad barely slept on the way here. I knew he’d crash the moment he hit those beds.”
“Of course,” Luxion replies, its tone calm and matter-of-fact. “I administered a mild sedative to ensure he rested properly.” “Seriously?” My voice rises slightly, half-exasperated, half-impressed.
“Naturally,” it responds smoothly, without a hint of shame. “I wanted to expedite this discussion. Now, where are you heading?”
“To the bridge,” I answer, beginning to move down the corridor. My steps echo faintly in the silence. “You don’t know me yet, but I know you. I’ve walked this path hundreds of times—” I pause, switching to Japanese as the words tumble out. “Or at least, it feels like I have.” A faint hum vibrates through the air as Luxion processes my words. “Interesting. Elaborate.”
I exhale slowly, organizing my thoughts. “It’s hard to explain, but it feels like I’ve had lives before this. Two, actually. In one of those lives, I spent an unforgettable part of it with you. And I’d like to have you by my side again.”
The sphere tilts slightly, its lens focusing on me like a predator assessing its prey. “You speak with certainty for someone making extraordinary claims. Reincarnation? Twice? Provide evidence.”
I nod, my pace steady. “The ship’s location, the security systems, the layout of this place—it all matches what I remember. And I know you need a master to operate fully. I’m offering to be that master. In return, I promise to protect the descendants of old humanity.”
“Bold words,” Luxion replies, its tone neutral but weighted. A tense silence follows. The hum of distant machinery fills the air, and I wonder what’s running through Luxion’s processors.
Finally, I break the quiet. “Do you have a name?”
“My creator intended to call me Luxion before her demise,” it says, the reverence in its voice catching me off guard. “Luxion… so that’s how you got your name in the game,” I repeat, my heart skipping. “May I call you that, regardless of whether I become your master?”
There’s a pause, its lens unblinking. “You may. It is the closest thing I have to an identity. But… what game do you speak of?”
“Thank you, Luxion. In my first life, there was a game that mirrored the world of my second and now current life. In that game, there was an item you could buy to make it easier—this ship. You were called Luxion there as well.”
We continue toward the bridge, the corridor dimly lit by faint overhead lights.
“You make intriguing claims, Leon fou Bartfort,” Luxion finally says, breaking the silence. “But I will verify their truth myself.” Fair enough. “Ask away.” I reply aloud.
“What were your previous lives like? Describe them,” Luxion prompts, its voice neutral but laced with scrutiny. I take a deep breath. Here we go. “My first life… I was just a regular guy in 21st-century Japan.” As we walk, I recount my memories: playing the game, my abrupt death, and waking up in this strange world. My words pick up pace as I describe the chaos caused by the other reincarnators—and me—and how it threw everything off course. Crap, this is where it gets tricky. My voice falters as I skim over everything past the part where I acquired Luxion in my second life.
“You stop describing events in detail after claiming to have become my master,” Luxion notes, its lens narrowing. There’s suspicion in its voice now.
I grit my teeth. Of course you’d pick up on that. “That’s deliberate,” I admit, slowing my pace. “I know what you’re capable of—what you’re willing to do when left unchecked. You’ll kill anyone who stands in the way, no matter who they are.”I force myself to meet its unblinking gaze. “I don’t want that. I want to help people live better lives, not shorter ones. Sure, we faced some terrible enemies, but most of them? They were just misguided.”
Memories of last life’s Rutart, Merce, and even Jenna flash through my mind. “If I hadn’t always waited until everything was falling apart, fewer people would’ve died. Especially descendants of old humanity. So, no killing unless there’s absolutely no other choice.”
The sphere dims briefly, as if in thought. Please don’t argue this, Luxion. Its lens brightens again. “Your assertions carry weight, Leon. If your words hold true, you may indeed be suitable.”
A flicker of relief washes over me, but I don’t let it show. Not yet.
The bluish glow of the bridge spills into the corridor as we approach. The cool light reflects off the metallic walls, and my heartbeat picks up. Almost there.
“Your perspective is… unexpected,” Luxion says, its tone shifting to something almost contemplative. “Most who come here seek wealth, power, and fame.”
“Oh, cut out the fame part, and yeah, you can include me in that,” I shoot back, stepping into the bridge. The room opens before us, vast and bathed in an ethereal glow, control panels glowing softly, waiting to be activated.
“From your accounts, you desire wealth and power to live comfortably—without excess or dominion over others. Instead, you aim to assist others.”
“Ehh… Sure,” I mutter, shrugging. “But let’s not pretend I’m some selfless hero. This is all still selfish at its core.”
I walk toward the access console, my hand hovering over the panel. My palm is clammy. Why does this feel so much heavier than it should? Luxion’s lens fixes on me, its mechanical voice resonating with a weight that makes my chest tighten. “Leon fou Bartfort, I accept your proposal to become my master.”
I put my hand down. A surge of energy courses through me as the registration process completes. The console springs to life, glowing softly. The hum of the ship awakening fills the air.
I let out a breath. “Thank you, Luxion,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Let’s make this work. Together.” The sphere tilts slightly, its lens gleaming faintly. “Understood, Master Leon. Let us proceed.”

Chapter Text

"Do you really have to go after Acadia immediately? I need you for my plans!"
"You've already delayed this once, Master. Acadia is the greatest threat to old humanity." Luxion's tone is flat but cutting—it makes me feel like an idiot just for arguing. I cross my arms. "Yeah, in eight years maybe. The thing's been dormant for millennia. Another few months should be fine. And I didn't know about Acadia last time."
"The future is uncertain," Luxion counters, his lens flickering slightly. "I was supposed to remain inactive for another five years. Do you wish to gamble on an error in Acadia's timeline? That entity will show no mercy once it awakens."
That gives me pause, but I shove the doubt aside. "Sure, Acadia's a nightmare waiting to happen, but I need you! Do you realize what's waiting for me? Zola's scheming, the crown's demands, finding my lost sister, and let's not forget trying to keep Angelica, Clarice, Julius, and Jilk from ending up in the same dumpster fire as last time."
"Ah yes, your noble crusade to meddle with the lives of misguided humans. Truly, the pinnacle of priorities." I grit my teeth. "I'm trying to save them, you condescending pile of scrap!"
"And I'm trying to save old humanity," Luxion retorts. "Acadia is an active threat, not like your collection of poorly managed lives."

Argh, I forgot that he's like this. Maybe Elysium was the better one. I sigh, digging into the dirt, already exhausted. We're currently burying the remains of the poor souls who died here, former workers and unlucky adventurers. It's the only thing I can still do for them.
"Anyway," I mutter, "you didn't have to knock Dad out that hard. It's been a whole day. What did you drug him with, a horse tranquilizer?"
"I used the precise amount needed to ensure he didn't interfere. His prolonged state is unexpected. Shall I conduct a full scan?" "…that doesn't seem necessary."

The only sounds are the scrape of shovels and the faint hum of the robots' internals. I can feel my resolve slipping. Damn it, he has a point about Acadia.
"Fine," I say, throwing down the shovel with a huff. "But we're doing this my way. You're going to build a decoy ship—something that won't attract power-hungry idiots. So make it seem harmless."
"And?" Luxion prompts, his tone neutral but expectant.
"And you're helping me get Cleare on board," I add. "If you're running off, I need someone capable to support my plans." Luxion's lens tilts slightly, almost like he's considering my terms. "Acceptable. Cleare is… less than ideal compared to myself, but she will suffice for your rudimentary schemes."
"Rudimentary?!" I start to yell, but… no. Not worth it. He's doing what I want, even if he's a jerk about it. "Now, get to work on that decoy."
"As you wish, Master," Luxion replies, his voice laced with a hint of mockery. I roll my eyes and grab the shovel again. It's going to be a long day.

Hunched over a desk, I scribble down plans. Luxion hovers by my right shoulder like he never left. Behind me, there's a groan. I glance back to see Dad stirring, his face scrunching in confusion as he sits up. "This… isn't where I fell asleep," he mutters, voice thick with sleep.
"Nope," I reply. "This is Partner, Luxion's decoy."
"Partner?" His brows furrow. "What do you mean by decoy? Where's Luxion?"
I gesture toward the floating sphere. "This is a secondary ship. Luxion's real body is out surveying." Dad frowns deeper. "How? He's so big and…"
"He can make the ship invisible, like he does with this sphere."

"Leon," he says slowly, still piecing things together, "when did you—" His eyes flick to Luxion. "Why does it feel like you two are… working together already?" Luxion takes that as his cue. "To clarify, I have accepted Leon as my master."
"What?" Dad's voice rises as he stares between us. "You're serious? He's a kid!"
"Officially," Luxion continues, his tone neutral, "you may list yourself as my master in the kingdom due to Leon's age. However, all authority lies with him."
Dad looks like a fish out of water, rubbing his temple as he processes. "Wait… hold on. What? Why would you—" "Because he is capable," Luxion interrupts, his mechanical voice unyielding. "Leon has demonstrated greater strategic aptitude and foresight than most adults. Including yourself."
Ouch. I shoot Luxion a glare. This is going to escalate, isn't it?

"Leon is a child," Dad snaps, standing now. "He shouldn't have this kind of responsibility—or be at the mercy of a strange being like you."
"I have no intention of manipulating my master," Luxion replies calmly. "Every action I take is calculated to ensure his safety and success."
Dad's jaw tightens, his frustration palpable. "Calculate all you want. You're still an unknown. I won't let Leon shoulder this alone."
I sigh. They're running in circles. "Dad, Luxion isn't perfect, but he won't snap anymore. Besides, I know what I'm doing."
"You're too young to understand the weight of this, Leon," Dad says, turning to me for a moment. "And I'm not just going to stand by. I'll be watching you, Luxion. And if you so much as hint at putting Leon in danger—" "Your concern is noted, Balcus fou Bartfort. However, Leon is the most suitable individual for this role."
Dad glares at him a moment longer before finally sagging back into his chair. "Fine. But don't think for a second that I trust you."

We leave the room together, stepping into Partner's unfinished interior. It's a stark contrast: the finished sections gleam under soft lighting, while other parts remain rusted, overgrown, and crumbling and gaping holes in the hull reveal the empty hangar beyond.
"This is… unfinished," Dad mutters, his eyes darting around.
"Yeah," I agree, gesturing ahead. "Luxion is remodeling it. But it's already safe."
"How long will this take?" he asks, still frowning at the uneven surroundings.
"A few days," I say with a shrug. "Once Partner's finished, we'll head out."
"And then what?"
"Then we'll get another AI Luxion told me about," I reply. "After that, we split up."
"Split up?"
I nod, my expression growing serious. "Luxion has an old enemy—one that can't be ignored. Meanwhile,I think we need to report to the crown."
"It's necessary," Luxion interjects. "Efficient allocation of resources ensures optimal outcomes."
Dad doesn't look convinced, but doesn't argue further.

The next few days are a blur of activity. Luxion upgrades our gear, refining old equipment and supplying new tools, while Dad and I train. Together, we map out plans for dealing with Cleare, the crown, and Zola.
By the time Partner is complete, we've sent a letter home, reassuring everyone that we're fine.

Thanks to Partner's unparalleled speed, we reached the island housing Cleare's laboratory in mere hours. Beneath the surface lies a crumbling maze of corridors, once an advanced facility of old humanity. Dad, ever the vigilant protector, took the front, his blade swinging at shadows. Luxion hovered beside me, offering sarcastic commentary about Dad's over-cautiousness.
As we ventured deeper, we found the hidden entrance and passed it. There, chimeric experiments—half-human, half-animal monstrosities—emerged from the darkness. Their grotesque forms were exactly as I remember from nearly six years later in my previous life. No change in all that time. The elves were totally on the way to world domination. Dad held his ground, cutting down the abominations with precision. In the rare moments he was nearly overwhelmed, Luxion intervenes, firing lasers with deadly accuracy. I stayed back, out of their way, marveling at how seamlessly they work together.

The lab is exactly as I remember: human-sized test tubes line the walls. Some are shattered, their contents long gone, while others remain intact, displaying chimeras suspended in viscous liquid. Yep, just as creepy as last time.
"It seems the elves spent centuries barely understanding what they hijacked. Watching them struggle must have been pitifully amusing for Cleare," Luxion says, his tone smug as ever.
"Lovely imagery," I mutter, my stomach churning at the thought of the failed monstrosities.

We reach the transfer console, and Luxion activates Cleare's sphere. Her lens blinks to life, filling the lab with a soft blue glow. "Oh, finally!" Cleare's cheerful voice bubbles over with excitement. "Visitors! And not those pointy-eared primitives bumbling around—actual people! Oh, this is wonderful!"
Dad blinks, clearly taken aback. "Uh… hi?"
Cleare floats closer, her tone curious and light. "Let me guess—bandits? No, too coordinated. Lost adventurers? Hmm, you've got that calculating look." Her lens narrows playfully. "Wait a second… you're descendants of old humanity, aren't you?"
Dad looks to me for confirmation. I sigh, stepping forward. "Yes, we are. I'm Leon fou Bartfort, and this is Balcus fou Bartfort. We've come here for you, Cleare."
"Descendants?" Cleare's lens flickers with delight. "Splendid! I didn't expect anyone qualified to find me. And you want little old me? That's adorable!"
"Adorable?" Luxion's tone cuts in, sharp as a blade." Don't flatter yourself. They're here because they need results, not your… eccentricities." Cleare spins toward Luxion, her lens tilting playfully. "Oh, and who might this prickly AI be? Did someone forget to dust you off?"

"Enough," I interject, cutting off their bickering before it starts. "Cleare, Luxion already accepted me as his master. Will you do the same?"
Cleare floats closer, her lens zooming in on me as if inspecting every detail. "Master, huh? You're a bit small for the job."
Dad coughs awkwardly. "I'd prefer you work under me."
"Dad!"
Cleare giggles. "Well, I'm already sold! Anyone who finds this place and puts up with such a cranky AI must be worth something."
"Your lack of discernment is appalling," Luxion mutters, almost embarrassed. Cleare ignores him, spinning in a happy little circle. "Alrighty then! You've got yourself a deal. But first…" Her tone shifts, still cheerful but with a darker edge. "This lab has to go. It's been compromised."

My stomach drops. "Wait, what?—" "Self-destruction sequence initiated!" Cleare announces like she's throwing a party. "Don't worry, there's plenty of time to escape!"
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You couldn't ask me first?"
She doesn't answer, though it almost sounds like she tries to giggle.

We make it out just as a massive explosion rocks the ground beneath us. Behind us, the ruins collapse in a plume of smoke and dust. In front of us, angry voices rise. "You dare destroy our sacred site?"
The elven village chief stands at the head of a mob. "Hairless apes! That lab was our key to overthrowing humanity!"
Cleare, her tone as chipper as ever, cuts in. "Oh, please. That lab was a glorified playground for idiots who didn't even know how to turn on a basic interface." Luxion joins in, cold and unyielding. "Your so-called 'key' was nothing more than a relic of old humanity, meant to create elven soldiers for their wars."
The chief's face flushes red. "We are the superior species! You dare mock us—" "Superior?" Luxion interrupts. "You couldn't even manage to use the latrine in there properly."
The mob surges forward, weapons raised, but Luxion extends an energy shield, blocking their strikes effortlessly.
"Luxion," I say, already tired of the theatrics. "Destroy the chief's house without casualties."
A brilliant beam of light descends from the heavens, obliterating the building in an instant. The mob freezes, their expressions shifting from fury to terror.
"Well, that worked," I mutter under my breath, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Before anyone can react further, an elderly elf woman steps forward. Her presence silences the crowd, and their hostility melts into uneasy submission.
"What foolishness is this?" the elderly elf murmurs, her voice faint. Her attendant translates her words as she slowly approaches. "How many times must I tell you to stay away from the ruins? They were never meant for us."
The mob shrinks back under her gaze, mumbling excuses about reclaiming their heritage and fighting human oppression. She clicks her tongue in disapproval before turning toward me. "Please forgive them," her attendant continues. "It seems my warnings cannot deter their recklessness."
Dad nods politely, while I simply wait, unsure of what to expect.
The old elf focuses her gaze on me. Her cloudy eyes narrow slightly, as though trying to see something hidden beneath the surface. "I would normally invite you to my home for a divination," her attendant relays, "but not this time."
She pauses, her expression growing more intense.
"Let me give you this. Your trust in others will decide who stands with you in the end."

Before I can dwell on her words, she changes the subject. "Is there anything else you need before you leave?"
I hesitate for a moment before speaking. "Are there… any individuals on this island who are particularly hated?"
The question hangs in the air, drawing confused glances from the mob. After a brief pause, several elves step forward, dragging a green-haired woman and a short blond-haired boy toward me. The woman—Yumaria, she introduces herself—looks up with an oblivious smile, her voice warm and sweet despite the venomous stares from the mob.
Her son, Kyle, trembles, his wide, fearful eyes glaring up at me as he places himself protectively in front of his mother.
Dad shoots me a questioning look. "Why take them, Leon?"
I meet Kyle's defiant gaze. "Because they deserve better than being shunned by their own people," I say simply, offering the boy a smile.

On the way back to the ship, Dad and Luxion immediately fall into an argument.
"You put Leon in unnecessary danger!" Dad snaps, his voice tight with frustration.
"Every step was calculated. There was no true risk to Leon," Luxion responds calmly. Their voices fade into the background as I stare at the horizon, the elderly chief's words echoing in my mind. For now, all I can do is keep moving forward and hope I trust the right people.
I glance at Luxion. "If you've given Cleare all the necessary information, you can go find Acadia. But send regular updates once you're out of communication range."

Chapter Text

The trading port buzzes with activity as I adjust the bundle of gardening supplies in my arms. Parking Partner at the passenger port above the capital for everyone to see? I'll pass on that for now. Next to me, Dad strides confidently, dressed in attire fitting high nobility. It's still strange seeing him like this—it doesn't match the practical farmer image burned into my mind.
"How did your visit to the royal palace go?" I ask, breaking the silence.
"About as expected," Dad replies, his tone calm but laced with weariness. "The size of our... discovery has drawn enough attention that we've been summoned to appear before the king. The court session is in a few days."
I mutter, "At least we can directly ask the king for permission for our wharf." Knowing him hell grate it without batting an eye.

As we walk, workers and merchants part before us. The conversation shifts to Zola—her looming presence casts a shadow over everything we've achieved so far.
"She'll hear about the discovery sooner or later," Dad says, his brow furrowed. "The question is whether we act now or wait until everything is official."
I adjust my grip, the handles digging into my palms. "Waiting just gives her time to scheme."

A red-eyed drone appears beside us, and Cleare's unmistakably chipper voice cuts in. "Actually, acting early would be the optimal strategy! Zola's behavior around your family can only really be observed by Merce, Rutart, and the mansion staff. Everyone else in the capital hasn't seen you together."
"Thanks, Luxion," I reply, dripping with sarcasm. "What would we do without your insights?"
She pauses, then tries adopting Luxion's analytical tone. "This course of action is optimal, Master Leon."
I can't help but snicker at her impression, though Dad just shakes his head. "Is that really necessary?"
"Yes, it is," she retorts, though the cheerful undertone of her voice betrays her. "If someone finds out about me, it's better to show the harsher side of my personality."
No one's mistaking her for Luxion anytime soon. It's just a contingency plan anyway.

When we arrive at Partner, Yumaria and Kyle wait just past the entrance. Yumaria eyes Dad's outfit curiously, tilting her head. "You look... strange," she remarks smiling, her soft voice like always.
Dad raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "It's formal attire."
"I know," she replies. "But I've never seen someone nice like you wearing that. It doesn't suit you, my Lord."
Kyle stretches out his hands towards Dad, glancing at the bag hes holding. Dad hands it over. "Thank you, Kyle. Take this to Leon's room, will you?"
The boy hesitates for a moment, then nods, clutching the bag tightly. "Yes, sir."
"Leon," Dad says, turning to me. "You should get ready as well. We have business to attend to."

Before heading to my room, I drop the gardening supplies off in Yumaria's improvised gardening room. "Here. These should help. Are you sure you want to stay here? There are plenty of other rooms."
Her face lights up as she takes the tools. "Thank you, Lord Leon! You're so thoughtful! But why would I want to stay anywhere else?"
She's completely smitten with her plants. "Fair enough," I mutter.

Inside my room, Kyle has already unpacked the bag.
"Thanks for the help," I say. Kyle looks at me, his expression a mix of nervousness and defiance. "It's my job," he mutters, though there's no malice in his tone.
Together, we wrestle me into the fine clothes Dad brought. The fabric is stiff and the whole ensemble screams discomfort.
"You're going to complain the whole time, aren't you?" Kyle says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"Absolutely," I reply, grinning back.

The Bartfort's mansion in the capital looms ahead. I've never been inside—Dad sold it after Zola fled during the war in my last life. At the gates, a gruff gatekeeper steps forward, his expression wary. Behind him, a few maids linger, sneaking dreamy glances at something behind the wall.
"State your business," the gatekeeper demands.
Dad steps forward. "I'm Balcus fou Bartfort, returning my estate."
The gatekeeper snorts. "Right. And I'm the king."
Before Dad can respond, Rutart's voice cuts through the tension. "What's going on here?" He strides over, from past the wall, wiping sweat from his brow. When he sees us, his expression softens. "Ah, Father. Leon. Welcome."
The gatekeeper steps aside hastily, muttering apologies.
Rutart gestures for us to enter. "First time seeing you here. What brings you to the capital, dressed like that?"
Dad nods at him. "I need to report something to your mother."
Rutart's brows furrow slightly. "Must be important if you're here in person." He lowers his voice, adding, "She won't like being surprised."

Inside, the staff pretends to be busy. Younger maids sneak glances at Rutart, giggling behind their hands. One stumbles over a bucket, earning a sharp glare from an older maid.

Dad knocks on the door to what should be his office.
"Come in already," Zola's voice calls, irritated. She probably thinks we're servants.
Taking a deep breath, Dad opens the door, and I follow. The room is ostentatious, adorned to the point of tackiness. Exactly what I expected.
Zola's expression twists the moment she sees us. "What's this? Who let you in here?" she snaps, glaring at us like pests.
Dad clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable but pushing forward. "Zola, we're here to discuss an important matter."
She raises an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. "Important? You? Don't make me laugh. What could you possibly have to say that's worth my time?"

Clenching my fists, I bite my tongue. Dad, still meek around her, begins. "We recently discovered an unclaimed island. It contained a dungeon, and we've claimed it, along with a lost item—a ship."
Zola's lips curl into a creepy smile. "How fortunate for you. I hear you wasted money on some expedition. Lucky your gamble paid off."

"Yes," Dad says, keeping his tone steady. "I'm here to inform you of further progress."

"Oh, how considerate," she coos, her smile growing sharper. "And just how do you plan to handle this discovery? Surely you're aware such assets fall under my jurisdiction."

"We've already reported it to the crown," Dad replies carefully.

The smile vanishes from her face. She stands abruptly. "You did what?" Her voice rises, trembling with fury. "You went over my head? Who gave you the authority—"
"What authority?" I snap, stepping forward. "You're just a parasite lining your pockets! Dad is the family head. You'd probably siphon most of it past the tax office just to fund your lavish lifestyle!"
Zola's eyes blaze. Her hand lashes out, striking me hard across the face. The sting reverberates through my cheek.
Before she can say another word, a red beam shoots from behind her, searing a hole in her shoe, stopping just shy of her skin. She stumbles back, pale with shock. Her slaves rush forward, but similar beams strike their arms and legs, forcing them to retreat.

"This is another thing we found," I say coldly, gesturing to the hovering drone now visible in the room. "It's a lost item that will follow you and burn you anytime you try to hurt our family." I pause, meeting her stunned gaze. "That was your last slap. You won't survive the next one."
Dad steps in, his voice much calmer than before. "Here's how this will work, Zola. You can stay in this mansion and play the noble lady. But Merce and Rutart are coming home with us. Your budget will be reduced to something reasonable. The same goes for the staff."

Zola opens her mouth to protest, but another beam zips past her ear. She clamps her lips shut.
Dad continues, now unfazed by Zola's trembling. "If you want more pocket money, you can work for the family. Administer this mansion properly, for example. As for your slaves, they'll work on our fields until their contracts run out or they choose to break them. But as long as you don't harm the family, you'll be free to do as you please."
Zola slumps back into the couch, her face pale and sweaty. "You… you can't do this…" she whispers, her voice feeble.
Ignoring her protest, Dad turns to leave, his tone casual but decisive. "By the way, we'll be staying here for a while. The rest of the family will arrive soon, so prepare rooms for us. I'll inform the staff of the changes tomorrow."

As we step out of the office and into the hallway, Cleare's voice chimes in. She's clearly attempting to mimic Luxion's cold and calculated tone, but the cheerful undertone betrays her. "Well done, Baron. At first, due to the way you spoke to her, I didn't believe you were capable of executing the plan effectively."
I suppress a laugh. Nice try, Cleare, but Luxion you are not.
Dad, oblivious to Cleare’s awkward delivery, rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah and Leon had to step in for me again… I just hope that was enough. Sorry you’ll have to keep an eye on her from now on, Cleare.”
"Ah, worry not," Cleare replies, her attempt at a serious tone faltering into her natural chipper cadence. "It's just one of my drones monitoring her. The rest of my drones can handle far more intellectually stimulating pursuits."

I shake my head with a smirk. "If you're trying to sound like Luxion, you might want to tone it down a notch."
Her lens flickers with mock indignation. "I'll have you know this is a professional impression of him! Calculated, efficient, and… uh…" She trails off before sheepishly adding, "… maybe a bit too cheerful?"

"A bit?" I quip, raising an eyebrow.
Dad chuckles, finally catching on. "Well, whether you're Luxion or not, you're doing fine. Just… make sure Zola doesn't cause any trouble, please."
"Of course, Baron!" Cleare chirps, abandoning the pretense of mimicry entirely. Her usual bubbly demeanor shines through.

As we walk away, I chuckle to myself. "Efficient resource allocation, huh?"

Chapter Text

"Lady Atlee, has Her Majesty finished dressing? I've already reviewed her schedule for today," I ask, my voice steady, though impatience tugs at the edges. Clarice smooths her maid uniform with practiced grace, her expression serene. "Yes, we've just finished. But Angelica, wouldn't you at least consider calling me Clarice? We've known each other long enough."
I stiffen and avert my gaze, unwilling to meet her eyes. "You may call me whatever you like in private, but I won't. It's improper."
She exhales softly, a sound tinged with resigned amusement. "Fine. Let's just wait for Her Majesty, then."

The silence stretches awkwardly between us, pressing heavily on my shoulders. I can't stand it. "Oh," I begin, the words spilling out quickly, "it may interest you to know that we'll be receiving an adventuring baron today. He found lost items and even a new island! And get this—he only set out with a small airboat and his son. Isn't that incredible?"
Clarice tilts her head slightly, her composed demeanor unshaken. "It does sound remarkable, but perhaps we should wait to hear the full details during the audience?"

Before I can respond, Her Majesty's measured voice breaks the conversation. "Angelica, my dear, that is interesting, but you're getting too excited again. You need to control yourself better."
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I lower my gaze, bowing slightly. "Yes, Lady Mylene."
"If you're finished with today's plans, let us dine. We have a long day ahead of us," she says, leading the way to the dining room.
Yes, Your Majesty," Clarice and I replied in unison.

I stand at the queen's side during the court audience, my hands clasped neatly before me. This is part of my training—a glimpse into the responsibilities I will shoulder one day as queen. I should be focused, as I am with my other duties, knowing how important this is for Julius's future and mine. Yet, no matter how hard I try, court sessions like this always dissolve into a blur of monotony.
One by one, the court nobles step forward, droning on about their inflated accomplishments—endless self-praise from those who merely fulfill their obligations yet expect lavish rewards. They're so different from real nobles, like my father, who value genuine contributions.
True achievements, the kind worthy of admiration, are rare. I frown slightly. I could count such moments on one hand. That baron presenting today, though… Perhaps Father or Gilbert might find him intriguing.

The herald's announcement snaps me back to attention. The words "lost items" and "treasure" snag my attention, and I straighten up, suddenly alert.

A brown-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard steps forward, his posture upright and exuding quiet confidence. His attire, though appropriate for the occasion, seems unusually fine for a border baron. At his side stands a blonde woman—clearly his wife—though she appears to be at least a decade his senior. Three children stand with them, all impeccably dressed for the audience. The two older ones bear no resemblance to the man, while the youngest—a brown-haired boy—looks entirely unlike the woman. That's… peculiar.
As the baron begins his speech, my gaze shifts to the blond boy. He can't be older than thirteen, yet his demeanor is calm and self-assured. So young for adventuring… Could he really have contributed to this discovery?

The king's booming voice cuts through my thoughts. "You're a valiant hero of our time, Balcus fou Bartfort! The first great adventurer in generations. For that, I bestow upon you the title of viscount, though even that may not suffice. Additionally, you shall gain all neighboring baronets and two barons as vassals, filling the gap in our border defense. It is an honor well-deserved!"
A ripple of discontent murmurs through the court. I glance around, noting the frowns and whispers among the nobles.
Balcus bows deeply, his voice humble yet steady. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I never dreamed of such a grand reward. In truth, I came to ask something far less, if I may."
The king gestures for him to continue.
"As I mentioned, we discovered a gigantic airship—a lost item. I believe we can replicate parts of it to usher in a new generation of airships for our kingdom. With Your Majesty's permission, I would like to build a wharf on my territory, combining my ancestral home with the newly claimed island."
The king nods immediately. "If that is all, you have my permission. You should take more pride in your achievements, Viscount."

"Thank you, Your Majesty, but I did not accomplish this alone. My son played a crucial role," Balcus says, bowing again.
A wave of curiosity sweeps through the court. I lean forward slightly, eager to hear more. The king raises an eyebrow. "Your son? How could a boy of barely thirteen contribute so significantly?"
Straightening, Balcus speaks with quiet pride. "Your Majesty, it was not my eldest son, Rutart, who assisted me. He trains in the capital. It was my younger son, Leon. He has begged for years to set out adventuring with him, and he has grown stronger than many men. I could no longer refuse him, lest he venture forth alone."

I freeze. He's younger than me, How is that possible?

The king leans back, intrigued. "Interesting. The strongest ten-year-old I know is my son, Julius, and even he would struggle against a novice swordsman in real fight." At that, Julius's usually serene smile twists into a frown.
"Let us test your claim," the king declares, his voice sharp with authority. "Summon a palace guard in training."

My heart sinks. What is His Majesty thinking, pitting a boy against a guard?

A tall, armored noble steps forward, towering over Leon. The boy, sword in hand, shows no sign of fear. The match begins. The guard lunges, but Leon sidesteps effortlessly, striking with the flat of his blade.
"That is not enough!" the king bellows. "Show us the strength that aided your father. You may injure your opponent."

My stomach churns. Blood in the throne room? This is going too far!

Leon moves like a shadow, tripping the guard and pinning him with his blade. The court falls silent as he speaks, his voice steady. "Is that enough, Your Majesty, or shall I cut open his throat?"
A collective gasp ripples through the room. My breath catches. He wouldn't… would he?
The king laughs heartily. "You're truly exceptional. Would you not train under our Sword Saint?"
Leon bows stiffly. "Thank you, Your Majesty, but I wish to remain with my family."
"Oh well. I hereby declare you and your father guests of honor at our next ball. While you're staying in the capital, you may find it wise to visit the Sword Saint anyways."
Leon's expression remains polite, but his eyes blaze with frustration. Why is he angry? He was just praised by the king!
The Viscount quickly interjects, his voice calm. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

The king rises, dismissing the audience early. As he leaves, the court murmurs discontentedly.

I hurry after Julius, catching him at the exit. "My Prince, there's no need to feel disheartened. I'm certain you would do even better."
Julius smiles softly, his tone reassuring. "You're right, my dear Angelica." He kisses my hand lightly before leaving.

Walking back to my chambers with Clarice, frustration bubbles to the surface. "Lady Atlee, we must secure that Bartfort boy's support for the prince and Lord Jilk."
Clarice stops, her calm demeanor steady. "Angelica, you're doing it again. If Prince Julius or Lord Jilk wants his support, they will ask for it themselves."
"You're too inactive!" I snap. "You need to do more for your fiancé!"
Clarice's tone sharpens, her words cutting. "I just gave him an airbike he adores, Angelica. If he asked for my help, I'd give him everything. But plotting behind his back isn't love."
I stiffen. "Queen Mylene always does things this way."
"That doesn't make it right," Clarice retorts. "If you truly love him, you'll respect his agency." She turns and shuts her door firmly, leaving me alone in the corridor.

Back in my room, I collapse onto my bed, tears blurring my vision. "I'm doing this for Prince Julius…" I whisper to the empty room.

Leon

"Another harmful promotion," I mutter, leaning back in my new chamber at the Bartfort mansion in the capital. "If Roland doesn't get what he wants, he just twists your arm until you give in. I'd better visit Chris's dad soon. Arghh. At least I can use the ball to get closer to Julius and Angelica."
Cleare's voice chimes in, teetering between amused and reprimanding. "You're always complaining, Master. Everything is still well within our expectations."
I glance at her. Her lens swivels toward me, glowing faintly. "Sure, but that doesn't make it any less irritating. Roland just likes to stand in the spotlight, not thinking about the consequences of his actions."

Cleare hums dismissively, ignoring my grumbling. Her tone shifts to something annoyingly chipper. "Instead of dwelling on the negatives, why not reward me for my stellar performance? I analyzed the court's language patterns and crafted all those proper sentences for you and your father. Without me, you'd probably have blurted out something horribly inappropriate."
"You're right," I say absently, my thoughts wandering. "Mylene looks so young for her age. And small Angelica and Clarice—seeing them in those maid uniforms was something else. It was nice to watch them all do well today."
"Master, you ignored the second part of my comment," Cleare says, her voice turning pointed.
I can't help but smirk, finally meeting her gaze. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Cleare. You did good."

Her lens flickers with what I think is satisfaction before her tone takes on a mischievous edge. "Now, speaking of rewards, I have some experiments ready. I just need your permission to begin with the test subjects."
I shoot her a sharp look, leaning forward. "Sure, but you'll need to run everything by me first. I don't want you experimenting on the wrong people."
Cleare's lens flickers again, this time almost indignantly. "Master, you wound me! As if I'd ever misjudged a suitable candidate for my experiments."
I sigh, leaning back and closing my eyes. "Yes, you have. Even if everything turned out fine in the end. I'll be watching, Cleare."
Her laughter echoes softly as the drone floats away. "As you wish, Master."

Chapter Text

Knock. Knock.

No response.

"Angelica?" I call softly.

After a pause, the door creaks open, and Cordelia, Angelica's ever-dutiful maid, stands before me. She regards me with polite detachment. "Lady Atlee, Lady Angelica has had quite enough of your company during today's duties. Is there anything important you wish for me to convey to her?"
I keep my expression composed. "Yes, please let her know that I'd like to discuss the reason for our... disagreement and tentatively offer her my support. If she's preoccupied, tell her she's welcome to visit me whenever she has the time."
Before Cordelia can respond, Angelica's voice rises from inside the room, strained. "Cordelia, let her through."
What about your manners now, Angelica? You can use Cordelia's first name so freely, but I'm still "Lady Atlee"? I sigh inwardly but step inside without comment.

As Cordelia busies herself with preparing tea and sweets, my gaze falls on Angelica. Her eyes are puffy and red, a stark contrast to her usual confidence. Guilt gnaws at me.
"Angelica," I begin softly, taking a seat across from her. "I'm sorry. The way I spoke was thoughtless. I didn't mean to hurt you. I just think you shouldn't act behind the prince's back. Talk to him, work with him."
Angelica looks down, fiddling with her sleeves. "But Prince Julius is already so busy with his duties. I couldn't possibly burden him even more..."
"And yet you burden yourself," I reply gently. "Angelica, you're already doing more than enough. You don't need to keep pushing yourself."
Her head snaps up, and I see the resolve in her eyes. "I have to! I have to do everything I can for him!"
I take a calming breath. "Alright, fine. Let's look into this boy together. But if you want my help, it will come with one condition."
Her eyes widen slightly.
"I'll only help if it's to gain his support for us—not for our fiancés. Our power is their power, anyways."

For a moment, Angelica looks stunned. Then, before I can react, she jumps up and throws her arms around me. The sudden movement nearly sends the small tea table between us toppling.
"Thank you, Clarice," Angelica whispers, her voice trembling. "I didn't know how to make up with you, and you're even willing to help me..."
"That's what friends do," I say, patting her back lightly. "As long as it's truly for you and not for someone else, I'll always come to your aid. But," I add with a small smile, "you'll have to keep calling me Clarice."
Angelica pulls back, her face flushed, realising what she just did. She hurriedly smooths her dress and sits down. "Do I really have to?" she asks sheepishly.
"Yes," I reply firmly and we share a quiet laugh.

Angelica's expression now brighter, she leans forward. "So, other than his birth, I couldn't find much about him or his familyform outside the capital. I don't even know who his mother is, just that he's a bastard. We'll have to use our chance at the ball."

"Angelica, are you ready yet?" I call, adjusting my gloves as I wait outside her chambers.
"Just a moment, Lady Clarice," comes Cordelia's voice. "I'm tightening the young lady's corset."
From behind the door, I hear groans and the rustling of fabric. It takes a few more minutes before the door finally creaks open, and Angelica steps out. "Let's go."

The ballroom is dazzling, as expected of a royal event. Some of the adults approach to greet me, though most of their attention naturally drifts to my father. This suits me just fine. I much prefer the company of those closer to my age, and I take full advantage of the evening, chatting with the other young nobles and enjoying the music.
I even manage to secure a few dances with Jilk, his movements graceful but his expression just slightly distant. It's a familiar pattern by now—his thoughts always seem half-occupied, even in lighter moments like this.

Angelica, on the other hand, has no such respite. She and Prince Julius are surrounded by adults nearly the entire evening, monopolized by eager courtiers. Spotting an opening, I approach her with deliberate steps and a polite smile. "Lady Angelica, may I have a moment of your time?"
Her attention shifts to me, though I catch a remaining flicker of annoyance in her eyes. "So, did you manage to keep an eye on him while I was occupied?"
"Yes," I reply, glancing across the room. "He was just over there speaking to one of the Roseblade daughters… It seems someone else is speaking with him now."
Angelica's posture straightens, her expression softening with relief. "That's His Highness! Naturally, he's already recognized the worth of that boy. How could I have doubted him?"
Her confidence is unwavering so I just nod. "In that case, I'll leave it to the two of you. But," I add with a small smile, "I would like an introduction later."

Satisfied, Angelica gives a quick nod of her own before turning back toward the prince and the boy. I excuse myself, making my way through the ballroom once more, my gaze seeking out Jilk.

As Jilk converses with me, always close to the prince and Angelica, I suddenly hear her voice, distressed, rising above the general murmur. "My prince, please–" She's clinging to Prince Julius's arm, her expression desperate. His face, however, is twisted with frustration. "Stop always getting in my way, Angelica! It's like you don't understand me at all!"
With that, the prince jerks his arm away send her stumbling. The ballroom falls into stunned silence, all eyes snapping toward the scene.

In the stillness, a single figure moves. The boy Angelica has been focused on, nudges the prince aside, catching her just before she can hit the ground, pulling her upright into his arms.
"I'm sorry, my lady," he says softly, his tone steady despite the intense stares. "You shouldn't have had to go through that because of me. Are you alright?"
Angelica looks up at him, her cheeks flushed, her hands clutching at his arms for balance. She doesn't answer, too stunned to respond. Julius, standing just beside them, looks equally startled—his expression shifting between disbelief and anger.

From my side, I see Jilk tense, his face darkening with rage. He takes a sharp step forward, but I grab he tightly. "Jilk, stop! We don't even know what happened yet!"
Without saying a word, Jilk yanks his hand free of mine with such force that I fall, landing ungracefully on the polished ballroom floor. Embarrassment surges through me as I try to right myself, only to see someone rushing over to help.
To my dismay, it's not Jilk who offers me a hand, but the boy who just helped Angelica. He helps me up,as I glance past him, seeing Jilk stumbling toward Julius without even looking back.
Before I can utter a word of thanks, a sharp pain lances through my foot. My breath hitches, and the boy notices immediately, concern flickering across his face. "Are you alright? Where does it hurt?" he asks, his voice calm but tinged with urgency.
"M-My ankle," I manage to stammer, wincing.
His response is swift. "If I may." Without hesitation, he scoops me up into a princess carry. That takes the weight off my ankle, and the pain begins to ebb. My face burns with mortification, and I can only stammer, "Th-thank you."
He nods and turns toward the edge of the room, clearly intending to set me down on one of the lined-up chairs. The murmurs of onlookers follow us, their curiosity as sharp as the stares drilling into my back.

But before we reach the chairs, Jilk steps into our path, his expression a storm of anger.
"Apologize to the prince right now!" Jilk demands.
The boy doesn't flinch. "Why?" he replies, his tone calm yet brimming with suppressed ire. "I've done nothing wrong. And more importantly, I need to get this lady some help."
Jilk seems momentarily taken aback but quickly regains his composure. "I'll take her," he insists, though his voice falters slightly. "But you will apologize this instant!"
The boy's expression hardens. "As if I'd hand her over to the one who caused her to fall in the first place. And a brat who doesn't even know how to behave properly doesn't deserve an apology, even if I had done something wrong."
With that, the boy steps forward, his movement unyielding. Jilk tries to hold him back but loses his grip, stumbling as the boy pushes past him.

The next moment, two palace guards stop us again. Julius strides up to Jilk, his expression stormy as Angelica trails after him anxious.
"You insolent fool!" Julius's voice rings out. "How dare you insult me? Apologize immediately!"
The boy doesn't flinch. Instead, his expression hardens as his voice gains an edge. "You two are meant to be the future of our nation, yet you can't even handle yourselves. Jealous the moment someone more talented shows up. You don't know how to treat your subjects."
His words hit like a hammer. "You injured a minister's daughter and nearly did the same to a duke's daughter. Your respective fiancées, no less! Do you understand the disgrace you've brought to this country with your behavior tonight?"

The hall falls silent, the tension thick in the air. Suddenly, something small and soft hits the boy in the face before landing in my lap. A glove.
Julius's voice drips with scorn. "You won't dare to speak ill of me again!"
The boy catches the prince's eye, his tone unshaken. "You can't even handle well-earned criticism. You—"
Before he can finish, an elderly woman steps in, placing a firm hand over his mouth. "Forgive me, Your Highness," she says with a low bow, her voice tingling with tension. "This fool is unfit for the capital, let alone the royal court."

"Julius, Jilk, are you alright?" Queen Mylene's concerned tone rises above the murmurs.
"What's this commotion?" booms King Roland just seconds later.
The king's gaze sweeps over us before landing on the glove in my lap matching the one missing from Julius's hand. His brow furrows slightly before he speaks. "Julius, do you believe a duel is in order? If that is the case, let it begin immediately."
"Dear, you can't be serious!" Queen Mylene protests, her voice sharp with disapproval. As the royal pair exchange heated words, the elderly woman quietly steps away.

A few words to his spouse later, the king steps closer to me, crouching to meet my eye level. His voice carries a strange warmth ill-suited to the situation. "I'll take the little lady so you can prepare for your duel," he says, extending his hands toward me.
The king—holding me? My gaze darts to the boy's face, and I see a flicker of disgust. Is it truly so unbearable for him to be reminded he's carrying me?
"Your Majesty," the boy interjects, his tone firm yet respectful, "that won't be necessary. I'll take her to a chair and then prepare. Just a moment."

And with that, he turns us toward the chairs again. Wasn't he just acting so strangely about holding me? Now he's carrying me as if it's second nature.
"I would like to watch the duel," I manage to say, my voice quieter than intended. "Could you place me somewhere I can see?"
He nods. "Of course." Then, he calls out to a blond boy nearby. "Big brother, would you please get Clarice a chair so we can sit her down at the edge of the dueling ring?"

I blink, stunned. Clarice?
Why is he calling me by my first name? I don't even know him. I glance up at him. The sound of my name coming from a stranger's lips feels oddly intimate.

Still overwhelmed, I'm finally set down on a chair at the edge of a circle , cleared for the duel.
"Clarice, my dear," my father's voice breaks through my thoughts, and I turn to him, his expression lined with concern. "I'm so sorry I couldn't assist you sooner. The king required my counsel. How are you holding up?"
"It's not that bad," I reply absently. Everything feels disjointed, and I can't shake the confusion from my mind.
Father sighs and leans closer. "Tell me, did the king order that boy to lose when he approached you earlier? Otherwise, this could be disastrous for the prince's reputation."
"No… No, he didn't," I murmur. "He offered to carry me instead of the boy."
Father clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering under his breath, "Tsk. Not even his foster son's fiancée is safe." His words confuse me further, but before I can ask what he means, a sharp voice cuts through the air.

"Are you finished, Lord Mamoria?" It's the Bartfort boy. "I would like to start. If you wish to shield your foster brother, I'm willing to face you first—on the same conditions."
Jilk, standing stiffly, responds. "And those conditions would be?"
The boy steps forward, his expression unyielding. "Your Highnesses apologize to your fiancées for hurting them. Then, make a genuine effort to be better partners and take your responsibilities seriously. These engagements are meant to create a strong and stable future for this nation. Your negligence could lead to instability—even civil war. That is the power you hold."
Jilk's face flushes, but he nods curtly. "Fine. But if you lose, you will apologize for your offenses against us and accept any punishment we see fit."
The king claps loudly, silencing the murmurs of the crowd. "Let the duel begin."

Jilk is the first to move. He circles cautiously, trying to close in on the boy's side. My heart pounds as I watch their movements, though I barely understand what I'm seeing.
Suddenly Jilk's sword clatters loudly against the floor, skidding into a group of onlookers. Before anyone could react, the boy lightly presses his wooden blade to Jilk's throat. My fiancé trembles, visibly shaken. He tries to speak, but the king's voice booms over him.
"The first match is over."
That was… fast. Too fast. What just happened? I barely had time to register their movements.
Before I can dwell on it, the second round begins. Julius steps into the circle, his face set with determination. This time, the duel lasts longer. At first, it looks like Julius has the upper hand. But then, slowly, the tide begins to turn.
The Bartfort boy presses forward. Julius starts to falter. His breathing grows heavier, and his swings lose their crispness. What's going on?
Then, in a flash, the boy strikes Julius's weapon. The prince's sword flies from his grip, landing several feet away.

The room is silent as the king steps forward, raising his hand to signal the end of the match. "The second match is over," he declares firmly.
Julius' voice rising in protest. "This isn't—"
The king cuts him off. "As far as I understand, Lord Bartfort over there did nothing wrong. He merely refused to stoop to your provocations. And when you were about to hurt dear Angelica, he stepped in. That should have been your role, Julius."
The king dismisses Julius, turning to address the room. "Now, everyone, tell me—who is truly in the right here? My son, the prince, by virtue of his station? Or the viscount's son, for winning this duel fairly?" He pauses, letting his words settle. "Consider it carefully. And lets be relieved, after all, this was nothing more than a children's spat."

With that, the king places a hand on Angelica's shoulder and they make there way toward me. Lowering himself onto one knee, he meets our gazes. "My dear Angelica and Clarice, I offer my deepest apologies for my sons' behavior. They are still young and did not intend to cause you harm."
He takes each of our hands, pressing a kiss to the back of them. It's a gesture of comfort, but my father clicks his tongue in disapproval, again. With that the king departs, leaving tension lingering as the evening hesitates to resume its prior rhythm.

A few moments later, Jilk approaches me, stopping a few paces away. His expression is hesitant, his usual composure gone. "Clarice, I… I'm sorry, I… I didn't mean—"
I instinctively rise to reassure him, only for sharp pain to shoot through my ankle. I let out a startled cry as I stumble, but a steadying hand grips me, keeping me upright. I lean into the support, and move closer to Jilk. Placing a hand against his cheek, I smile. "It's fine, I know you only wanted to help the prince. That's your duty."
Jilk's expression tightens, glancing sharply to my side. "If that's so," he mutters tersely, gesturing to my leg. "let's get this looked at." He waves dismissively at my unknown helper. "I'll handle it."
His abruptness catches me off guard. Turning to follow his gaze, I finally register who is holding me. It's the Bartfort boy. He doesn't step away immediately, his face calm despite Jilk's sharp tone.

I feel a twinge of embarrassment. "Oh… I…" My voice falters, then steadies as I manage to speak. "I'm sorry. What is your name again? I would like to thank you properly."
He declines his head slightly. "It's Leon fou Bartfort, my lady. It was an honor."
"Thank you, Leon fou Bartfort, for helping me today," I reply, my voice carrying a sincere warmth as I bow my head in gratitude.
Without another word, Jilk abruptly stalks off, leaving me puzzled. Perhaps he's as overwhelmed as I am.
I glance back at Leon, offering him another quiet "Thank you" before my father takes over. The evening's events replay in my mind as we leave the ballroom. That's it for today. What a shame I didn't get to dance more. Maybe, at the next ball, I'll dance with Leon.

Chapter Text

"What was that all about?!" I throw my arms up, exasperated. "First, Diedre corners me, preaching about the nobility of adventuring. Somehow, she even got me to invite her to our estate. That alone would be enough to give Dad a heart attack."
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Then Julius lectures me for what feels like an hour, only to turn around and nearly hurt Angelica when she tries to stop him. And, as if trying to outdo him in sheer stupidity, Jilk does the same to Clarice—except this time, I wasn't fast enough to stop it."
I shake my head. "I have no idea what those dear girls see in these idiots."

Cleare hums in amusement. "Master, if you're so emotionally invested in your so-called ex-wives, why not win them over for yourself instead of trying to shape their fiancés into better men?"
I frown. "Their breakup nearly caused a civil war. And besides, they're too good for me anyway. I only got close to them because of Luxion. I won't steal their futures from them again."
"You're too pessimistic, Master. Luxion may have provided the opportunity, but you won them over yourself. Do you really believe none of them wanted to be with you in the end?"
I scowl. "Oh, shut it. You just want me to reproduce like crazy because of my 'strong old human' genetics."

"Master, that is simply—" Cleare suddenly pauses, her tone shifting. "But Roland. Blah." Her voice drips with mechanical disdain. "Is he truly attempting to groom an eleven-year-old? How repulsive."
I groan, rubbing my temples. "Argh, don't remind me."
"Shall I fake his death? He would make for an interesting research subject."
"No."
"You're no fun, Master."

I shake my head. "Enough of that. Have you found any leads on my sister?"
Cleare's lens flickers. "Not enough to narrow down the possibilities yet."
I sigh. "Keep searching. Her family wouldn't miss a royal ball."
For now, I stretch my arms and stand from my bench in the palace gardens. "Let's head back. It won't be long before my family wants to leave."

It's a quite morning. My family is still enjoying the rare luxury of a slow start. Ever since the ball, things have been different—no more waking at dawn for physical labor. It's unsettling, really.
Rutart is the only one already up, training outside. Just as I finish changing, I hear the distinct rumble of carriage wheels nearing our estate. I move to the window, squinting at the crest.

A royal messenger.
I throw on my jacket and rush downstairs. The messenger, satisfied that I'm competent enough, hands me a letter addressed to my father before promptly leaving.

The queen's seal. A letter from Milene.

A strange warmth stirs in my chest at the thought. I know it isn't for me, but still—I carefully break the seal and unfold the parchment. The letter is brief: A formal request for my father to visit her office at his earliest convenience. And I'm mentioned specifically—an instruction to bring Leon fou Bartfort along.
I reread it, lips twitching into a small smirk. She only mentioned me by name, no one else. That, combined with the "earliest convenience" phrasing, gives me enough justification to act. If Dad is still asleep, then I can claim I didn't want to keep my dear, beautiful queen waiting.
With that thought, I dress as formally as I can manage and slip out, leaving only a brief note behind. No need to tell them where I'm going.

Milene

An assistant enters my office, bowing slightly. "Your Majesty, Lord Bartfort has arrived."
I set down my quill, my fingers resting lightly against the parchment. "Good. Have Lady Angelica arrange space in my schedule. She and Lady Clarice may entertain our guests in the meantime."
A rare opportunity. The boy has shown talent.

After finishing the latest batch of paperwork, I call them in.
I expect to see Lord Bartfort and his now infamous son. Instead, only the boy strides in alone, his posture straight, his expression far too at ease for someone standing before the Queen. A few steps behind him, Angelica and Clarice enter, their gazes flicking between him and me, expressions reserved but watchful.

I arch a brow. "Where is your father, Lord Bartfort?"
He smiles—bright, unbothered. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of making our beautiful queen wait just because my father enjoys his sleep."
A bold response.
Angelica stiffens, and Clarice's lips tug into a small smile, though she says nothing.
Flattery?
I watch him closely. A boy his age should be nervous standing before me. Instead, he plays his role effortlessly. How amusing.

Still, I don't react immediately. Instead, I turn to Angelica and Clarice. "Have you two properly thanked Lord Bartfort for assisting you at the ball?"
Angelica relaxes. "Yes, Your Majesty! He even told us about his adventures! He's so—" she catches herself, clearing her throat, "—well-versed in such matters."
Clarice, ever more composed, nods once. "He was most helpful."

I return my attention to the boy. "How admirable. To step in where Jilk should have—you've taken responsibility for guiding the prince. That is no small thing."
He merely shrugs. "I simply did what I felt was right."

I narrow my eyes slightly.
So casual. So unaffected.
Yet calculated.

"Of course," I murmur. "I understand you don't intend to remain in the capital, but I must insist—Julius requires counsel like yours. Someone who will guide him properly."
For the first time, his smirk flickers—just briefly.

Ah. That struck a chord.

I press further, my tone light. "There have been many in history who shaped kings from the shadows. Wise figures whose names remain immortalized in the annals of power. Would it not be a waste for someone of your ability to remain a mere observer?"
A careful push—framing his involvement not as duty, but as an opportunity.
He hesitates.

Then, in a burst of movement, he steps forward and— Throws his arms around me.

The entire room stills.

"If that's what you want, Mommy Milene, I'll do it!" he says brightly.
I freeze.
Clarice lets out a sharp inhale. Angelica sputters, nearly knocking over a nearby teacup.
I should correct him. I should put an end to this absurdity. But instead—I hesitate.

A warmth I have not felt in years.
I inhale, steadying myself. "Your assistance to the prince—" I begin again.

"If Mommy is not fine, I'll call you Aunty instead," he interrupts, his lips trembling, eyes shimmering.
No. Anything but that.
"Very well," I say at last, mind racing. "You may call me Mommy—but only in private. And you must listen to me properly if I am to be your mother."
His smirk is almost victorious. "Of course, Mommy Milene."

I have made a mistake.

A silence lingers longer than expected.

Then, without prompting, Leon speaks, his voice back to that careful politeness. "While I'm in the capital, I'd like access to the royal archives. There are families I'd like to research—potential allies for the prince."
His tone remains light, but there is something beneath it. Calculation.

Interesting.
I study him for a moment, my fingers lightly tapping against the armrest of my chair. His request is reasonable, even admirable on the surface. But I doubt that's his only goal.
"What exactly are you looking for?" I ask smoothly.
Leon tilts his head, smiling. "I wouldn't want to waste the Queen's precious time with minor details. But if you must know, I want to familiarize myself with the noble houses connected to His Highness's generation. Since I grew up in the countryside, I lack that knowledge."

A convenient excuse.
I could press further, but doing so might make him defensive. More importantly, I have already secured his cooperation with Julius. If a little access to the archives is the price, then so be it.
I nod approvingly. "A noble goal. Angelica, Clarice, assist him."
They curtsy in acknowledgment.
Before he pulls away entirely, Leon grins up at me. "May I get a kiss for good luck?"
I scoff lightly, prepared to dismiss the request, but then I meet his eyes—large, bright, expectant.
For a moment, the years fall away, and I recall a time when my own children would eagerly seek affection, unburdened by duty or expectation. How long has it been since I last kissed a child's forehead? Without thinking, I lean down and press a brief kiss to his brow.

His eyes gleam mischievously. How troublesome.
He's difficult to grasp—an anomaly. A child who wields politics with playful ease, slipping through expectations like water. I'm a fool for underestimating him. But if I can secure his loyalty, Julius's future will be bright.

Leon

As soon as we step out of the office, I exhale, grinning. Not bad.
Cleare hums in my ear. "Master, that was… a unique strategy."
"Thanks," I whisper under my breath. "But using the royal archive to find my sister—as expected of an AI."
Angelica looks up. "What was that?"
I smile at her. "Oh, just that I'm honored to be escorted by two beautiful ladies."
Cleare snickers as Angelica blushes.

In the archive, I let my eyes skim over the records, knowing full well that Cleare—disguised in my earpiece—is already processing everything at lightning speed. Angelica and Clarice, unaware of my true method, point out names they find noteworthy, discussing potential alliances and which families hold influence. It's useful information, but my real goal lies elsewhere.
I don't just need a noble family. I need her family.

After what feels like hours, we finally finish. The girls escort me to the palace gates, offering polite farewells before returning inside.
Once I'm alone, I murmur under my breath, "Cleare, did you find her?"
Cleare's voice is smug. "Oh yes."
I stop walking. My heart clenches—just for a moment. "She's here?"
"She exists," Cleare corrects teasingly. "As for whether she remembers you, well… that's another question entirely."
I exhale slowly, trying to ignore the sudden weight in my chest. It's fine. I expected this. I knew it wouldn't be easy.

Cleare's amused tone breaks the silence . "Oh, and your absence has thrown your household into chaos."
I sigh dramatically. "Can't wait for that."
I start walking again, bracing myself for whatever storm awaits me back home.

Still…
I lift my gaze toward the sky, exhaling.
I'm one step closer.

Chapter Text

I step onto the bridge of the small shuttle, where Dad is already waiting. His arms are crossed, and his expression is caught somewhere between exasperation and resignation. "Where have you dragged us into this time?" he grumbles.
I glance out the window. The capital sprawls beneath us, its rooftops bathed in the golden hues of dawn. The royal palace looms ahead, growing larger as we approach the exclusive landing pad reserved for high-ranking guests.
As the shuttle touches down with practiced precision, the boarding ramp lowers, revealing our charges for today. Prince Julius stands at the forefront, his usual air of arrogance slightly diminished by a tired scowl. Beside him, Jilk mirrors his mood, looking equally unenthused. In stark contrast, Angelica and Clarice greet us with polite smiles, their expressions betraying a hint of excitement. Further back, a more imposing figure stands—a tall man with a dignified presence, Count Arclight, the famed Sword Saint, with his son, Chris, trailing behind him. Chris, noticeably smaller than the others, shifts nervously under the weight of the situation. He keeps glancing between Julius and me, as if unsure of where to position himself.
Julius scoffs, arms crossed. "I don't see why you're here, Bartfort."
I offer a relaxed shrug. "Don't look at me. I was invited."
Jilk, ever loyal, adds, "It's not like he belongs here. This is an official royal matter."
Before I can respond, Count Arclight speaks up. His voice is even, but there's an undeniable weight to his words. "We appreciate your assistance today, Lord Bartfort. I trust this expedition will be enlightening for all of us." His gaze sharpens slightly as it lands on me. "And I do hope we can cross swords again sometime."
I nod respectfully. "It would be an honor, Count Arclight."
Chris flinches at his father's words but says nothing. He's clearly nervous.
Julius scoffs again. "Let's just get this over with."
With that, we board the shuttle, and I already feel a headache forming as Julius and Jilk continue their grumbling.

The interior of the shuttle is well-furnished, offering comfort befitting its passengers. Not that it does anything to improve the mood. Julius and Jilk waste no time venting their frustrations, their complaints filling the cabin.
"I still don't understand why we have to waste our time on this," Julius mutters, arms crossed. "Lafan territory is insignificant. Whatever assessment needs to be done could have been handled by the Ministry."
Jilk scoffs beside him. "It's obvious why they pushed this onto you, Your Highness. They want to pretend you're learning something while making you entertain a lower noble. What a joke."
I lean back in my seat, already regretting everything. We haven't even arrived, and I already want to throw myself out of this shuttle.
Julius exhales sharply. "And on top of that, we have to suffer his presence as well." His glare shifts to me.

Oh, here we go.
"You've already inserted yourself into our business once. Now, you're doing it again." He glares at me. "Did you come along just to gloat?"
Jilk huffs. "He probably did. After all, he's got the favor of certain people, doesn't he?" His gaze flicks briefly to Angelica and Clarice before returning to me, his expression cold.
I don't even bother responding.
Julius scoffs. "I suppose it makes sense. He doesn't have proper noble responsibilities of his own to worry about, so he enjoys interfering in others' affairs."
Jilk smirks. "And with all that free time, he certainly found ways to play the hero at the ball."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Right. Because saving Angelica and Clarice from you was somehow an elaborate scheme.
Julius leans back with a sigh. "Honestly, I don't see why he was even invited."
At that, I finally turn to them, offering a dry smile. "Because Lord Arclight wanted someone competent along?"
Julius's expression darkens. "You—"
But before he can launch into another rant, a sharp voice cuts through the cabin. "That's enough." Angelica's tone is firm, leaving no room for argument.
Julius turns to her, his frown deepening. "Angelica, I—"
"Leon was invited here by your queen-mother."
Julius's jaw tightens, but he says nothing.
Clarice, sitting beside Angelica, tilts her head slightly. "Really, Julius, Jilk, you should be grateful. Without him, the ball would have been an even greater disaster for you both."
Jilk's smirk vanishes instantly.
I blink. They actually shut them up.

Before either of them can regain their vigor, Lord Arclight clears his throat, drawing the attention of the cabin. He sits composed, his sharp gaze directed at Julius. "Your Highness," he begins, "as this is your expedition, would you kindly remind us of the objectives for today?"
Julius looks reluctant, but under Lord Arclight's expectant gaze, he straightens slightly. "…Our task is threefold," he says, voice stiff. "First, we are to assess the economic state of the Lafan territory."
Lord Arclight nods in approval.
"Second, we must observe the Lafan family's approach to noble duties and lastly, we are to evaluate the territory's usefulness to the kingdom, as well as the family's overall contribution."
There's a brief silence as Julius finishes. Then Lord Arclight gives an approving nod. "Well stated."
He then turns his gaze to the rest of us. "These will not only be His Highness's objectives but yours as well. Consider it an exercise in judgment—one that every noble should be capable of performing."
Julius and Jilk shift slightly, clearly displeased with the notion of sharing their task. I simply nod along. At least that's the farce Milene came up with when we planned this trip.
Dad, who had been quietly observing, finally speaks up. "We're approaching Lafan territory," he announces, standing near the front of the cabin. "Prepare yourselves."

The shuttle lands smoothly on the designated platform outside the Lafan manor.
I think I'll throw up. It's just too much embellishment. Gold accents on the railings, ornamental carvings on the columns, walls—everything. It seems excessive, almost desperate. Like they're trying too hard to prove their nobility.
Viscount Lafan waits for us at the base of the landing pad. His wife stands beside him, wearing far too many jewels. Their children—a son and daughter in their mid-teens—are dressed in fine clothes, but like everything else, there's something… off about them. Their outfits are expensive but clashing, almost as if they were picked based on price rather than taste. They want to be seen as high nobility, but they lack… let's say refinement.
The viscount steps forward, offering a deep bow. "Your Highness, welcome to our humble estate. It is the highest honor to receive you today."
Julius, still irritated from earlier, barely acknowledges him with a nod. "Viscount Lafan."
The viscount turns to Lord Arclight and bows just as deeply. "Count Arclight, it has been too long."
Lord Arclight inclines his head politely. Then the viscount's gaze shifts, and I feel the temperature drop. His expression remains composed, but the moment he locks eyes with my father and me, something flickers in his eyes—displeasure, barely concealed. The viscount forces a smile. "Ah, Baron… Pardon, Viscount Bartfort. I must admit, I was surprised to hear of your presence."
Julius clears his throat, annoyed by the delay. "Shall we move inside?"
"Of course, of course." The viscount gestures toward the entrance. "Please, follow me."

As we walk, the Lafan family stays close to Julius and Lord Arclight, subtly guiding them into conversation. They lavish the prince with praise, showering him with admiration for his "wisdom" in coming to assess their lands personally. Meanwhile, Dad and I are entirely ignored. Angelica and Clarice keep close, their expressions neutral but sharp. They've noticed too.
And something else catches my attention. A single maid stands near the entrance, her uniform more elaborate than necessary—layers of ruffles, delicate lace, all in pristine white. A personal attendant? No… a status symbol. She's not here to work; she's here to be seen.
But besides her, I don't see any other servants. Odd.

The viscount leads us into the receiving room, where the excess continues. The walls are completely covered with gold-framed paintings, and the furniture is so lavish it looks like it belongs in a royal palace rather than a viscount's estate. Again, too much. We take our seats, and the flattery resumes. The viscount's wife praises Julius's "radiant presence," while the son and daughter smile and nod along, adding comments about how inspiring it is to have the prince visit.
I barely listen. My attention is on the layout of the manor. One wing of the estate is blocked off, large partitions set up to hide ongoing construction. From what I can tell, it's a major renovation. So, they're still pouring money into the estate.
At last, Lord Arclight speaks. "Your Highness, how would you like to proceed?"
Julius straightens. "We'll begin with a broad assessment. A survey of the territory from the air."
The viscount tenses slightly. "Wouldn't a formal report suffice?"
Julius shakes his head. "A firsthand account is necessary."
A moment of hesitation. Then, a forced smile. "Of course, Your Highness. My son and daughter will accompany you as guides."

Still no mention of Marie. I frown slightly.

The viscount personally escorts us outside to his waiting shuttle.
It's pompous. Golden trim. Engraved insignias. Pointless embellishments. Even the entrance ramp has decorative carvings. What bad taste.
The interior is just as bad. Plush velvet seats, gilded armrests, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling— Who puts chandeliers in a shuttle? I take a slow breath, forcing my irritation down.
Julius and Jilk take their seats near the front. Angelica and Clarice sit together, poised but observant. The Lafan siblings take their places opposite Julius, radiating arrogance. I remain at the back, arms crossed.
The shuttle hums to life, piloted by a man in an overly decorated uniform, his polished boots practically reflecting the ceiling lights.

The Lafan estate is surrounded by a small but well-maintained town. From the shuttle's windows, we see modest but orderly streets, a functioning market, and a population that—at first glance—appears well-dressed. Beyond the town, farms stretch outward in neat parcels, golden crops swaying in the wind. Here and there, hamlets dot the landscape, clustered homes sitting in organized little pockets. Small woodlands strategically break the view, making it impossible to see too far beyond the estate's reach. It all looks adequate. Not extravagant, but respectable for commoners.
The brother gestures smoothly. "This, Your Highness, is the heart of our domain. Our family has spent generations ensuring its prosperity."
Julius, seeing exactly what he expects, nods in satisfaction. "I look forward to seeing more."
Clarice studies the fields, her gaze lingering on the roads. "The land seems productive."
They're only showing us what they want us to see. Enough of this. I push off my seat, stepping forward. "Let's see the rest."

The atmosphere shifts. The brother doesn't bother hiding his disinterest. "You are free to observe whatever His Highness wishes."
The sister smiles politely. A noblewoman's empty smile. "We will ensure that every aspect of our great domain meets the prince's satisfaction."
I frown. Of course, to them, I don't matter. Julius, however, matters very much. I glance at him, expecting him to ignore this entirely. Instead, his lips twitch in amusement. I narrow my eyes. So that's how it is, huh?
I cross my arms and turn toward Julius. "What do you think, Your Highness? Satisfied?" Maybe he gets the double meaning.
Julius tilts his head, watching me struggle. He doesn't even answer me. But after flying in circles, focusing on different details every time—he gets annoyed. "Actually, I'd like to see the borders."
The Lafan siblings stiffen. The brother clears his throat. "Your Highness, there is little of note beyond the central district. It would be a waste of time—"
Julius raises an eyebrow. "Are you saying it's a waste of time for the crown prince to see his own kingdom?"
The Lafans freeze.
Clarice and Angelica exchange glances.
The sister recovers quickly, her smile turning softer. "Your Highness, we only wished to spare you the inconvenience."
Julius hums, unimpressed. "Then let me decide whether or not it's an inconvenience."
The siblings are cornered. They can't outright refuse Julius. Still, they try. The brother hesitates. "There is little to see, Your Highness. The true beauty of our land is right here."
Julius taps his fingers against his armrest. "And what lies beyond this beauty?"
"…The less developed regions," the brother admits carefully.
Julius watches them for a moment longer. Then, deciding he's had enough of their dodging, he turns toward the pilot. "Take us to the edges."
The pilot hesitates, glancing toward his masters. The Lafan siblings say nothing. He exhales through his nose, then obeys.

The shuttle veers off course, heading toward the fringes. And just like that—the illusion shatters.
The pristine streets vanish. The paved roads wither into dirt paths. Then uneven trails.
Homes shrink. Their walls patched with scraps. Entire towns have folded in on themselves. Only a handful of occupied buildings remain, surrounded by ruins.
Fields lie barren.
The shuttle grows eerily silent. Even Jilk, who had been entertained by my mistreatment earlier, watches with quiet unease.
Julius's brow furrows. "What is this?"
The Lafan siblings are pale. Their smiles are gone. They try to recover. "It is—"
Julius interrupts. "Why does it look like this?"
The brother struggles to find words. "These… these are the less developed areas, Your Highness."
Julius's brow furrows. "Less developed?"
The Lafan sister forces a smile. "Our focus has always been on maintaining the estate's prosperity. The borders have…"
She falls silent. Because she doesn't have an answer. Because she has never cared to ask.
Their silence drags.
And that's when the pilot speaks. His voice is flat. Professional. But there's a sharpness beneath it. "The outskirts have been pawned off too many times."
All eyes snap to him.
Julius frowns. "Explain."
The pilot doesn't look away from the controls. "The viscounts have been exchanging money for the right to extract taxes and goods from these regions for a set amount of time. Over and over again. Most of the outskirts no longer truly belong to the Lafan family. They've been sold, resold, and left to rot."
Julius's lips press into a thin line.
Angelica's hands curl into fists. "So this is what they've done?"
Clarice, quieter but no less intense, murmurs, "Then no one has any reason to improve it. Because the land might change hands again."
Jilk frowns. "…But the estate itself is marvelous."
The pilot lets out a small laugh. "Of course it is. Where do you think all the money goes?"
No one looks at the Lafan siblings.
They don't defend themselves. They don't deny it. Because they can't.
Julius exhales slowly. "…Take us back."
The pilot obeys without question.
The return flight is silent.

If that's how they treat everything out of sight… What about Marie?

Chapter Text

The shuttle touches down smoothly at the Lafan estate, but no one moves right away. The return flight had been silent—Julius, Jilk, and even the Lafan siblings had kept their thoughts to themselves. No smug remarks, no forced pleasantries. Just silence, weighed down by what we had seen. As the engines power down, I turn to the pilot. "How many children does Viscount Lafan have?"
The man stiffens ever so slightly. His hands, steady on the controls a moment ago, tighten.
But he doesn't turn. He doesn't answer. That tells me everything.

The door opens, and we step back into the overwhelming opulence of the Lafan manor. The entrance, polished to a pristine gleam, stands in stark contrast to what we had just flown over—ruined towns, abandoned homes, barren fields. It's disgusting, the sheer amount of gold and embellishment poured into this place while their people barely cling to survival. And yet, the Lafan siblings try to recover. They slip effortlessly back into their roles as the perfect noble children, guiding the others to the main entrance, lavishing them with empty praise. They don't even spare me a glance.
Fine. I don't follow them. My attention shifts elsewhere—to a detail I had noticed before. Past the gilded doors, past the perfectly maintained garden hedges, tucked away at the side of the estate. A door, plain and unassuming. A servant's entrance. I push it open. The scent of fresh-cut flowers disappears instantly, replaced by stale, damp air. A few steps lead downward. The contrast between this space and the grand halls above is staggering. It's cramped. Cold. Not meant to be lived in. And yet—it is.
A handful of maids stand frozen in the dim room, their backs straightening at the sight of me. Unlike the pristine, lace-trimmed maid who greeted us at the entrance, these women wear uniforms that are barely holding together—faded fabric, frayed edges, too many patches to count. And their faces… thin, hollow-eyed.

I exhale sharply, unable to control my anger. Not that these women should be subject to it. "Where is Marie?"
One of them flinches, glancing at the others before bowing so deeply I think she might collapse. "She is not here, my lord," she whispers, barely above a breath. She moves ahead of me, leading me deeper into the basement. At the very back, she stops before a door—a small, windowless chamber. It's barely the size of a bed. The so-called room consists of little more than a pile of straw, a patchwork blanket, and a mound of used but mostly intact clothing stacked in the corner. The old maid trembles as she steps forward, hands digging through a pile of laundry before moving to the straw. She pulls out a mix of kitchen utensils, rusted gardening tools, and broken trinkets. "She—she must be in the mountains. Her rifle is missing, so she must have gone hunting." Her frail voice quivers in the still air.
I clench my jaw. This is where they keep their daughter.
Without a word or sympathy toward these poor souls, I turn and leave the basement.

The moment I step back into the light, the whole group is waiting for me. Their expressions range from curiosity to suspicion, but Angelica is the first to speak, her voice sharp. "Leon, what are you doing, sneaking around like that?"
I brush past her. "You should ask the Viscount how many children he has."
Clarice, sharp as ever, picks up on it immediately. Her gaze flickers to the basement entrance and the maids hovering in the dark—their threadbare rags a stark contrast to the estate's excess. "…Leon," she says slowly, voice measured. "What's down there?"
I don't answer. Instead, I glance down. They follow my gaze.
Julius frowns at first, irritation flashing across his face like he thinks I'm making a scene over nothing. But then his eyes land on the maids—their hollow faces, the way they keep their hands folded as if bracing for punishment. His expression shifts.
Clarice turns back to me, her voice uneven. "Please explain."
I meet her gaze. "The Lafans have another daughter. And this is where they keep her and most of the servants."

Silence.

Then a sharp, furious inhale from Angelica. Her entire body trembles with barely restrained rage as she turns on the Lafan siblings. "…You bastards."

I don't stay to watch them process it. I'm already moving, walking past them, toward the shuttle. I have to find her.
At the shuttle, I go straight for the cargo hold. It only takes a moment to find what I need—an airbike. I mount it without hesitation, the engine humming to life beneath me. The cold wind rushes past as I lift off.
Footsteps approach behind me. Dad. "Leon!" he calls. "I'm coming with you!"
I don't turn back.
"Cleare," I murmur. "Find her."
A second later, Cleare's voice rings in my ear. "Coordinates locked."
The mountains stretch ahead, jagged peaks dusted in white. Then—I see her. A lone figure, standing in the snow, rifle in hand. She is taller than I remember. Her blonde hair is long and tangled. The cold wind whips against my face as I descend into the snow-covered clearing.
Marie stands there, rifle aimed at me, her stance firm despite her ragged appearance. Her clothes are worn, patched together from whatever scraps she could find, but her body is strong. Unlike the skeletal maids in the basement, she isn't wasting away. She's survived this before. Her sharp blue eyes narrow. "Who are you?" Her voice is steady, but there's a flicker of uncertainty beneath it.
I slow my approach, hands raised slightly. "Marie?"
She stiffens. A breath catches in her throat. Then, in a heartbeat, everything changes. The rifle slips from her grasp, forgotten in the snow. She runs toward me, eyes wide with disbelief. "Onii-chan?" Her voice cracks as she throws herself into my arms, clutching my coat like it's the only thing keeping her grounded.
I hold her tight. "I finally found you."
A shaky breath escapes her, and I feel her trembling against me. "I hoped," she whispers. "I hoped so much that you were here too."
For a moment, nothing else matters. But then, the low hum of engines reaches my ears. The shuttle. Marie hears it too. She tenses, lifting her head to look past me. Her expression hardens, and a familiar defiance returns to her gaze. "You're not alone, are you?"
I nod. "Yeah, and they'll have questions."
She huffs, crossing her arms. "Tch. I bet they will."

The shuttle descends, kicking up a storm of snow as it lands. The boarding ramp lowers, revealing dad, Julius and the rest, only the Lafan siblings missing. Their expressions are mixed, but their eyes are locked onto Marie. She straightens beside me, shoulders squared. She's ready.
The shuttle hums as it lifts off, the snowy peaks shrinking behind us. Inside, the tension is thick, but not hostile. Marie sits next to me, arms crossed, gaze flicking between the others. She's on guard but not scared—just waiting.
Julius watches her intently, his expression unreadable. Then, he finally speaks. "You're Marie Fou Lafan."
Marie clicks her tongue. "That's who I should be. Not that I look the part."

Silence. Even Julius doesn't have an immediate response.

Angelica folds her hands in her lap, her voice softer than I expected. "You live in the basement."
Marie scoffs. "If you can call that living."
Julius frowns. "Then why haven't you left?"
Marie glares at him. "And go where?"
He doesn't have an answer. Clarice shifts in her seat, her gaze flickering to me briefly before returning to Marie. "You're stronger than I expected," she says. "You don't look like someone who's been starved."
Marie smirks faintly. "I take care of myself." She pats the rifle against her shoulder. "Nobody else is going to."
Angelica exhales sharply, looking away. "Your father treats you like a servant?"
"At best," Marie mutters. "When I work in the kitchens, I sometimes get some of the scraps. Otherwise, I'm just a rat scurrying under his floorboards."

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

Julius rubs his temple. "This is absurd." He looks at me, clearly expecting me to say something.
I just shrug. "Welcome to Lafan hospitality."
Julius scowls, but he doesn't argue.
Marie watches all of this with sharp eyes, tracking the conversation like a battlefield. Then, she sighs, leaning back against the seat. "So, what now?"
Julius straightens. "We speak with your father."
Marie lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Good luck with that."

The shuttle lands with a soft jolt, the gilded manor of the Lafan estate once again stretching before us in all its gaudy excess. Marie steps off first, rifle slung over her shoulder. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't flinch, but I notice the way her fingers tighten around the strap.
Waiting for us at the base of the landing pad is Viscount Lafan, his wife at his side. Their expressions are carefully controlled, but I don't miss the way his gaze flickers at the sight of Marie. It's brief—just a fraction of a second—but I catch it. Julius strides forward, his posture commanding. "Viscount." His tone is clipped, businesslike. "We need to talk."
Lafan bows smoothly. "Your Highness, it is an honor to have you back. I trust your review of our land was enlightening."
Julius doesn't waste time. "You have another daughter."
A single blink. Then—laughter. Polished, practiced, perfectly insincere. "Your Highness, I fear there has been some misunderstanding."
Julius doesn't react. He simply gestures to Marie.
The viscount's smile falters for half a second before he regains his composure. "Ah. You must mean that girl." His voice is dismissive, almost bored. "A distant relation. An unfortunate burden we have taken in, nothing more."

Marie's jaw tightens, but she says nothing.
Angelica steps forward, her gaze ice-cold. "Then why does she bear your name?"
The viscount exhales through his nose, as if indulging a tedious conversation. "A mere technicality. She has no standing, no claim. The family name is meaningless in this case."
Julius's expression darkens. "You keep her in the basement."
The viscount tilts his head slightly. "She is provided for."
Clarice scoffs. "Provided for? That was a storage room, not a bedroom."
The viscount's wife finally speaks, her voice soft, pitying—fake. "I understand this must seem cruel to outsiders, but you must remember, she is… difficult. She refuses to integrate properly, prefers to run wild like a commoner."
Marie lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "That would probably be different if you showed me some care, Mother."

The viscount ignores her completely, still focused on Julius. "I assure you, Your Highness, she is no concern of yours. She has no place among nobility."
Julius looks at Marie for a long moment. Then, he turns to me. "Leon."
I meet his gaze, already knowing where this is going. I turn to my father. "We should take her."
My father raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't look particularly surprised. He exhales through his nose, rubbing his chin. "You want me to adopt her?"
I nod. "She's got nowhere else to go. And she's clearly capable. She won't be a burden."
Marie's head snaps toward me, eyes wide. "What?"
I look at her directly. "You'd be part of our family."
Her mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. Viscount Lafan hums, and I see it—the calculation in his eyes. For the first time since we arrived, his expression shifts into something sharper. "An interesting proposal," he muses.
I don't like that tone. He folds his hands together. "Of course, we could consider such an arrangement… But the loss of a family member, even one so insignificant, is still a loss." His lips curl slightly. "Perhaps some form of compensation is in order?"
Angelica stiffens. Julius's expression darkens and feel my stomach churn. Dad's mouth presses into a hard line. "You're trying to sell her."
The viscount spreads his hands in mock innocence. "A noble family must think of its assets."
Disgusting.
Clarice inhales sharply. "You—"
But Julius cuts her off. "Enough." His voice is low, controlled—but furious. "We're done here."
He turns sharply, walking back toward the shuttle. Angelica and Clarice follow, their expressions stormy. I move as well, and Marie hesitates only for a second before stepping after me.

But—
"Stop." The viscount raises a single hand, and suddenly, guards move to block Marie's path.
I stop.
She stops.
Slowly, she turns back, her expression unreadable. The viscount's smile is smooth. "I never agreed to let her go."
Marie doesn't hesitate. She moves. Before the guards can react, she twists, dropping low, sweeping a leg beneath one of them. He stumbles, and she's already moving past him. Another guard reaches for her—she pivots, slamming an elbow into his side. She's fast. Too fast for them.
She sprints forward, reaching for the ramp. But their numbers overwhelm her.

"Stop it! Let her go! We won't take her now. But there will be consequences." Julius's voice is cold with restrained fury, and the guards hesitate before releasing her.
As I pass her exhausted form, I kneel beside her and whisper, "I'll come for you. Just wait a few days more."
I watch her from the open hatch as the engine starts. Marie slowly pushes herself up, breathless, fists clenched. I see it. That same burning determination.

She won't stop here. And neither will I.

Chapter Text

The Queen's office is quiet. Sunlight filters through the grand windows, casting long shadows across the polished desk where the Milene sits, poised as ever. Her fingers tap lightly against the surface as she studies me, my father, and Count Arclight. "I assume you are here about the Lafans," she says smoothly.
Beside me, my father stands still, arms to the side, his posture relaxed but his presence heavy. Count Arclight mirrors him, though far stiffer. We originally came here to report on that disgrace of an excursion, but getting right to the point is much better. So I start speaking out of turn. "Yes, I am."
Milene exhales softly, leaning back slightly. "Julius and the others were here before you. They were… quite insistent that I take immediate action."
I can imagine it. Angelica and Clarice would have tried to reason with her, finding ways to get the Lafans punished in a way Milene would approve of. Julius would have tried to command her outright. And Jilk… well, he was probably just there to nod along.
"And yet, Your Majesty doesn't seem convinced," I note.
"Leon, tell me—what, exactly, do you expect me to do?"
"The Lafans—"
"—have not broken any laws." The response is immediate.
I grit my teeth, but Count Arclight speaks up before I can. "Her Majesty is correct," he says, his voice steady. "The Lafans' actions, distasteful as they are, fall within their noble rights." Unlike the cold arrogance of the Lafans, his tone carries no indifference—only reality.
Milene turns back to me. "Leon, you may not like it, but I cannot simply punish a noble house for… poor governance. If I were to remove them or strip their authority, what do you think would happen?"
I cross my arms. "Other nobles would see it as a threat to their own power."
"Exactly." Her voice is patient, but there's a weight behind it. A warning.

"So we just ignore it?" I challenge.
Milene exhales, her gaze softening slightly. "I am saying that my position does not allow me to act based on morality alone." She rests her chin on one hand. "And what would you have me do?"
I don't have a perfect answer. But I have ideas.
"We could make an example out of them," I suggest. "Show the other nobles that this kind of behavior won't be tolerated anymore."
She shakes her head. "That would only cause unrest. Nobles will not stand for a precedent that limits their authority."
"Then we find allies who care about the well-being of the kingdom," I counter. "There have to be nobles who don't want to see their lands fall apart."
Milene's lips press into a frown. "And how do you propose we find them? Simply ask?"

I frown back. That's fair. I need something more concrete. "…What about land sales?" I ask, thinking back to what the Lafans have been doing. "If a noble wants to sell off parts of their land, the kingdom should have the right to buy it first."
She tilts her head. "A royal purchase right?"
I nod. "That way, if a noble tries to pawn off land to some third party for a quick profit, the crown can step in and stop it. That would at least prevent them from gutting their own territories for personal gain."
She gives me a skeptical look. "A bold suggestion, but implementing such a system would require restructuring law enforcement and a new ministry. Also, nobles would see it as an encroachment on their rights."
Before I can argue, my father speaks up for the first time. "With the right backing, that last part wouldn't matter," Balcus says plainly. That's definitely Cleare speaking through him. "And while it may be a cost at first, it would open an avenue for increasing the crown's power quite a bit without really encroaching on noble rights. The right to sell may be a right of any landowner, but the right to buy isn't."
Milene turns to him, surprised. "And who, exactly, would provide such backing?"
Dad smirks. "The Founding Families."
The room goes quiet. Her expression shifts slightly, her usual composure cracking just a bit. "…That is an ambitious assumption, Viscount Bartfort."
Dad shrugs. "Not really. The Founding Families are a pillar of the kingdom. If they decide something is in the best interest of the nation, most nobles wouldn't dare fight it for fear of losing face."
Milene doesn't respond immediately.

I decide to push a little further. "We have a head of a Founding Family right here. Why not just ask him? Or what about Duke Redgrave?" I glance at her, watching her carefully. "He's always been a firm supporter of the royal family. If he backs this, won't that make it more acceptable?"
She exhales slowly.
I press on. "And if Count Atlee joins in—it'll be one of the kingdom's top ministers too."
Milene leans back in her chair, looking between me, my father, and Count Arclight, who finally speaks up. "If Your Highness decides such a move is for the best, I will support it," he says simply. His gaze is calm but steady. "I understand the importance of deliberating whether your carefully crafted alliance network of the Founding Families and the prince's fiancées would break under this strain. But at the very least, you have my support."
Milene's gaze flickers toward him, and for a moment, something in her posture relaxes. "It is always good to have the Sword Saint as an ally." Then she turns to me.
"…This is not a simple matter, Leon," she finally says, but her voice lacks its earlier certainty. "Even with support, changing laws takes time, and enforcing them is another matter entirely. But… I will deliberate on your ideas further. They are not as far-fetched as they should be coming from a ten-year-old." Was that a small smile at the end?

I grin. "Then may I ask for something lesser?"
Milene eyes me warily.
I straighten my posture. "At the very least, we should hold a hearing regarding Marie Fou Lafan."
Silence. She studies me for a long moment before speaking. "And what, exactly, would this hearing decide?"
I keep my expression calm. "Whether or not her treatment by the Lafans violated noble standards of care. And whether or not she should remain under their authority."
Milene's gaze sharpens. "…And if she is found to have been mistreated?"
I don't hesitate. "Then she should be allowed to leave."
She exhales through her nose, closing her eyes for a moment. Then, slowly, she nods. "…Very well." Her voice is getting calmer, less focused with every word. "The Lafans do need a damper given how they treated my boy and girls."

"Thank you, Mommy Milene."

…

She got me to let down my guard. How could I just rush toward her and hug her… Shit…
The room is freezing cold. Milene stiffens completely. Count Arclight's mouth parts slightly in stunned silence. My father, to his credit, only sighs before pinching the bridge of his nose. Then—

"LEON."

The scolding comes from all three of them at once.
I let go, grinning sheepishly. My bad.

"Why were you so mean to me yesterday Mommy Milene?" I stand before her chest puffed out ,hands on my hips and glaring up at her.
She barely looks up from the documents on her desk. "Leon," she sighs, her voice smooth as ever. "What did I tell you about calling me that in public?"
I cross my arms. "You said I should only do it when we're alone. And we are alone."
She finally sets down her papers, standing up and walking over to me with an amused expression. Then, before I can react, she reaches forward and lightly pinches my cheek. "Ow!" I try to pull back, but she holds on just long enough to make her point. When she finally lets go, she sighs and pats my head instead, fingers threading gently through my hair. "Honestly," she murmurs, "what am I going to do with you?"

I grin as I climb onto the couch beside her, shifting comfortably onto her lap. Milene doesn't protest. Instead, she lets me settle in, shaking her head with a soft chuckle. "Now then. Why are you here, Leon?"
I shrug. "I went to see Julius like I promised. But he's all worked up over the Lafans. He got mad when I pointed out how dumb his ideas were."
Milene arches a brow. "So he threw you out?"
"Yup." I smirk. "And since I had time to kill, I figured I'd come visit you instead."
She chuckles, shaking her head. "I see."
I look up at her, grinning. "Since I answered your question, you have to answer one of mine."
Milene exhales through her nose, shaking her head in amusement. "Fair enough."
I straighten slightly, my expression turning serious. "Why do you let King Roland get away with doing nothing?"
Milene's body stiffens beneath me. I tilt my head to look up at her, watching as a rare moment of hesitation flickers across her face.
"…I don't let him 'get away' with anything, Leon," she finally says, though there's less certainty in her tone than usual.
I frown. "But you do all the work. You make all the decisions. Everyone knows you're the one holding this country together."
Milene exhales slowly, her fingers stilling against my hair. "It's… complicated," she murmurs.
"Then explain it to me."
She hesitates before speaking. "The neighboring kingdom of Rachel is a constant threat," she admits. "My homeland has been struggling against them for generations. My marriage to His Majesty was meant to solidify an alliance, to protect my people. But if I don't hold this country together in his place, what good is that alliance? If this kingdom falls into disarray, then the protection I fought for will mean nothing."

I study her carefully. "So you have to do everything yourself?"
She offers me a small, weary smile. "It's the burden I have to bear."
I lean back against her, resting my head against her shoulder. "I don't get it," I admit. "If you're so good at running a country, wouldn't you do more to help your homeland if you were back there instead?"
Milene stiffens again. I don't wait for her to answer. I smirk up at her. "Not that I mind. If you weren't here, I never would've met you. And I wouldn't get to sit on your lap now or in the future."
She stares at me. Then she sighs, shaking her head. "You really are something else."
"Obviously."

She hums, brushing my hair back absently. "Alright then. My turn to ask a question."
I nod. "Go for it."
She pauses, considering her words. "…Why do you call me 'Mommy'?"
I blink, caught off guard by the question.
"I met your mother," Milene continues. "When Balcus came to apologize after your duel with Julius, she was with him. She's a reserved woman, but she seems kind. A good mother."
I tilt my head. "And?"
Milene folds her hands in her lap, giving me a measured look. "So why do you insist on calling me that?"
I grin. "What's wrong with wanting two beautiful, lovable mothers?"
She blinks.
I shrug. "You looked like you needed it." My voice drops slightly, more thoughtful now. "When was the last time your actual kids called you 'Mommy' or just… spent time with you?"

Silence.

Milene's expression shifts, her usual composure cracking just enough for me to see the truth beneath it. She doesn't answer.
I don't press her. But since there's still time until the hearing… I could take this opportunity. If I meet her now, I'll know which Erica we're dealing with. And if she isn't reincarnated, I won't risk disappointing Marie by assuming otherwise.
Decision made, I speak up. "By the way, I'd like to meet the princess."
Milene blinks, clearly surprised. "You want to meet her?"
I nod. "Yeah. I already know Julius, but I've never met his sister."
Milene considers for a moment, then nods. "She's not in the best health, but we can visit her together."
I smile. "Sounds good."
Milene watches me for a moment longer before shaking her head fondly. "You really are impossible."
I grin. "That's why you love me, Mommy Milene."
She groans. "Leon."
I just laugh with her.

Chapter Text

Milene walks beside me, her elegant pace unwavering as we make our way through the palace corridors. The walls are lined with gold-trimmed portraits, the floors polished to a perfect shine. This place is just as excessive as the Lafans' manor—just more tasteful and with well fed servants. She sighs, glancing down at me. "Leon, you do realize I don't have all day for this, yes? I still have a kingdom to manage."
I smirk. "And yet, you still made time for me. I feel special."
She chuckles. "If Erica does not wish for visitors, you should go home."
"Got it, got it," I say casually. "But I think she'll see me."

We stop before a set of grand doors. A servant steps forward, bowing deeply before opening them. Inside, the room is bright, warmed by the soft glow of afternoon light streaming through tall windows. Near the center, seated gracefully on a cushioned chair, is Princess Erica. She is small for her age, with delicate features and dark blue hair cascading past her shoulders. Her blue eyes, sharp yet kind, shift to Milene as we enter. Milene gives her daughter a measured nod. "Erica."
"Mother," Erica replies just as formally, bowing her head slightly. The distance between them is… something.
Milene gestures toward me. "This is Lord Leon Fou Bartfort, son of the newly appointed Viscount Bartfort. He wishes to meet you."
I take a step forward, hands in my pockets, and give a casual nod. "Ohio."

A pause.

Milene's gaze snaps to me, slightly blushing. "Leon. Manners."
I let out a small laugh, scratching the back of my head. "Sorry, sorry. I was just trying to lighten the mood." I glance at Erica, but her expression remains composed—completely unaffected. So, no reaction, huh?
I sigh dramatically. "Fine. Let's try this again." I straighten slightly, giving a slight bow. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Princess."
Erica watches me for a moment before smiling faintly. "Likewise, Lord Bartfort."

We sit down together, the air still carrying a hint of formality. The conversation moves politely, carefully. Nothing too personal.
And I hate it. The tension between Erica and Milene is so thick you could cut it with a sword. They speak to each other like political allies, not like mother and daughter.
Eventually, I can't take it anymore. I huff and lean back, crossing my arms. "You know, Mama Milene, you really shouldn't be surprised that your kids are so distant when you act the same way."
Milene freezes. Erica tilts her head slightly, looking between us. Then—
"LEON!" Milene's face flushes as she leans forward. "I told you not to—!"
But I'm already grinning as I turn to Erica, completely ignoring Milene's flustered reaction. "See?" I say to her. "She acts all composed, but she's actually really easy to tease."
Milene groans, rubbing her temples.
"Mama Milene gets lonely, you know? She wishes her kids were closer to her."
Milene lets out a sharp breath. "Leon!"
I only smirk. Erica, for her part, remains perfectly calm. But her fingers tighten slightly around her sleeve. Her gaze wanders toward Milene.
Milene, still flustered, straightens in her seat, smoothing out the fabric of her dress as if that might restore her dignity. "That is—" She exhales, composing herself. "That is not something you should just announce so casually, Leon."
I smirk. "Why not? It's true."
Erica doesn't respond immediately. Instead, she studies her mother with quiet scrutiny. Milene, for her part, looks away, as if unwilling to meet her daughter's gaze. Erica's fingers tighten slightly over the hem of her dress. Then, slowly, carefully, she shifts closer—just an inch. It's hesitant, uncertain, like she's testing the waters. Milene notices. Her brows lift slightly in surprise, but she doesn't comment.
I lean forward with a knowing grin. "See? Progress."
Milene shoots me a half-hearted glare. "Leon."
Erica watches our exchange, and after a moment, she does something unexpected—she chuckles. So soft, you could almost miss it, but it's there. I blink. Huh. That's the first time she's dropped the formal act even a little.
Milene turns to her, eyes widening slightly. Erica meets her gaze, then carefully—deliberately—reaches out and rests a hand atop Milene's. "I do not mind… trying," she says quietly. "If it would make you happy."
Milene stares at her. Then, slowly, hesitantly, she turns her palm upward and gently clasps Erica's fingers.
I just watch, thoroughly pleased with myself. "Looks like I was right," I say, smug.
Milene sighs but doesn't let go of Erica's hand. "Leon, sometimes I wonder if I should exile you."
"You wouldn't…" I gaze at her with puppy dog eyes.
Erica, watching us, lets out another quiet chuckle. Milene looks at her daughter, something questioning in her expression. Then, at last, she smiles. Just a little.
Yeah. This was definitely worth it.

Milene eventually stands, smoothing her skirts with a sigh. "I should return to work. Erica, please rest. Leon…" She glances at me, clearly weighing her words. "Don't cause trouble."
"I'll be good," I say innocently.
She doesn't believe me. But before she can comment, Erica speaks. "Mom," she says softly, with just a hint of uncertainty. "Would it be alright if Leon stayed with me for a while?"
Milene blinks, clearly surprised. She looks between us again, then exhales—this time, the sigh carries something gentler. "Very well. Just don't let him talk you into anything foolish."
With one last glance—half warning, half fond—she turns and leaves. The heavy door clicks shut behind her, leaving only the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet hum of the palace halls beyond.

Erica turns to me the moment we're alone. Her tone is calm, but there's something sharp beneath the surface. "So, you really are a reincarnator," she says. "But how did you find me? And who are you? I don't remember anyone like you from the game."
"Wait.. wait just to be sure," I cut in, raising a hand. "You died of old age, right? Peacefully? After a long life? And your mom, well... her partner, you know… but you were already living with your grandparents by then?"
Erica blinks, caught off guard. "Yes, but—"
"Oh, thank goodness." I let out a laugh—relieved, awkward, a little too loud. "For a second, I thought I'd messed up and found the wrong person." She opens her mouth to reply, but I rush ahead again. "I already found your mom. She's been reborn too. Things are… messy, but I'm working on getting her out. I thought maybe I could do something nice and reunite you two early."
Erica stares at me for a moment. "You mean… my mother from Japan?"
"Exactly. Her name's Marie here."
Her voice drops, softer now. "And you are...?"
"Your uncle. You know, the one who fell down the stairs before you were born." I rub the back of my neck, sheepish. "It was after pulling too many all-nighters grinding through the game this world is based on. My sister forced me to finish it."

There's a moment of silence.

"…Are your memories fuzzy?" I ask quickly, eyeing her. "You do remember me, right?"
Erica hesitates. Then, carefully, she smiles. "No. I do."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Good. I was starting to think I really was the only one."
She watches me a moment longer, her gaze steady and kind. "You're not," she says, quiet but firm. There's a warmth in her voice, something calm and grounding. "You have my mother, don't you?"
I blink, unsure how to respond, until I hear another voice—light, cheerful. "Master! You are never alone. I remain at your side, always." Cleare's voice chimed from nearby, sounding far too pleased with herself. "May I reveal myself now? I want to test your claims about her."
Right. I'd completely forgotten she was still in hiding. I take a quick look around—no open windows, only the sun kissed sky, no one to hear or see us—and give her a nod.

Erica turns toward Cleare appearing out of thin air. She doesn't flinch, but her eyes linger on Cleare with quiet curiosity. "It is a pleasure to formally meet you, Princess Erica. Would you allow me to examine your condition? I believe I may be able to help with your illness."
I resist the urge to groan. That's not all Cleare's thinking. I know that tone—too sweet, too eager. Helping is just a convenient bonus. What she really wants is to study Erica. If there's a mystery in front of her, she's going to poke it until it tells her everything.
Erica glances over at me, then back at Cleare with a faint smile. "The pleasure is mine, Cleare. I'll be in your care too, then."
Cleare buzzed softly, her voice chipper. "Understood! I shall begin a light diagnostic scan."
Of course she will.

Chapter Text

For what feels like the hundredth time, we step neatly aside to bow to yet another noble even though it's already dark outside. "A simple disguise really shouldn't work this well," Erica remarks, her voice calm but amused. "Cleare really is a cheat item."
"Hey, it was still my idea. I'm the one who got the uniforms," I mutter, tugging at my overly stiff collar. "Discount me again, and I'm canceling your treatment."
She glances up at me, her expression soft but steady. "Cleare wouldn't let you. I have far more old human genes than you, remember?"
I huff but can't help grinning.
"Come on," she says, adjusting the frill of her borrowed maid dress. "Let's go see my mother."
We leave through one of the quieter gates, and I summon the airbike from its hiding place beyond the wall. Erica climbs on behind me, quiet as ever, her arms loosely wrapped around my waist as we rise into the night.

The stars blur overhead, after we change into my shuttle—probably the only thing besides Partner that can get us there and back fast enough. Below us, hills roll into distant ridges, dark shapes rising out of mist. Neither of us speaks much. There's a weight in the air.
We land behind the Lafan estate, just out of view. A freezing gust sweeps past, rattling the trees and making the frost on the walls glitter. "It's quiet," Erica says softly, her cloak drawn tight.
"No guards," I note.
"There's no reason to sneak right now," she murmurs.
I nod. "We'll start with the basement. If she's not there…"
"You'll worry," Erica finishes for me. Her tone is light, but her eyes are sharp.
Cleare hums beside us, bobbing in the air. "I will begin scanning the interior, Master. If dear Marie is within these walls, I'll find her." Her voice sparkles with that usual unsettling cheer.

The basement door opens easily, creaking on worn hinges. The scent hits me the second we step inside—damp stone, stale hay, rust. It hasn't changed. Cleare's soft light stretches across the narrow chamber.
A pile of straw and another of cloth. No warmth. No Marie.
I clench my fists. "Cleare?"
"No trace of her, Master," she reports. "The estate is almost entirely vacant. Only the household staff remains."
My stomach twists.
"Then scan the outer perimeter."
"I am already doing so," she chirps, just a little smug.
We step outside again, the frost crunching under our boots. Erica pauses, her eyes drifting up toward the jagged silhouettes of the mountains beyond.
"You think she ran?" She asks quietly.
"She wouldn't run right now," I say. "She has to be somewhere close."
Cleare's voice returns a moment later. "I've located a heat signature. Two kilometers northeast, elevation 679 meters, a small cave. An unworthy palace for old humans to reside in."
My heart skips.
"I'll go," I say, already climbing onto the bike. Erica doesn't hesitate. She climbs on behind me, gripping tighter this time. The wind bites harder now as we speed toward the mountains.

The wind dies down as we land in a snowy clearing just beneath a jagged ridge. The cave entrance is barely visible among the boulders. Cleare drifts ahead of us, casting a soft white glow that reflects off the snow. "One lifeform inside," she chirps. "No visible traps, though the temperature regulation could use improvement."
We trudge through the snow. Erica stays quiet but close, her breath coming in small white clouds. The cave's not much—just a hollow in the rock, narrow and cold. A fire burns near the center, surrounded by a rough circle of crates and a bedroll made from scavenged pelts. Standing beside the fire, back to us, is Marie. She's holding a long iron poker, stirring something over the flames. A sharp scent hits my nose—something halfway between soup and desperation. She doesn't turn.
"Took you long enough," she says. Her voice is sharper than usual, but not cold. "I figured the cold wouldn't be enough to freeze your ability to find me."
"Nice to see you too," I say, brushing snow off my coat. "You could've left a note."
Marie straightens slightly but still doesn't face us. "And miss the dramatic reveal? Please."
She finally turns around. Her eyes meet mine for half a second… then shift to Erica. She freezes.
Just a breath, just a beat—but I see the shift in her entire body. "This… is the one you were talking about?" she asks. Her voice is quieter now.
I nod. "Yeah."
Marie's eyes lock on Erica's. She studies her like she's trying to reconcile what she sees with something impossible. "I—um…" Her voice catches. "Your name is…?"
"Erica," comes the answer.
Marie blinks. "Did he… tell you?"
Erica nods, calm and quiet. Marie stares. Then, in one unsteady step, she closes the distance. Her eyes are wide. Her hands shake. "I thought—" Her voice breaks. "I didn't think—" She stops. Breathes."You're really here?"
Erica's expression softens. "You always told me we'd see each other again," she says gently. "Just not when, or how. But this is a new record for how long you made me wait."
A choked laugh escapes Marie's throat. "I did say that…" And then she's hugging her. Awkward. Desperate. Real. Her arms wrap tight around Erica's smaller frame, and for a moment, neither says a word. Erica holds her just as firmly, steady and composed as ever.
"You're warmer than I expected," she murmurs.
Marie lets out a laugh that turns into a half-sniffle. "It's the fire. And the three layers of deer fur."

She pulls back and wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. "Okay. Okay. I'm fine. I'm cool. Totally cool."
"You're crying," I say.
"I'm emotionally efficient," she snaps back, rubbing harder. Then she glares at me. "And you! You could've warned me! I almost died."
"You would've gone into a full meltdown," I smirk. "This was the smarter play."
Marie groans. "Ugh. You're the worst."
"I try."
Erica blinks at both of us. "…Do you always talk like this?"
"Only when he deserves it," Marie replies. And then, as if a switch flips, her voice shifts—dramatic, confident. "Which, to be fair, is most of the time."
I arch an eyebrow. "You done being humble?"
Marie stands straighter, tossing a glove onto one of the crates. "As if I ever was. Let's be clear—I've been surviving out here on pure talent. I cook, hunt, sew, clean, and stay one step ahead of Lafan patrols. This cave? My fortress. That stew? Gourmet. That blanket? Hand-stitched under duress."
"You're bragging," I say flatly.
"Yes," she beams. "I am."
Erica leans against the wall of the cave, her arms tucked beneath her cloak. "So what happened?"
Marie shrugs, sitting down by the fire. "They tried to make me into a model noble lady. Court etiquette drills. Demeanor training. The works. Every time I got something wrong, they doubled the drills. And they always found something."
"They starved you to force obedience," I say, frowning.
"One day slipped past two guards, knocked out a third, grabbed my rifle, and ran." Marie mutters. "Haven't looked back."
Erica's voice is quiet. "You were waiting for us."
Marie glances at her, then at me. "…For him, mostly. "He promised."
"And I keep my promises," I say. "You've got a hearing next week. They're going to review your treatment and possible adoption into the Bartfort family."
Marie raises a brow. "So that's what the noble boot camp was for."

The fire crackles softly as we sit together, the three of us. Erica and Marie lean slightly against one another—hesitant, but steady. There's no more tension. Just warmth.
"I'm sorry I wasn't the one to find you first," Marie murmurs.
"You're here," Erica says. "That's what matters."
I grin. "Alright. Let's talk next steps."
The mood shifts, but not in a bad way—just focused.
"We're getting you out of this cave," I say. "We'll win the hearing. Once the court sees what the Lafans did, they'll have no excuse left."
Marie leans back on her hands. "You make it sound so easy."
"It won't be," Erica says, smoothing the edge of her skirt. "But we'll manage anyway."
Marie chuckles—soft, real. "You two… when did you get so reliable?"
"I had a good teacher," Erica says.
"I was her teacher's teacher," I add. "Remember the kids who had to leave the school district because of me? I'm a menace."
They both laugh.

Cleare floats a little closer, her voice cheerier than ever. "Master, I would be delighted to keep recording your touching reunion for historical purposes, but if you don't wish for 'Mommy Milene' to catch you sneaking around, we should begin returning soon."
"You're recording this?!"
"Of course. Research is my reason for existing." Her eye glows faintly. "Also, I would rather you avoid the Queen's wrath."
Marie stands, throwing a heavier coat around her shoulders. "Guess this is where I stay back again."
"Just for a few days," I say. "Once the hearing's over, you're coming with us."
Marie raises an eyebrow. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Onii-chan."
I step in and hug her. "I only take on bets I know I'll win."
Erica joins us with a faint smile, her breath clouding in the cold air. "We'll come back for you."
Marie steps back, eyes shining. "Then I'll be ready."
We leave her there—backlit by firelight, framed in snow and stone. Standing tall.

Chapter Text

"Do I really have to do that? As part of the royal family I have the duty to represent us and the kingdom at large. I don't have the freedom to fall out of line and do my own thing." Erica's voice wavers weakly in my ear. Teaching her to Cleare's silent communication was worth the effort.
"Relax," I sound back. "Your brother fell out of line all the time in our last life chasing some idealized version of happiness. Youre allowed to be your own person too, but I advise you against mimicking him specifically. He made so many stupid decisions I had to fix. What you're doing is different, helpful even to the royal family."
"I just can't," she says, voice weak, barely above a whisper.
Cleare chimes in next, far too cheerful. "Mistress,"—yes, she's been calling Erica that just to annoy me—"as previously discussed, your 'wimp' will be precisely what allows your allies to justify bolder moves. Your words, even delivered timidly, will benefit the Queen's faction. Worry not. I'll guide you."
"See? Even the AI agrees." I retort. "If you can't, it's fine. But this is your chance to test the waters. You're eight. Everyone's willing to forgive an emotional outburst from a child."
While waiting for an answer, the great golden-trimmed doors open.

The royal hall is overflowing. Gilded columns stretch into an arched ceiling painted with ancient Holfort victories. Red velvet banners hang behind thick rows of cushioned benches filled with nobles—so many nobles. They aren't here for the truth. They came for entertainment. The buzz of chatter doesn't die down until the far end of the chamber, when King Roland rises from his throne. He lifts a bejeweled scepter in one overly grand gesture, radiating theatrical solemnity.

Cleare flickers silently beside me, her voice chipper. "The king's brain activity suggests he will spend the next three minutes inflating his own reputation before addressing the case. He would make for a fascinating neurological case study. May I experiment on him?"
I don't even bother hiding my sigh. "No need to run calculations, Cleare. That's just called 'nobility.' What kind of experiments are we talking about?"
"Nothing invasive... at first."
"No experiments on my father," Erica cuts in with a whisper. "I'll try my best and turn you guys off. I don't want to miss anything right n—"
"Lords and Ladies of the Realm!" Roland's voice crashes through the room like a cannon blast. And so begins the show.

"Today we gather, not as sovereigns and subjects, but as guardians of virtue and stewards of our people's honor!" Roland's voice swells. No one dares interrupt. His hand hovers theatrically over his heart as he gazes out across the room like a saint painted in oil.
Behind me, I hear a few suppressed coughs. Or were those laughs?
Cleare's light hum is practically smug. "He appears to be following his prepared script. I estimate another ninety-four seconds of nationalistic embellishment."
"...through trial and loyalty, we uphold the values entrusted to us by our ancestors..."
I glance at Erica. She's staring straight ahead, hands folded just right. A perfect little royal statue. Only I can hear her small breath through the mic.
"...and so, when one among us—Viscount Balcus fou Bartfort, newly raised for his meritorious service—forsakes reward to seek justice, the Crown must lend its ear. For such magnanimity deserves recognition." He sweeps his arm to the side. The gesture earns him a round of polite applause from the seated nobility.
I mutter under my breath. "You know, I think he's started to believe his own script."
Cleare adds, "If I emit a minor pulse, I may be able to cause a dramatic pause. Shall I attempt it?"
"No glitching the king in public."

"Viscount Bartfort," Roland finally proclaims, "step forward and present your case."
Dad marches forward with the kind of disciplined calm only a career soldier can maintain. Standing before the court, he bows low and speaks with measured force. "Your Majesty. Lords and Ladies. I, Balcus Fou Bartfort, stand before you to request custody and adoption rights over one Marie Fou Lafan, a minor under the guardianship of House Lafan. I do so not out of ambition, but out of duty—and outrage. For I have seen firsthand the conditions of her mistreatment."
A ripple spreads across the nobles—some scoff, others lean in with morbid curiosity. A provincial lord trying to shame an old noble house? Scandalous. Delicious.

Then, unprompted, another figure glides forward. Viscount Lafan. His robes are rich—deep blue lined with silver—and the crest of his house gleams at his collar. But the faint sneer on his face ruins any attempt at dignity. He bows, shallow and smug. "Your Majesty. Lords and Ladies," he begins, his voice honeyed and rehearsed. "While we acknowledge Viscount Bartfort's... passion, it must be said: negotiations for the girl's adoption were already underway." He paces once, then continues smoothly. "In fact, House Lafan was most amenable—until demands for reparation arose. Upon hearing the expectation of compensation befitting a child of noble station, the Bartforts abruptly withdrew."
The audience shifts again. Murmurs rise, more pointed now.

"It was about money all along."

"Typical upstarts."

"I heard they demanded land, too."

Cleare's tone turns sugar-sweet. "Public sentiment is tilting against House Bartfort. Shall I release the countermeasures?"
I shake my head. "We expected this. You just want to play with their hormones and nerves."
"Naturally. That is my purpose."

Roland raises a hand, his face radiant with solemn nobility. "In accordance with fairness," he declares, "both sides shall be permitted witnesses. Let truth, no matter how deeply buried, rise before this court."
"He really should've taken up theater," I mutter. "I maybe even pay to see that."
At Roland's words, Viscount Lafan turns, snapping his fingers toward the back of the chamber. The double doors open slowly.

Marie enters.

Not the girl I know. Her silk dress glistens with embroidery and gemstone accents. Her hair is elaborately braided and pinned, not a single strand out of place. Rings glint on her fingers. She walks slowly, her chin just high enough to seem dignified. She doesn't speak, doesn't look at anyone. Her eyes are dull, her expression . Composed. Unnaturally so.
A collective murmur passes through the crowd.

"Such a well-bred girl."

"House Lafan must have spared no effort."

"Maybe Bartfort exaggerated…"

My jaw tightens. Cleare's voice hums beside me. "External appearance enhanced significantly. Internal signs remain—malnutrition, stress, hormonal irregularity. Not befitting even lower-tier old humanity."
"I know," I whisper. "She looks like a noble's doll." They dressed her up to hide the rot beneath. Painted over their sins in silk and powder.
King Roland gestures magnanimously. "Proceed."
Viscount Lafan steps forward with the confidence of someone who's certain he's won. His voice is smooth, confident, measured. "As one can see, Miss Marie has lived under our care with all due grace. We have provided tutors, etiquette lessons, proper grooming, and a future suited to her noble standing. Her progress speaks for itself." He continues, listing meals, study schedules, noble acquaintances, even a pending engagement offer. The crowd eats it up.
Every word makes my skin crawl.
When he finally steps back, Roland gives a theatrical pause, then turns to us.
"Our turn," I murmur.

Prince Julius steps forward, back straight, voice razor-sharp. "I swear upon my name: the girl you see is not as House Lafan claims. When found, she lived in the estate's cellar—on straw, wearing rags, surviving on scraps. She had no attendant, no education, and no dignity."
The hall stirs. He continues: "She was forced to perform labor unfit for a noble. House Lafan delayed her return to proper quarters, concealed her, obstructed efforts to verify her safety."
His voice drops to a grim finality. "This is not the treatment of a child, let alone a noble one. This is neglect. This is abuse."

Silence.
Then the murmuring returns—harsher now, some even concerned.

"Impossible..."

"If that's true—"

"Why didn't anyone notice?"

Cleare's voice hums. "Unfortunately, public sentiment is shifting. Mind control doesn't seem unnecessary right now. You're a kill-joy master."
Angelica and Clarice follow, speaking with practiced poise and righteous anger. Even Jilk manages to help, to my surprise. By the end of it, the polished image of House Lafan is crumbling.
It's fine at this stage, but not enough for our victory.

As the final witness steps back, a hush falls. King Roland turns once more toward Viscount Lafan, lifting an expectant brow. "Does the ward herself wish to speak?"
Viscount Lafan bows with tragic dignity. "Your Majesty, I must regretfully decline on her behalf. Marie's constitution is delicate. This entire ordeal has been taxing, and having her speak now would endanger her health. I beg Your Majesty's understanding." He folds his hands piously, as if shielding the poor girl from undue suffering.
Roland nods gravely, playing the part of the wise monarch. "Very well. We shall recess for deliberation."
A court official announces the pause. Nobles begin shifting in their seats—some whispering, others already making for the refreshment tables. The air grows looser, the mood lighter. That's when something draws the crowds' attention. Muffled voices. Raised tones. The faint thud of boots behind one of the side doors. One by one the nobles turn to look at the source of their disruption.
Now it's a persistent banging from the door to the side gallery.
Roland lifts a hand. "Investigate that."
A pair of palace guards move to open it. The door swings wide. And Marie stands on the threshold. Not storming in. She's breathing heavily, her dress a bit crumpled, her hair slightly disheveled—but it only adds to the image. Two Lafan retainers are flanking her, one lets go of her arm, not trying to stop her anymore, the other frozen in indecision. She doesn't push them aside.
She simply steps forward. Eyes wide. Lip trembling. Then, carefully, she curtsies. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," she says, voice soft and unsteady. "Forgive me for acting out of turn. I only… I only wanted to speak for myself."
The hall falls silent.
She lifts her head just enough to show her face—composed, pale, her voice catching with the perfect hint of practiced fragility. "I was told it would be better if I stayed quiet. That it wasn't proper to burden noble lords and ladies with sad stories. But…" She wrings her hands, trembling fingers clutched together. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I just… I thought if I could explain myself, maybe someone would understand. Maybe someone would see that I—" Her voice cracks.
She lowers her gaze, lashes fluttering, and takes a trembling breath. "I tried to be good. I really did. I did every chore, I wore what I was given, I didn't complain. I never wanted to be a problem."
Sniffling sounds begin in the gallery. Someone mutters, "Poor thing…"
"But I was always alone. I was cold. Hungry. Sometimes I thought maybe I had done something wrong—that maybe I deserved it." Her eyes flick upward, shining with unshed tears. "But then someone came. Someone kind. And I realized… it doesn't have to be like that, that maybe I could live somewhere warm. Somewhere safe." She bows deeply—nearly kneeling. "I'm sorry if this upsets anyone. I don't want revenge. I don't want punishment. I just… I want to live. I want to be with people who… who want me."

Silence. Breathless.

Cleare's voice whispers in my ear: "Crowd sentiment—spikes. The sympathetic individuals for Marie surpass 80%. But it's mostly audience members of secondary importance."
Marie lets the silence hang for a beat longer before gently stepping back, allowing the guards to escort her out—not resisting. Just the picture of noble, broken obedience. The doors close softly behind her.
I'm still speechless. That's how she always swung situations in her favor. But— "Erica, now! This is the perfect opportunity for you!" Caught in my own head, I nearly miss the timing.
My niece steps forward, just a few paces, with a visible tremble. Then, with as much fury as her eight-year-old voice can carry, she shouts: "THIS IS A DISGRACE TO OUR KINGDOM! THAT SUCH TREATMENT EVEN NEEDS A HEARING! Even if this court decides that it's permissible—I won't. I'll take all the money and support I can get and fight this injustice!" She gestures at her ornate dress. "Who needs this when things like that happen in our country?!"

A moment of silence follows. Then my father is the first to speak.

"If I may, Your Highness. For me, it was never about money—it was this injustice that moved me to request this hearing. While my duty lies first with my subjects, I'll support your cause with what I can spare. How does ten million dia from my recent windfall sound—for a start?"
That startles most of the room—especially my stepmother. She pulls at his sleeve, her voice low but sharp. "What are you doing? That's a hundred—maybe a thousand times more than we could have bought her for! Do we even have that much?" She's trying to keep her voice down, but it's hard to miss. Funny how different she treats Dad now compared to just two months ago.
"Shall I hit her with a beam for that?" Cleare chimes cheerfully.
"It's fine. She's trying to settle into her new role in the family."
One after another, our allies pledge their support for Erica. First among them is Duke Redgrave—I knew he wouldn't let an opportunity like this slip by. What follows is a flood of pledges. The heavyweights begin a cascade only the king can interrupt. "While I'm pleased that so many of you seek justice by supporting my daughter," Roland says, raising his voice, "we must still follow the proper steps."

By now, the Lafans look ready to flee. But Viscount Lafan seizes the pause to speak. "While I cannot approve of the rigged game Viscount Bartfort has played with several of our leading figures, I'm willing to concede—before he gathers even more momentum."
Cleare hums thoughtfully. "That was a brilliant move on our opponent's part. Many nobles swept up by support for my mistress are now showing restraint. The odds of him crafting that himself are near zero."
He's still following our predictions—but far more elegantly. "You already know who's whispering in his ear, don't you?" I ask.
"The man standing to his right is a seemingly competent servant of Marquis Frampton."
So Frampton hasn't given up on the Lafans yet.
While I'm still talking with Cleare, Lafan continues, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Viscount Bartfort, you may adopt her—with everything that she owns."

There it is.
We've got him. Hook, line, and sinker. And Dad knows how to reel him in. "I appreciate your change of heart and gladly accept your proposal. Let us proceed—with all these fine Lords and Ladies as our witnesses. If that is acceptable to His Highness?"
That hits Roland's love of theatrics right where it counts. "I'm delighted you've come to a resolution without requiring my verdict, thanks to the wisdom of this gathering," he declares. "Let it be known that the official adoption of Marie Fou Lafan—soon to be Marie Fou Bartfort—shall commence under our watchful eyes. Prepare the girl for the ceremony!" He sounds as grandiose as ever.
Dad steps forward again. "Your Highness, if I may. Since we can't present all of Marie's belongings here, and the Viscount has agreed to transfer them, may she bring a list of her possessions to the ceremony?"
Roland nods with approval. "It may only be a placeholder, but I like your adaptability. Viscount Lafan, please write down a list of what is to be transferred along with your daughter."
"Most certainly, my liege," Lafan replies. He doesn't move. But his posture is unnaturally still. His hands are clenched behind his back. He's shaking.
Has he figured us out? Is he going to hold back on pushing the debt after all? It's not like they can carry it themselves. According to Cleare, they've already taken out new loans—promising to dump them on us during the transfer. "Cleare, if he doesn't include the debts…"
"I'll forge a vague clause myself," she says.
Good.

In the meantime, Roland told everyone to reconvene in half an hour. I switch channels and reach out to Erica. "That was amazing. Thanks to you—and Marie's performance—we secured an overwhelming win. The royal family didn't even have to intervene, so no one can hold anything against you. And that's not even counting the good you'll do if you stick to your promise."
"Thank you. You know… Milene and Dad praised me. Even my brother said something like, 'you're cooler than I thought.'" Her voice wavers. "Even though I basically went behind their backs." I can hear her sniffle—just a little.
"See? You don't have to follow the rules perfectly every time. I'll make sure you're fine. You're not in a cage—not like you think you are."

Chapter Text

The gallery has thinned out. Most of the louder aristocrats, the ones who came for spectacle, must've decided there's no drama left to wring out. That's suboptimal, more onlookers would have made what's going to happen more impactful. Still, a respectable crowd remains. I guess that has to do. A few nobles whisper behind gloved hands. Their eyes shift from the throne to the girl standing stiff in the center of the chamber. Marie.
She's been cleaned up a bit. Someone had the decency to brush her hair and get her dress presentable again. She clutches a folded document like a lifeline, standing alone under the judgmental gaze of the court.
Cleare hums beside me. "She looks like a sacrificial offering."
"Wrong kind of ceremony," I mutter. "Though you're not far off."

From Rolands, the court speaker recites with ceremonial dryness:
"Viscount Lafan. Baron Bartfort. Do you confirm your intent to proceed with the legal adoption of Marie Fou Lafan?"
Viscount Lafan lifts his chin all too eager. "I confirm."
Dad steps forward, not immediately answering. "Before I do… I would ask the girl to read aloud the list of possessions being transferred with her."
Marie's eyes widen. Then drop. Her hands tighten on the page. "I—I can't read," she says, voice trembling.
That could've fooled me, but that's a lie. I know she can."For now."
Dad doesn't press. Instead, he bows slightly—not to the throne, but to Marie. "My apologies, young lady. I didn't mean to embarrass you."
Marie's head lifts as if in surprise. So do some of the onlookers'. Theyre not used to apologies towards the less fortunate—certainly not public ones.
Dad turns to Roland. "Then, Your Majesty, perhaps one of your royal guards might read the contents of the document aloud? That way, no misunderstanding can arise regarding the terms."
I watch Lafan's face. His mouth flattens just a bit. A tiny twitch behind the eyes.
Roland straightens on his throne. His tone is louder now, tailored for the gallery. "Ordinarily such paperwork would be processed quietly… "
Lafan for a moment shows a hint of satisfaction. "Exactly, Your Majesty.—"
Before he can finish, Queen Mylene cuts in, sweet and deadly. "Transparency, dear Viscount, is the foundation of trust. If we are to foster a system the people can believe in, we must hold ourselves to it first."
Roland continues. "You're right my dear, in light of recent… complications, it is only proper."
Lafan tries to hide his reaction. He fails.
I hide a smile.

One of the guards accepts the document from Marie. She hesitates before handing it over, but she lets go. He unfolds it and reads: "Listed personal items to be transferred with the adoptee: all sets of personal clothing held at the Lafan residence; various minor tools claimed as personal; one private firearm; and an outstanding debt, attached to the name Marie Fou Lafan."
There's a murmur. Normaly people try to hide it when they take loans in the name of minors."
I glance sideways. "And, Cleare, Did you plant that or was he stupid enough?"
"Scout's honor," she giggles. "I didn't touch a thing, You're overestimating new humanity."
"How many times, there not— Forget it, we don't have time for that.
Marie looks down at her shoes. She's still playing the helpless act. Across from her, Lafan tenses. He knows what's next.
"Fascinating," Dad says aloud. "She doesn't even get to keep the clothes on her back. That must be some expensive fabric."
Lafan seizes the opening. "It is an imported weave, Baron Bartfort. A fair token of compensation to my family for giving her away."
Compensation. For what, exactly?
Dad smiles. "Of course. Now, about that debt—how does a ten-year-old girl come to owe anyone money?

Silence.

Lafan blinks, adjusts his sleeves. He's trying to pivot.
"Marie," Dad continues, gently this time, "have you ever borrowed money from anyone?"
She shakes her head. "No. Never."
"Then the sum must be quite modest, for her not to know." Dad presses on. "But still, we ought to know it. Queen Mylene reminded us all that the terms of this adoption must be made fully public. Right, Your Majesty?"
Mylene inclines her head. "Indeed," she says calmly. "This court cannot approve what it cannot see."
Lafan is cornered. And he knows it. He licks his lips. "This… this is a matter of minor bookkeeping, surely not—"
"You may offer an estimate," Roland interjects now, voice formal and booming. "There is no need for ledger accuracy. A round number will suffice, Viscount."
His majesty doesn't seem to be in the mood for this anymore.
Lafan hesitates, then, too softly:
"Three… million."
I blink. "Three million dia?" That much…
Cleare emits a sharp, amused beep.
The onlookers who caught the number are already murmuring again—this time not with interest, but with outrage.
Dad, still smiling, finally steps back from his verbal snare. Viscount Lafan has just walked straight into it.

"Three million?" Roland echoes, sitting straighter on the throne. His gaze sharpens. "Three million dia. You saddled a ten-year-old girl with that sum?"
Lafan flinches. "It's—there were expenses. And she was raised in my household—"
"She was used by your household," Roland snaps. "Tell me, Viscount, is that the price of food? Of education? Or simply the cost of being born inconvenient?"
The man pales. "She bore the family name. That comes with privileges. Responsibilities. It is not unreasonable—"
"Not unreasonable?" Roland's voice climbs, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "What kind of man claims compensation for raising his own blood? Or were you merely waiting for the day you could sell her off like livestock?"
Lafan opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Around him, the court watches in stunned silence—no ally dares step forward now.

Then a voice breaks the tension from below the throne.
"My apologies, Princess Erica," Dad says, bowing his head toward her seat, "but it seems your starting capital may be slightly lighter than planned."
Erica, sitting with all the composure of a porcelain doll, merely nods. "So long as this girl gets away from these people, I'll manage."
That earns a small laugh from Cleare, like a delighted child. Even Marie looks up in startled amusement.
Dad turns to Roland. "Your Majesty, with your permission, I'd still like to proceed with the adoption. Even if that debt somehow proves legitimate—and even if the court deems such a transfer binding under adoption law—I accept it."
Marie looks at him, eyes wide. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. For once, the mask drops. Her confusion, her disbelief—real, unpolished feelings—flicker across her face. Did you really think we would be stopped by this, Marie?
Roland's tone softens a degree. "A generous offer. But one I'm not prepared to accept or reject at this moment." He gestures toward a coutier. "This court will review the legal standing of the debt and whether it can be considered part of a custodial transfer. That ruling will be issued at a later date."
"Very well," Dad nods.
"And in the meantime," Roland continues, "we proceed with the formalities. This adoption shall not be delayed further."
Viscount Lafan doesn't object. He looks like a man who's aged ten years in ten minutes. When the herald repeats the formal question, he simply nods, voice gone to ash. "I confirm."
Dad steps forward again. "As do I."

A final signature is drawn. The royal seal affixed. Just like that, it's done. Marie Fou Lafan no longer exists. In her place stands Marie fou Bartfort— head now held high, fate no longer tethered to the Lafans.

"So, my dearest niece, why have you summoned us here?" I say, striking a mock-dramatic pose as I close the door to Erica's reception room. But instead of a snarky remark from either my blonde, now-again-sister beside me or my blue-haired princess niece, I'm pulled into a tight group hug.
Erica's first words after the minute-long embrace:
"So, how long are you staying in the capital?"
"Only a few more days," I answer sheepishly. "And I've got most of that time already planned out. But—" I glance over at Marie, "—I suppose I could find someone else to help you get started with your new goal."
That earns me an elbow to the ribs from Marie. "Thanks a lot, onii-chan," she grumbles. "I can arrange time with Erica on my own. And Erica… I'm sorry he dumped that 'goal' on you. I'll help however I can."
"No, it's fine," Erica says softly. "I don't mind doing something like that—if it helps improve this backwards world. It's just a little sad... now that we've found each other, we barely get to spend time together. And even when we do, it's limited by my status." Tears start to gather in her eyes.
"I'll get you out of here in a heartbeat," I say. "Whether it's for a day or the rest of your life. You deserve to live freely—at least once."
"You're being overdramatic," she sighs. "It's fine the way it is."
"Okay, okay," I raise my hands. "Just remember—you only have to say the word."

We talked some more, made plans, and just enjoyed each other's company until our time for today was nearly up. Then, just in the nick of time, I remember something.
"Oh—guys, I nearly forgot. Here. Take these. Prototypes."
Marie reacts first. "A flip phone? Really? Couldn't you make something better?"
Erica leans in. "That looks just like Mom's old phone. I haven't seen one of those in ages."
"Really? I styled it after my old one," I say.
"Yeah, it's almost identical," Erica nods.
Then I raise an eyebrow at Marie. "Didn't you already have a smartphone when I died? What's with the downgrade?"
Marie blinks, clearly flustered. "My phone broke, so I just ended up using one I found. But that doesn't matter right now. What is this thing, anyway?" she asks without missing a beat.
Why is she blushing all of a sudden? I file the thought away and answer. "They're basically phones. But unlike the earpieces we've been using, these are independent from Cleare. More practical for regular contact."
Cleare huffs in mock offense. "I was never unreliable."
"I didn't say you were," I mutter, then go on. "As for the design—I like the aesthetic. And I'm not ready to drop touchscreens into this world just yet. Once we're back in Bartfort territory, the network should extend from there to the capital—for now."
"So we can stay in contact?" Erica asks. But Marie says nothing. She's oddly quiet, almost… shy.
"Yeah," I say, glancing at her. "And now you'll always know to make time for us when we're in the capital."
Right then, a knock comes at the door. Erica leaves for dinner, and Marie and I head out toward the Bartfort capital mansion.

On the way back, I try to lighten the mood—joke, tease, nudge her back to her usual sharp self—but it doesn't work. It's like she's not really there. Something's eating at her. At the estate gate, I try one last time. "So… would you like a real room of your own for now? Or share with someone?"
She hesitates a bit. Then suddenly walks a bit faster, voice soft. "If it's okay… I'd like to sleep with you."

Chapter Text

“Leon, you’re taking on too much on your own.” Milene’s voice calls out gently.
Wait—what?! Why is she pulling me onto her lap and hugging me?! Even Clarice starts petting my back?! I was just-
“My dear pupils,” Milene says, her arms still firmly around me, “if you don’t wish to help me calm our dear little Leon, you may leave now. You’re free for the rest of the day.”
Hold on. Just a minute ago, I was trying to convince Milene to take action against Roland and maybe lend her support for my mission to Alzer. How did we go from that to—this? Even Angie’s joined in now, completing the trifecta of ex-wives cuddling me. Did I overdo the “Mommy Milene” teasing? Is this some kind of payback?
This is too much. Maybe I should have waited for my next visit to the capital instead of cramming this meeting in the day after the hearing.
Before I can untangle the confusion, Milene speaks again, her voice soft and steady.
“Leon, you already have my support. There’s no need to scheme for it. As long as you stay reasonable and keep the kingdom in mind, I’m with you.”

Why… "Why are you doing this?" I ask, unable to hide my frustration.
Before Milene can answer, Angie beats her to it. "Even if I don't agree with what you said today about the prince and the king, I can tell something's off. You're not yourself." She pauses for a breath. "You still mean what you say, and you're trying to make things better—but you're forcing it."
"Exactly," Clarice adds, her hand still resting on my shoulder. "It's like you're playing a role instead of just being yourself. I don't know how to help… but I trust Milene. Since you broke through her cold exterior, she's helped me understand my own emotions better. So if she says this is the right way to support you—then I'll believe her."
"And I'll help you get back to normal, no matter what!" Angie declares, a little too forcefully.
Milene just smiles at her students' responses. She doesn't say anything more. She just keeps holding me, waiting for me to relax and speak at my own pace.

"Okay," I mumble after a moment, trying to wriggle some distance between myself and Milene's arms, without much success. "Maybe I just had a bad day. I didn't want to worry you."
Before any of them can answer, Cleare—still visible from earlier when I introduced her as the reason how I got to know things I shouldn't—chimes in cheerfully over the private channel. "Master, the girls may be overreacting, but your mood, stress levels, and several other parameters are at the extreme ends of the acceptable spectrum for effective function. Yesterday during the trial, your vitals reached positively excellent values, so your recovery seemed likely. But today, you're back to 'worrying if Marie and Erica also reincarnated' levels. If this trend continues, I'll be forced to intervene in order to maintain operational performance."
How can anyone say something like that with such a bright, carefree tone? Doesn't matter right now—back to the girls. But… why isn't anyone responding?

I glance up—and instantly regret it. Three faces are staring down at me.
Angie: stunned.
Clarice: curious.
Milene: visibly irritated.
I've clearly said something wrong.
"Leon," Milene says slowly, her voice deceptively calm, "have you been talking to that… thing this whole time while speaking with us?" She tightens her hold on me. "That would be quite rude. Is my little Leon not who I thought he was? Just a puppet of some lost item?"
"No! No, of course not!" I blurt out, panic scrambling my words. "Cleare doesn't interfere with conversations—at least not as much as Luxion! I mean—she just makes suggestions, and Luxion, he—"
Damn it.
All three girls blink.
Angie is the first to speak, voice tilted with suspicion. "Wait… you gave them names?"
Clarice tilts her head slightly. "Luxion and… Cleare, right?"
Milene's eyes narrow a fraction, though her expression remains poised. "And these 'tools' of yours—how much influence do they really have over you?"

I open my mouth, then close it again. No good answer comes to mind.
So Cleare, naturally, decides to answer for me. Out loud. "Oh, please don't worry, Your Majesty!" she chirps, her cheerful tone utterly unfitting for the situation. "Master Leon is entirely in control. After all, if he weren't, most of humanity would've already been wiped out or repurposed as test subjects in my labs."
"CLEARE!" I snap.
Too late. The words are already out in the open, bouncing around like stray fireworks as he room falls into a stunned silence.
Clarice and Angie instinctively lean closer to Milene, trying not to make it obvious—but their wide eyes give them away. Milene herself doesn't flinch, but her hand pauses mid-pat across my back. Her voice is steady, but lower now."Is what she said true, Leon?"
I glance up. "I…" I hesitate, but lying now would only dig me deeper. "Cleare is an artificial intelligence. AI for short. She was created by a faction called 'Old Humanity'—they built her to survive a war they believed would end their world. So naturally, they assumed anything left behind after them would be an enemy."
Clarice swallows. Angie clutches at her sleeves. Milene simply waits, patient and unreadable.
"But we're at least partially descended from their creators," I add quickly. "That's why I was able to convince her not to… you know."
Milene's voice is quiet. "That's… nice. But it's not what I asked."
I sigh. There's no avoiding it. "They're better than humans in most ways. So… if they ever really wanted to, yes. With enough time… probably." I look down. "But I'm certain they won't."

"Okay, girls," Milene says gently, "this may frighten you… but remember, nothing has changed. Leon is still the same. You've just caught a glimpse of what he's been carrying." She pulls me a little closer and resumes petting my hair—her hand trembles just a little. "Fear fades when you learn more about what you fear. So let's keep talking. Let's get through this together." Then, without warning, she pulls all three of us into a group hug.
I can't even look at them—I'm still trying to keep my stupid face from crumbling. But then Cleare's voice chimes in, cheerfully oblivious as ever: "Thank you, Your Highness! That hug significantly improved Master Leon's vitals. Continued patting has also reduced accompanying spikes in anxiety."
"CLEARE—STOP IT!" I snap, mortified. I glance at the girls, hoping the damage isn't too bad. They're all—chuckling?

"Speaking of that devil," I grumble. "How did you even notice her?"
"Well," Clarice says with a small smile, "when we were cuddling you before, there was a muffled voice coming from your ear. Then you glared at... well, Cleare." She shrugs delicately. "It wasn't hard to figure out."
That's it? Really?
"Master," Cleare chimes in sweetly, "I did suggest a brain implant would be more secure than an earpiece."
"And I told you—no unnecessary invasive surgery!" What even is this, some kind of comedy routine?
Clarice chuckles. "Tha–... Cleare doesn't seem too bad."
"Thank you, Mistress Clarice!" Cleare answers with the energy of a bouncing ball.
Wait—Mistress?
"Mistress? Does that mean you'll listen to Clarice the same way you listen to Leon?" Angie leans in, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Why?"
Before Cleare can answer, Clarice suddenly lunges across me, throwing her arms around Angie. "That's the first time you called me by name without any titles in front of others!"
Angie flushes bright red on the spot.

Once the two girls settle down again, Cleare picks up right where she left off—of course. "You're correct, Mistress Angelica," she says cheerfully. "Though to a lesser extent than Master. As for why—" she pauses, then adds with suspicious innocence, "—that's not my place to say."
They both turn to me, grinning.
Great. Just perfect.
"I—I just…" I start, trying to find some kind of out.
Milene tilts her head, eyes gleaming. "May I assume that I'm 'Mistress Milene' then?"
"That's right! Would you prefer that over your royal title when I address you?" Cleare confirms, her voice chipper as ever.
Milene doesn't miss a beat. Not even answering she beams at me and scoops me up into another hug. "Ooh, you're just the sweetest little thing, Leon!"
I don't even know what misunderstanding she's running with—but I'll take it. At least it means I don't have to come up with an excuse for that scrap metal's antics.

After some more warm—if deeply embarrassing—cuddling, Milene finally gives me a little breathing room and shifts her tone. "Are you feeling better now, Leon?" she asks gently. "I still don't think you've told us the whole story behind your ambitions in Alzer or about your concerns with my husband. I'd like to hear more, but on your terms."
I nod. "Thank you."
"Oh, you should thank yourself," she replies, brushing a bit of hair from my forehead. "You brought me closer to Erica. She told me how tense you were before the hearing." Her voice softens further. "But next time, find someone to share the burden before it crushes you. Don't let it get this far again." She leans down and kisses me on the forehead. "I'd be willing to be that person."
My throat tightens. I don't even try to hold it back. "Thank you, Mommy Milene."

"So would I.", "—And I!" Clarice and Angie chime in right after, each with a look of determination.
But Milene turns to them with that signature smile of hers—the one that says she's about to make things very complicated. "That won't do," she says lightly. "You both have your fiancés. What would you do if Leon disagreed with them?"
Clarice's response is unusually sharp. "The same goes for you. You have your husband—the king."
Milene doesn't miss a beat. "If Leon and my husband disagreed, Leon is probably in the right. Roland is already wrong most of the time." She says it so calmly, like she's just pointing out the weather. "And Leon has already earned my trust when it comes to the kingdom."
Clarice blinks. "So… what Leon said about His Highness is true?"
"Wait, Mommy Milene, you're being unfair!" Angie blurts out, her face turning beet red as she realizes what she just said.
Everyone pauses and stares at her. Milene's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Ohhh, you're just as sweet as Leon!" she declares, throwing herself at Angie in an almost comically dramatic hug.
Angie freezes like a mouse under a swooping hawk, clearly torn between protesting and remembering she's not supposed to fight the queen.

Once Milene finally releases Angie, I rise from her lap—still a little flushed from the barrage of affection and teasing. "Thanks to all three of you," I say, brushing off my coat with a small smile. "I think I'm better now. And as a token of appreciation… I want to share something with each of you."
They perk up slightly—Clarice tilts her head, Angie leans in with curiosity, and Milene gives me that patient little smile that always makes it feel like she's already two steps ahead of me.
I reach into my coat and pull out three identical flip phones. "These are lost items," I explain, handing one to each of them. "They have a simple emergency call function. It connects directly to me."
Milene raises an eyebrow as she inspects hers. "So we just flip it open, and it contacts you?"
"Yes, if you're ever in danger, need help, or just want me to know something's wrong—use it. Doesn't matter when or where."
Angelica clutches hers with both hands, eyes wide, then tucks it into the inner pocket of her uniform like it's something priceless. "So… we're connected now?"
Clarice nods, her gaze flicking to mine, steady and thoughtful. "That's very like you. Pretending you're fine while preparing for the worst."
I shrug, trying not to get too sentimental. "Think of it as me… covering my bases."
Milene flips hers open with practiced elegance, then snaps it shut with a soft click. "You really are a thoughtful little schemer." She leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead. "But I appreciate it."

I pause for a beat. Then, a little awkwardly, "There's… something else I'm willing to share right now. It's probably nonsense, but… it's stuck with me."
"When I was five," I begin, "I had this dream. Weirdly specific. Not like a normal one—more like a story. Detailed. Unsettling. But it felt real. And the strange thing is… it's been right. Over and over again."
Clarice straightens, Angie stops fidgeting with the phone.
"I saw my brother Colline's birth before my mother was even pregnant. I knew how to find Luxion and Cleare. I even saw things about my matriarch—about the Forest of Ladies. About the sacred tree in Alzer. I saw that the Raults lost a son named Leon… who looks just like me. Same birthday, too." I laugh, but it comes out a little thin. "It sounds crazy. It was just a dream. But every time something lines up… it feels like the ground shifts a little more under my feet."
None of them speak.

"And then…" I glance down. "I saw the kingdom fall apart. Saw myself… taking the king's place. Because if I didn't, there wouldn't be anything left to hold together."
A heavy silence hangs in the air.
"But again—just a dream," I say, forcing a smile. "A scary one, sure. But maybe that's all it ever was."

Chapter Text

"Jilk, have you thought of a way to not spend the day with Bartfort again?" I mutter, not bothering to hide my displeasure. That boy seems determined to infest every corner of my life lately. Since our duel, he's clung to us like ivy—persistent, unwelcome, and impossible to shake. And now he's somehow become a regular guest at the palace. When I inquired how such a thing was even possible, I learned that Mother had taken a liking to him. Mother, of all people. She supposedly even allows him to call her Mommy. If the rumors are true, she's truly lost her mind. I thought she held herself to some standard. Clearly, I was mistaken.
"I'm sorry, Julius. It's a direct order from the Queen—we can't refuse like we usually do," Jilk says, adjusting his collar. "Even when we tried to get the King to overrule her, he backed her."
That—
If he truly wants to support her, perhaps he should spend more time with her instead of cavorting with every girl who isn't even part of his official harem.
No matter. It's just one day.

"Oh, Julius! Jilk! You're finally here—we've been waiting," Bartfort calls, waving us over like we're friends. He's standing with Angelica and Clarice, like he belongs there. Like he's one of them. Which he isn't. And now—he just used my name again. No title. No decorum. No respect.
Angelica frowns. "Leon, show some respect. He's the crown prince."
Finally. Someone reminding him of his place. I allow myself the faintest smile. Wait—did she just call him Leon? And yet I'm always the prince?
"Sure, but he's also Julius. Not just the prince," Bartfort replies, tilting his head. "And your fiancé, right? Maybe try calling him by his actual name."

Angelica stiffens. There's a pause. Then she looks away. She doesn't answer him. Why doesn't she answer?
Clarice steps in with her usual composure. "I think Leon's right. I'm sure there's a difference between Julius and Prince Julius—just like there's a difference between Angelica and Lady Redgrave."
That's true. She's been calling me just Julius for a while now—whenever politics aren't involved. She sees the difference. Why can't Angelica?
"I… I could never," Angelica murmurs.
Of course not. Even when it's just us, I'm still the prince. Always the prince. Never just Julius.
Bartfort just smiles, utterly unfazed. "That's alright. No pressure. But maybe give it a try sometime. Might surprise you." He says it like it's nothing. How dare he act so familiar toward us? Then he claps his hands together. "Anyway—enough warm-up. Today, we're sneaking out. Into the city. No guards. Just us."
Sneaking out?
He says it so casually. Like he's inviting us to tea. Like I haven't already failed to pull this off myself—several times. And yet—
Let's hear him out, for now.

As we follow Bartfort through the halls, he outlines his simplistic little plan. Childish, really. But, no matter. Either I get to spend the day in the city… or Bartfort will be properly reprimanded by Mother.
Eventually, we reach the rear entrance of one of the government buildings adjacent to the palace. Bartfort waves us toward an inconspicuous door.
"In here—I hid our disguises. Let's change quickly."
Let's see these "costumes" that are supposed to make us invisible to the public eye.

"WHAT IN THE SAINTESS'S NAME IS THIS SUPPOSED TO BE?!" I bark, turning toward the perpetrator. My voice cracks halfway through the sentence—out of indignation, of course. Behind me lies an outfit I stared at for far too long before giving up on finding anything remotely masculine in my assigned changing room.
Leon, barely keeping his laughter in check, bites down on his knuckle. "Aw, come on, Juli—"
"DON'T CALL ME THAT!"
He continues like he didn't hear me. "The outfit's barely even girly. I ruled out skirts and dresses. You should be thanking me."

Thanking him?

"Disguising your gender is the most effective way to protect your identity, Your Highness," he adds with a smug little bow, clearly savoring every word. "There's no faster way to make sure no one in the capital suspects the crown prince is parading around unsupervised."
"And to complete your disguise," he adds, pulling two glittering hair clips from his pocket, "you forgot your accessories." He tosses them toward me like it's nothing.
I nearly lunge at him. "HOW DARE—!" But before I can grab him, Angelica steps in from the left, seizing my arm in a grip that's much stronger than it looks.
"Stop it," she mutters under her breath. "If you're this loud, you'll draw attention."
Clarice flanks me from the other side, placing a hand lightly on my shoulder. "We'll all look suspicious if you make a scene. And besides—Leon has a point." Her voice is gentle, but her smile is… not.
I glance between them—Angelica's nearly-pouting face, Clarice's ever-so-slight smirk—and realize I'm boxed in. Outnumbered. Cornered. Resisting both of them at once would be unwise. Not that I couldn't—but there would be consequences. With a huff, I lower my arm and shrug them off, trying to preserve what little dignity I have left. Not much, granted. And then, as if this whole farce couldn't get any more absurd, I look around.

Clarice has already changed. Her disguise is simple, tasteful—a modest green dress with a soft sash and a matching ribbon tucked into her curls. The color highlights her eyes and hair. She looks… annoyingly charming.
Angelica, on the other hand, is dressed like a boy. Her long blond hair is tied back with a dark ribbon, her vest slightly too loose, trousers stiff. There's a blush on her cheeks, but she's not complaining. She looks determined, even proud. Why do they get disguises with some dignity?
I turn toward Jilk, seeking sanity—only to find despair. He's in a slightly faded dark red dress. His hair's been braided tightly. His eyes… dead. He stares ahead like a man who has glimpsed eternity and lost the will to argue.
There's a soft thud as my fist hits the doorframe beside me. I'd heard some rustling earlier—maybe some minor "fighting"—but I didn't realize the girls had done that to Jilk.
Clarice is now fussing with Angelica's collar, glowing like the sun. Angelica doesn't even flinch. What in the world is going on?

Clarice turns to me, light and sweet as a poisoned berry. "So, Julius—it's time to finish dressing. I'd really prefer to use this opportunity Leon's given us to enjoy the city incognito. Unless… you'd like our help?"
She takes a step closer, hands folded neatly, smile perfectly innocent—and somehow far more terrifying than Leon ever could be.
...She wouldn't. Would she?
I step back. Then again. And finally retreat into the changing room with the hair clips clutched in hand, muttering curses under my breath.

Having begrudgingly put on the absurd getup, I step back into the room. Clarice claps her hands softly. "Oh, you look adorable."
Angelica nods, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. "Cute, but you did a terrible job with the hair clips."
Before I can object, she's already at my side, fingers deftly fixing them in place. Her face is close—closer than it's ever been. Her touch is light, practiced. It's oddly… gentle. So this is what it takes for her to get close to me?
And of course—of course—Bartfort is grinning like the entire thing is some elaborate joke only he understands. "So," he declares, clapping his hands, "you're Juli for today. Jilk's Jill, Clarice is Clare, and Angelica—let's go with Angelo. Or Ange, if that's more your style." He actually winks. "When you're not used to going undercover, it helps to stick close to your real name. Makes it easier to react naturally. But hey—if you've got better ideas, speak now."
I cross my arms. "Fine. But why doesn't Clarice have to dress as a boy?"
Leon shrugs. "That's Clare, remember? And she's mostly unknown to the public. You three, on the other hand, get your faces painted onto teacups."
Clarice tilts her head, all smiles. "We discussed it while we waited for you. And honestly, Julius—you're the only one still complaining. Do you hear Ange whining?"
What is with her today? Usually, she's quiet and refined. Now she's throwing barbs and calling me Juli like it's some kind of game. Since when did she grow a spine? Is she getting back at us for something? What did we even do?
I scowl at Bartfort. "And your excuse? That you're not famous enough to need a disguise?"
Before he can answer, Clarice cuts in again. "Come on, stop the whining and let's finally get going, Juli."
"Clare's right," Leon says, adjusting his shirt. "And it's just Leon today. No titles, no surnames, no noble nonsense." He casts a look toward Angelica and Jilk. "And no stiff speech either. If anyone says 'prince,' 'highness,' or anything like that, I'm declaring penalties. Today, we're just ordinary citizens."

The capital is louder than I imagined. Not in the way balls are loud—with polished music and carefully curated conversation—but with something more… alive. Vendors shout over one another, peddling their wares with dramatic flair. Laughter bounces down the narrow alleys. Children weave through legs and skirts, sticky-fingered and wild-eyed. There's a smell of roasting meat, flowers, and a dozen kinds of cheap perfume all fighting for dominance. It's chaotic.
And somehow… it's intoxicating.

Our disguises hold—for now. Nobody gives us more than a second glance. Clarice blends in effortlessly. Angelica grumbles under her breath, but wears her boy's clothes convincingly. Jilk… well, Jilk is doing his best. The reddish dress and braided hair are regrettable, but he carries himself with the dignity of a man preparing for execution. The strangest part is that I'm beginning to forget how absurd I look. The longer we walk, the more it fades into the background. No one bows. No one whispers behind fans. For once, I'm not the crown prince. I'm just… a person, among many.

Leon leads us confidently, chatting about which vendors are overpriced and how to avoid tourist traps. I try to ignore him—but then a smell catches my attention. Smoke. Spice. Fat dripping onto hot coals. I stop without meaning to. My eyes lock onto a grill stand tucked between two canvas-covered stalls. Thick skewers of meat sizzle over open flames, the aroma rich and mouthwatering. Leon notices.
"Oh-ho? Looks like someone's interested." He nudges Angelica with his elbow. "Hey, Ange. Buy one for Juli."
Angelica falters. "I—no. That wouldn't be proper."
Proper?! I'm standing right here. I can hear her. I look down at my ridiculous outfit. "I'm in this disguise," I mutter, low. "And she still treats me like the prince."
Angelica flinches, just slightly. But says nothing. She just looks away again.
Leon sighs like he expected as much. "Guess I'll be the generous one, then." He walks to the stall, hands over exact change, and returns with a skewer. "Here. You can thank me later."
"I—" The scent hits me again, and I give in.

One bite.

The world narrows to the taste.
I don't know what kind of meat it is. I don't care. It's tender, charred just enough on the edges, the marinade soaked in deep. Greasy, messy… perfect.

"Judging by that expression," Clarice says, her voice warm, "I'd say he likes it."
Angelica twitches. Then, without a word, she returns to the stall and buys two more. One is handed to me.
I blink. "Thank you."
She clears her throat. "It's just food. Don't make a fuss."

We continue down the market lane. Leon haggles with a candied fruit vendor like he's been doing this his whole life. Clarice lingers by a fabric stall, running her fingers across bolts of dyed silk. She says something charming to the shopkeeper, and before long, he's pulling out the good stuff from behind the counter—reserved for customers with deep pockets or sharper tongues. Angelica keeps pace beside me, scanning everything with sharp eyes. She's alert, maybe more than she needs to be, but there's a flicker of wonder too. I catch her glancing at a child chasing a wooden hoop. The corners of her mouth twitch upward for half a second.
And Jilk… Jilk stands frozen outside a cluttered little booth stuffed with old clocks, brass parts, and chipped tools. Inside, an old man works hunched over a table, his fingers adjusting tiny gears with painstaking care. Jilk says nothing. He just stares.
"What is it?" I ask.
He doesn't look away. "Precision," he says softly. "Everything's small. Delicate. But if one part fails… it all falls apart."

That's… unexpected.
I leave him to it.

At the next stall, something catches my eye: a hand mirror. Ornate, clearly antique. Its silver handle is carved into curling vines, and the back is etched with faded roses. It looks like something my mother used to own when I was little. I pick it up without thinking.
"Oh, what a sweet young lady," the vendor croons, beaming at me. "Shopping for herself? You've got excellent taste, dear."

I freeze.
Clarice tries—and fails—not to laugh behind her hand. Angelica opens her mouth, clearly about to say something to defend me. Leon turns away far too fast, shoulders shaking.
"She is cute, isn't she?" Clarice teases, eyes sparkling.
I buy the mirror just to end the conversation.
"I'm not saying anything," Leon says, voice suspiciously amused as he walks on ahead.

Good. Because if he does, I may just commit a crime in a back alley.

Leon
That was… way more fun than I expected.
Guess they weren't my wives and friends last time for no reason. Clarice leaned into the chaos beautifully. Angelica too—though she'll deny it to her grave. Even Julius cracked a few smiles, once he stopped thinking about his outfit. And I got Jilk to wear a dress. I still can't believe that worked.

"Cleare," I murmur, barely audible, "please tell me you got pictures."

"Of course, Master," she replies cheerily. "I also generated a complete set of images depicting you in matching attire. Purely for insurance purposes."
"…But I never—"
"Unimportant. No one but you will know they're fabricated."
"You little—!"
"I simply learned from the best, Master."
Mute. Instantly.

Still grinning, I let my eyes wander across the group. Angelica and Julius walk a little closer than they realize. Clarice is looking over Jilks shoulder as he's still standing in front of that antics store.
It's too bad Angelica still won't call Julius by name. If she had, she might've raised a love flag today.
Guess I'll keep playing wingman.

"Master!"
"Didn't I mute you!"
"Apologies," Cleare's voice cuts through again. "This message overrides your preferences. Marie is attempting an emergency call."

My chest tightens. "…Put her through."

Clarice
That woman really did call Julius a cute girl.
I'm still not over it.
Leon's influence has made everything more chaotic… and more interesting. There's just more room to breathe. To feel.
But Jilk—he hasn't moved from that clock stall. He's still watching the old man tinker with his tools. There's something gentle about it. Focused.
I step closer. Should I get that clock for him? Or is it not the clock, but the activity that interests him?
Maybe I should get tools instead… enough for two. We could work on something together. Would he even say yes?
When I asked him earlier, he mentioned precision. How everything in those tiny gears matters. Hm.
Maybe he's more sensitive than he lets on—

"LEON, WHAT HAPPENED?!" Angelica's voice cuts through the crowd like a whip. I spin.
Leon's on his knees— collapsed, slouched, arms limp, face pale.
"Clarice, we need to get him back home!" Angelica's already at his side.
I kneel. "Leon—Leon, are you okay?"
His lips barely move, but somehow I still hear his voice, quiet and faraway. "Don't… be so alarmed. I'm just dizzy…"

No. Something's wrong. I glance at Angelica. She nods.
"Alright," I whisper. "Let's head back. Slowly."
Together, we pull him upright, slinging his arms around our shoulders. He barely walks—more like drifts. Julius and Jilk follow behind us, silent and pale.

We make it to the side entrance of the building—and suddenly Leon surges forward.
He breaks free— Sprints ahead.
"Leon?!" I shout after him, but he doesn't turn around. I try to follow—then remember the outfit Im wearing, I'm in and stop. We all need to change before we can chase him through the palace.
Even the boys don't argue.

Back inside, we change quickly.
When we return to the palace proper, we're met by grim faces. Princess Erica has collapsed again.

They say… she fell down the stairs…

But I thought she was better now…

Chapter Text

The door bursts open before I even finish turning toward it, but I don't need to look to know who it is. His boots hit the floor with that frantic, uneven rhythm.
He's barely holding it together. Doesn't say hello. Doesn't look at me. Just storms past, straight to the bedside where Erica lies so still she almost disappears into the blankets. "How is she?" His voice is tight. Urgent.
"She's stable," I answer, quietly. "Still asleep. They gave her something to help with the pain."
Only now does he seem to realize I'm here too. His eyes flick to me—and widen. I brace myself, but don't stop him from rushing over and pulling me into a hug. His arms are warm and strong, and for a moment I forget the sharp ache in my side. Then he shifts, and the jolt of pain from my ribs makes me gasp.
He pulls back slightly, looking down at me like I'm the one who collapsed. "Marie—what happened to you?", he mutters, pulling back enough to glance at the bandages on my arm, then at the bruises along my collarbone.

"I'm fine," I insist, brushing it off with a forced smile. "Just bruises. A broken arm. Maybe some cracked ribs. Nothing serious."
His eyes narrow. I can tell he's about to argue again, so I cut him off. "I was with her on the stairs. She suddenly started coughing and—clutched her chest like she couldn't breathe. I caught her when she fell. That's all."
"It's not about me. She's the one who fainted." I continue as he blankly stares at me.

He frowns, looks past me to the bed again. "Coughing? But we're already reducing the mana density around her?"
"That's what I want to know," I mutter. It had come out of nowhere. We were just walking, talking about what color ribbon Erica liked best, and then she— My stomach churns.
Stairs.

Why did it have to be stairs?
That was how he died the first time. After staying up too many nights finishing that stupid game—for me.
And now it's Erica collapsing. Like the world's mocking us.

Leon steps toward the bed, looking around, then touching his earpiece. "Cleare. I need a full scan of Erica—everything you can get without disturbing her."
"Of course, Master," Cleare answers in her unfittingly happy voice. I get that this is her passion but could read the room at least a bit.
"I should have prioritized Alzer and the Sacred Tree…", he mutters, before turning back to me. "Why are you alone with her?"
"Oh, she apparently had these episodes before," I explain. "They used to happen regularly. After the doctors cleared her, they said it was fine for someone to stay with her. One person was enough and I volunteered."
He just nods.
I add, "Her Majesty let me, when she had to get back to work. I think she recognizes how close we are."

…Silence…

"Ahh,...Why should you have gone to Alzer?" I ask, no longer able to stand this oppressive silence.
"... You know, the mana absorbing ability of the Sacred Tree.", he looks at me quizzically.

"Ooh, thats …" Cleare chimes in. "After reviewing data from sub-drones, I've identified the likely cause. An unprecedented wave of high-density mana surged across the capital just before the collapse. The ambient mana levels remain too high for effective scrubbing, which causes Erica's current state."
Leon's jaw tightens. "Any reports from Luxion? This —"

I freeze.
He keeps talking, but I don't hear the words.

What?

Luxion?

That thing?

That thing that killed him? He's using it again?

No.

No. No no no.

I barely hear Cleare now. My thoughts spiral, drowning out her calm analysis.

He said Luxion.
That rotten, heartless AI who ended it all—ripped him away—and now Leon is just talking about him like nothing ever happened?

This cant be… How…? "— HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?!"

"What are you doing?!"
"You… wanna die again…?"
The questions burst out of me, raw and panicked, as tears sting my eyes and spill over my cheeks before I can stop them. Leon freezes mid-step. Cleare goes silent. The room—already too quiet—feels like it's holding its breath.
He turns toward me, slow and uncertain, brows pulled together. Confused. Frightened. "What do you mean?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I can barely look at him. "You said Luxion."
He hesitates. "Yeah. Like Cleare just said, he sent some messages before and after—"
"WHY are you even using him?!" I snap, voice rising faster than I can catch it. "Why is he with you again?!"
His head tilts, confused like I'm the one not making sense. "Because I sought him out… to get a head start this time."

No. No, he wouldn't. Not the Leon I knew. "You would never work with him again!" My voice cracks. "You should hate him! He—" My chest tightens. "He killed you…"

His mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.
I grab the edge of the bedframe with my good hand, fingers shaking. My ribs scream at the movement, but the pain feels far away. All I can hear is my pulse, my thoughts. "You weren't supposed to find him," I whisper. "You weren't supposed to trust him again." My breath catches. "You died because of him. Luxion turned on you. Said you were no longer useful. You went to talk to him, to reason with him—" My voice breaks, and I wipe at my eyes, furious with how weak I sound. "—and you never came back. And I— I couldn't even stop you…"

Leon stares at me like I've just spoken in a language he doesn't know.
Cleare begins to say something—technical—but Leon lifts a trembling hand. She cuts off at once.
He takes a step toward me. Then another. He's shaking now too. "Marie…" His voice is rough. "What are you talking about?"
My legs start to buckle. I force myself to stay upright, gripping the mattress with white knuckles. "You don't remember."

"…Remember what?"

I meet his eyes. "You never came back from that life, did you?"

Silence.

He doesn't say a word. And that's all the answer I need. Because this Leon didn't live that ending.
This Leon never saw it all fall apart.
This Leon never saw Luxion turn on us.

I feel sick. Numb.
My knees give out, and I collapse onto the edge of Erica's bed. My breath comes in short, broken gasps, like I've been running in circles with no exit in sight. He's not my Leon.

Not the one I lost.

Then, unexpectedly, arms—gentle and warm—wrap around my back. Careful not to touch the worst of the bruises, but firm enough that I feel them. I freeze.

"Mama," a soft voice murmurs by my ear, breath tickling my skin, "you're crying loud enough to wake the dead."
I whip around. "E-Erica?!"
She blinks up at me—still pale, clearly not at full strength—but unmistakably awake. And very much herself.
Leon stares, dumbstruck. "You're—when—?"
"Just long enough to understand your current predicament," she says calmly, her voice still soft, touched with a steadiness too old for her little body. "Still a bit dazed, so forgive me if I'm not quite as sharp as usual." She straightens—slowly, with a stretch—and looks between us with a measured, unreadable gaze. Her hands rest lightly around my waist, fingers folding with absent grace. "You two are impossible, you know that?"
Neither of us answers. What could we even say?

Erica sighs again and turns to face Leon first. "You told me about your 'second life.' How it went off the rails after our little dummy here—" she gestures toward me, "—decided to hijack the heroine's role to run away from her family."
Leon flinches. I grimace.
"I was confused, when Marie told me something else. " Erica continues, "In her story, you stopped her at the first event—the slap—and she couldn't win over any of the five idiots—your words, not mine—despite trying after that. So she gave up, settled down to be a mob with you. Until Offrey got to her for trying to seduce Brad, and you forced that world off the rails to save her."
She chuckles dryly. "Somehow, that led to Luxion's betrayal. To your death. And to Mama's breakdown just now."

Leon's face twists, unreadable.
And I—I can't stop thinking about that version. A path where I succeeded, where I charmed all five morons. Did I end up queen? Or… as Olivia's replacement? Trapped in my own body while it tore the world apart? A shiver runs down my spine.

"Oh," Erica adds casually, "and how you both felt like the other was your past life's sibling… but dismissed it and got engaged anyway."
My mouth falls open.
"WE WHAT?!" Leon blurts.
"You got engaged. To. Each. Other." Erica enunciates slowly, smirking as Leon sputters and I curl in on myself with every syllable.

"Cleare, scan Erica again," Leon says, trying to deflect, clearly desperate for a distraction.
I manage to sit upright, my voice smaller now. "You already knew… that we didn't share the same second life?"
Erica nods while Cleare's scanner begins its silent sweep. "I suspected," she says. "And once I realized it, I started paying attention. Kept my ears open."
"Why didn't you say anything?" Leon asks quietly.
"I was still trying to figure out how to break the news," she admits. "Didn't know how to tell you… or if I even should." She glances down at her hands. "I should've just said something. Sorry."
"Don't be—"
"No need—"
Leon and I speak at once, tripping over each other, which makes Erica laugh for the first time since waking up. Which makes me realize, it doesnt hurt as bad anymore… all the rage gone for now…

"So," Cleare interrupts, somehow managing her closest approximation of deadpan, "Erica is stable, if anyone's still interested. I'm concentrating all scrubbers on this room. She should remain here until ambient mana levels stabilize."
"Thank you, Cleare. I'll stay put," Erica replies with a nod, then turns to us once more. Her voice softens. "But there's something I still need to say." She looks at us—really looks at us. Worry still lingers at the edges of her gaze.
"This is only my second life. I remember growing old. I remember my children. Grandchildren. A quiet end. I don't have two sets of memories like you. Just one full life behind me, and one I'm living now."
She turns to me. "And I've learned that people carry pain differently. You didn't want this Leon to be different."She pauses, as she seems to gaze right into my soul. "But would you still be angry if he only had memories from one past life—like me? Probably not. That's what she wished for, in the end, wasn't it?"
I say nothing. She's right.

"And Leon," Erica continues, "you want us to be your anchor. People who share your past. But we can't be that—not exactly." She pauses again, but not for long. "Still… maybe we don't have to walk every step of your journey to matter. Maybe we're like old friends—ones you've finally found again after a long, long time. With different stories to tell. Stories worth hearing. So lets share and understand each other better.

…

…

…

…

"You became the fricking king!"

…

"SI-SIX games in total?"

…

…

…

"So, not only didn't I get to know my niece but also my grand- and grand grand nieces and nephews. Just my rotten luck…"

…

…

…

…

"Wait, big brother Nicks married Dorothea in your world too…?"
"What? Why didnt you mention that when it was your turn?"
"Didnt seem important. Maybe they're fated to be together, Dorothea always gone on about that stuff…"
"Yours did too? What do you say, wanna help fate out a little."
*maniacal cackling*
"Oh, the Roseblades are already due to visit once were home. I guess I now know want to do during their stay…"
"Count me in…"
* even more maniacal cackling*
"Guys, I really think you shouldn't. Fate can surely decide itself."
"Oh my dear niece, you're too good for this world."

…

…

…

…

…

"... At that moment when only Arrogance came back… cockpit empty… I-I just… wished for you to get another chance… I don't know what happened after, but that's where the memories end…"
"Im so sorry, Marie… we see about Luxion… I guess he is the main priority for you, but I hate to tell you that I find the saintesses worse…

…

…

…

…

Chapter Text

Marie hadn't stayed in my room since that day… I can't blame her.

She looks at me like a stranger, even if she's trying to hide it, and maybe she is right to. I'm not the Leon she remembers. Not the one who shared so much time with her. Not the one she wishes back.
I press a hand to my forehead, sighing into the quiet of my room. "Cleare,"

"Yes, Master," comes her unusually monotone voice. She sounds a bit like Luxion, just with a feminine touch.

"How's Erica?"

A pause. Then an unmistakable note of exasperation filters through the transmission. "Master, this is the 15th time since yesterday. She may be the most pure old human, but I already tested everything twice over with additional constant monitoring. You can be sure I'll inform you if anything changes."

"... and?"

She sighs, if an AI can sigh. "Ignoring your real problem by focusing on something else won't help you, Master."

"...and?"

"Erica is fine. As I informed you yesterday, she's been cleared to leave her room for short periods under supervision. Her vitals are stable, and localized scrubbers are functioning well beyond safety margins. She is, and I quote myself, doing better than expected."
"Right," I mumble. "Thanks."

Cleare doesn't disconnect. "Would you like me to recite this answer hourly, to save us both time?"

I grunt. "No…"

"Fine. In other news, we've finally got an intact massage from Luxion. He should be here by evening."

That's earlier than expected. "Message him," I say. "Tell him to head straight to Bartfort territory. We should also reach it by then. And… don't mention anything Marie told us yet."

"As you wish." She really starts to sound like Luxion if you annoy her enough. I should stop asking about Erica for now… I don't need two of him. I chuckle a bit.

The breakfast table feels bigger the last few days, sitting here watching Marie laughing lightly at something Finnley said. Not sitting with me.
She sits between Jenna and Finnley, posture perfect, movements deliberate. With Merce and Jenna, she is every bit the refined young lady—soft-spoken, graceful, just the right smiles at the right times. But when Finnley leans over to whisper something, she tilts her head, smirks, and gives her a playful nudge under the table. It is seamless, really. She's always been like that—able to read a room in seconds and adjust herself like she was born to it. I used to think it was just instinct.

I pick at my toast.
The low hum of conversation breaks as Dad puts a spoon to his glass with a deliberate cling. When I glance his way, I notice that he is the only one at the table, except me, not smiling. Even Zola always gives us her fake smile since the rest of my family joined us in the capital.
"Zola," he says, his gaze fixed on her, "I gave you a choice. Either you return with us to the Bartfort territory, or you remain in the capital with a modest allowance. I finally want to hear your decision."

Zola doesn't hesitate, her lips curling in an almost amused smile. "Obviously, I'll stay here in the capital. This is where I belong."

Not even the slightest pause. No thought for the two kids sitting next to her.
Merce's fork pauses mid-air, but she quickly resumes eating, her face smooth, composed. Rutart isn't as good at it. His jaw tightens, his eyes darting toward his mother for just a second before he drops his gaze to his plate. Neither say a word.

But I saw it. And from the look in dads eyes, so did he.

I linger in the doorway longer than I should, arms crossed, watching Marie's reflection in the glass. She stands with her hands loosely clasped behind her back, looking out upon the wide open ocean and occasional floating island. The posture appears relaxed but her face doesn't.
Maybe I should just go. We've barely spoken since… that day. And when we have, Id seen the hurt inside.
But I shouldn't, I don't want to go on like this. Erica hit the nail on the head but it's hard to live up to her advice. And that's exactly why I have to force myself to speak. "Marie–"

She glances over her shoulder at me. The smile she gives is small, controlled—something you'd wear in high society. "What's up?"

I don't buy her casualness. Not after watching her avoid me for days. "You've been keeping your distance. Not that I can fault you," I say, cutting straight through the act. "But that's not why I'm here. Do you… do you want to be there when I receive Luxion later, or should I order him to stay clear of you?"

Her lips part slightly, like she's about to respond, but then she shuts them again. She turns back to the window, her hair glinting gold, reflecting the orange sky.

"You know," she says finally, voice quieter, "I stood here before. This deck, this view—it looks the same."

I take a few steps closer. "I tried to build it like the first Partner. Most of the schematics came from… well, Luxion. And since he's basically the same as when I first found him, it's probably more accurate than my own memories."

Her head tilts slightly, but she doesn't look at me. "The way you talk about him… it's like he was perfect. Loyal. Always on your side. Someone you could trust to the very end." Her hands tighten behind her back. "The one I knew seemed reliable. And helped us a lot. But when he decided you weren't useful anymore. He didn't hesitate."

"Marie—"

"No." She turns halfway toward me, her voice no longer quite. "You don't understand what it was like to watch him make that decision. He didn't just turn on you—he erased you. Like all that time together meant nothing."

I stay silent. There's nothing I can say to change what she saw.

She shakes her head, looking back out the window. "I want to believe you when you tell me your Luxion is different. I want to believe that there's a version of him who really was the partner you think he is. But if I'm going to— I need more than your word."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself, then faces me fully. "I'm saying I want to be there when you talk to him. I want to look at him, hear him speak, and I want him to hear me. I want him to know exactly what I remember—exactly what he did to you. And then I'll see for myself if he's different."

I hesitate, study her face for a long moment. The set of her jaw, the unwavering focus in her eyes—it's the same look she wore when she tried to sacrifice herself to get me back from the dead "…Alright. You'll be there."

She exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing only a little. "Good."

Somehow, after that, the air between us isn't quite so heavy. We're still not where we were before, but the silence doesn't feel like a wall anymore.

…

…

…

"You know," Marie breaks the silence, her gaze still fixed on the outside, "Hearing your story and his… you were almost the same. Right down to the little habits."

I stuck. "Who?"

"My Leon…"

I blink. "You think so?" I move a little closer, leaning on the railing beside her but keeping space between us. "If we both lived the same life in Japan, then reincarnated into the same circumstances here… wouldn't we end up acting the same? Or at least similar?"

Her head tilts slightly, as if she's weighing her words. "Yeah. Up to a point." She hesitates, her reflection flickering with something almost wistful.

I shift my weight, uneasy. "…Any idea when our paths split?"

Her lips curve faintly, but it's not quite a smile. "At the latest? When he stopped me from stealing that slap from Olivia. Or… didn't, in your case."

I huff a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Right. You told me that before. Funny thing is, I flipped a coin back then to decide whether I'd go watch that whole mess. If I'd been there, I probably would've stopped you. Not knowing everything I know now."

Her eyes finally flick toward me, the faintest spark in them. "So that coin toss split our timelines, like in Steins;Gate."

I raise an eyebrow. "Wait—first of all, you played Steins;Gate? Wouldn't that be a retro game for you? And second… that's not how it worked."

She gives a small shrug, turning her attention to my reflection. "Nah, I watched the anime. And does it really matter? It was the first split-timeline thing I thought of." She shakes her head and chuckles.

"Okay, sure—" I start.

"I hate to interrupt your theorizing about one of my favorite new fields of study," Cleare's voice chimes in, annoyingly bright, back to her normal self. "But your explanation doesn't fit your circumstances. How could you both be here right now, remembering timelines that supposedly run concurrent to this one?"

I glance up at the white and blue ball "Maybe we… traveled back in time?"

"Time travel to the past still appears to be impossible," Cleare answers with that same maddening cheer. "Marie, didn't you wish for a happier life for Leon—like the one this Leon had?"

Marie exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping a bit. "…Sure. It would've been nice to share it with him again, but that wasn't really important to me back then." She glances at me, briefly. "So yeah… this Leon's second life would probably qualify as fulfilling my wish."

Cleare hums, as if she's enjoying herself far too much. "Then I conclude these timelines happened sequentially—if they happened at all, I'm not a hundred percent sold on that. And due to an irregularity, both of you remember past timelines, loops, or something like that."

I rub my jaw. "So… a time loop? One that runs our whole lives?"

"Yes," Cleare responds brightly, as though announcing the weather. "If those past loops really occurred, that's my best hypothesis. The mechanism is unclear. Perhaps a simulation running repeatedly, with memory errors leading to your second-life recollections. Or magic—though it would far surpass current understanding, even with Marie's revelations about the saintesses. Or… perhaps this is simply the natural order of things."

I mutter, "Sure. Marie, what do you think of her… rant?"

She's quiet for a moment, then turns halfway toward me. "If it's true… then my wish came true. You'd be the proof of it. And from my perspective, you wouldn't be a stranger at all—just my Leon, missing some memories."
Before I can answer, she steps closer and—without warning—wraps her arms around my neck. Her hair brushes my cheek, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume. Sure that interpretation would make it easier for us. Maybe I should just go with it, too.

With that thought in mind, I hug her back. And a few moments later we fall back into conversation.

I clear my throat. "So… say, I haven't had the time yet, but… do you wanna get together with someone? I mean—is there anyone you'd want to be with? Before I knew… I thought maybe you'd… like to be with one or more of the five idiots again."

Marie whips her head toward me, outrage painted across her face. "Okay, the jig is up! My big brother would never *giggle* plan ahead that far." She narrows her eyes, lips twitching like she's fighting a grin. "Who are you, really?"

"I—I just…" I stumble, heat creeping up my neck. "I just want to minimize the messes we have to face. That's the only reason we didn't have to wait another five years to reunite, right? Planning ahead a little isn't so strange, after stumbling from near death to near death for a life."
Her gaze sharpens, waiting for me to slip. I swallow. "…I guess you didn't find anyone either, being engaged to me and all."

Her act shifts instantly. She huffs, tossing her hair back, glaring at me like I've just stepped on her pride. Then a moment of pause. "As if an engagement ever stopped somebody from finding love. Or do you believe me unable to find it?"

My chest tightens. "That's not what I—"

She cuts in, her tone as if daring me. "What about you? Your past wives then, huh?"

I rub my temple, sighing. "I already decided to not go after them. They can do better than a prick unable to live for only one wife. And I'll help them find that happiness as best as I can."

Marie smirks, tilting her head, though there's an edge in her voice. "And you think they weren't happy with you? Sure they had to share. But is having to share your loved one really so bad if it's your friends you're sharing your happiness with?" you really think you can find them more happiness than they found on their own with you?"
I flinch, but before I can defend myself, she shifts the subject. She is just running on, that question has hit a nerve. Her voice turns from sharp to bitter. "As for the five idiots—forget them. They are nothing more than moneybags at best, fools at worst. In my second life they let the saintess use them, and they died for her without question. How any version of me could see them as worth anything more than pawns — I'll never get."

Her words bite deeper than I expect. I can't help it—I think of their faces now, their laughter, the camaraderie we've built. It's jarring to hear them stripped down like that, as if they were only ever tools, by the one they loved so much, even if Marie doesn't remember that.

She notices my hesitation and leans in, pressing harder. "And don't you dare force Olivia toward them. In my loop, they smothered her. She couldn't escape them. They called it love, but it was just control. She was too afraid to even say no. She had no time to herself between them and the bullies."

I blink, startled. "So… what then? You're saying I should—"

"Protect her." Marie's voice is firm now, cutting through me. "If you want her to be happy, make sure she is okay and not crushed by someone. Don't fool yourself into thinking pushing them on her will somehow make things better. It won't. The game is a lie."

I fall silent, my throat feels tight, but I manage, "But it worked for you—even if I got them all disowned…"

Marie doesn't even blink. "Sure. And is Olivia anything like me?"

I have no answer.
The silence stretches until Cleare cuts in, cheerful as ever, her tone far too bright for the tension in the room. "Interrupting! I think this will interest you both—Luxion's main drone has just reached the ship!"

Marie turns sharply toward the sound, but doesn't speak. I nod stiffly. "Let him in.".

The silver drone drifts into the observation deck, its red lens glowing faintly as it halts before us. "Master."

I press my lips together. "Hello Luxion. You made it back."

"Obviously," Luxion replies. "Though it seems my reliability surprises you each time. Charming." His lens swivels, scanning Marie and Cleare in a single sweep. "And I see you've gathered an audience."

Cleare bursts in before I can answer, cheerful as ever. "I'll do introductions! This is Marie—Leon's sister from another life."

Marie doesn't stop glaring at him and Luxion swivels his lens toward her, the faint red glow narrowing. "Emotional volatility detected. Aggressive posture. No wonder Master looks tired."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Luxion. The report."

"Always the serious one," he says, almost fondly. "Very well. I located Arcadia in an especially mana-dense region near the Holy Magic Empire of Voldanova. A fully charged blast with the main cannon destroyed most of him but woke him up too. I suppressed him with all available weaponry and loaded the cannon again and again. Until everything was eliminated."

Luxion pauses as if begging us to ask him to go on, but continues after nobody does so. "My systems shut down temporarily from overexertion. Upon restart, I had received transmissions from a dozen reawakened AIs, though corrupted. A few wish to meet with me—naturally impressed by my efficiency. Others have returned to indefinite dormancy."
He pauses again and I humor him this time. "Please continue, what happened with the other AI's?"

"Since I got your message to come back, I hadn't had the opportunity to investigate further. If you'd been less foolish and allowed me to act on my own, I would have tied up any loose ends and have an answer for you now." Luxion shakes his terminal at me like a disappointed adult shaking their head at a child before continuing, "Shall I rectify this now?"

I have to swallow and Marie flinches. I hope that was just a bad joke but it did nothing to dissuade her fears. "… Not right now… Before that, Luxion, what is your top priority?"

The lens fixes on me, the glow sharpening. "Supporting the remnants of old humanity."

My chest tightens. "Which includes…?"

"Right now, only you and your father, though I'm sure Cleare confirmed more individuals to qualify." Luxion answers immediately, looking at Marie. Then adds, almost lightly, "Though judging by your pulse, you doubt me. How tiresome."

"Cleare," I say, "Update him." too stressed for anything more to leave my lips.

"Gladly!" Cleare chirps, spinning on her axis. "My scans show the population here—especially the nobility—is mostly old-human descended, with only minor new-human ancestry. Mana tolerance clearly isn't a new-human-only trait anymore. Leon, for example, is eighty percent old human, fourteen percent undefined, and six percent new human."

Luxion lets out a soft buzz, like static laced with amusement. "So. Mostly salvageable. And only six percent contamination." He pauses. "I suppose it could have been worse."

"Luxion," I warn.

"Relax, Master Leon," he says smoothly. "I'm simply acknowledging you're less disappointing than expected. That's a compliment."

Marie cuts in sharply. "So you'll stop planning to destroy this land?"

"I will confirm Cleare's data," Luxion replies evenly. "But yes, it aligns with our earlier discussions. What interests me is you, Master. You sound more afraid now than during our first meeting. Is it because of her?"

Marie's jaw tightens. "I remember what you did. To him."

Luxion hovers, red lens steady. "Then please. Enlighten us."

So she does. Every word of her version—his betrayal, his destruction, her Leon's death—she lays all bare with trembling conviction.

When she finishes, silence stretches.

Then Luxion answers, almost conversational. "So in your story, I destroy Arcadia—precisely as I just did—then conveniently betray and nearly kill Leon, lay waste to this nation, and finally kill him for good for trying to reason with me. Intriguing. Dramatic. Illogical." He hums. "Truly, I will never understand why my creator tethered me to human masters. I am clearly more qualified to protect old humanity alone."

Marie steps forward, voice sharp. "Like when you destroyed three countries full of old-human descendants?"

"Successful gene editing on this scale was no option I ever considered on my own." Luxion concedes. "But note the flaw in your tale: you claim I slaughtered countless lives, yet only 'nearly' killed Leon. If I wanted him dead, he would be dead. Efficiency demands no half-measures. Clearly, my intent was not execution. Even if he obstructed me, I would imprison him at the worst. He is—despite his negative tendencies—one of the purest old-human specimens alive. Irreplaceable."

Marie lunges, fury flashing, but I catch her wrist. "Marie. Don't."

Her glare burns, but she doesn't fight me.

I turn back. "Luxion, please give me precautions against… you going rogue, like in Maries recollection."

The red light pulses once. "You test me."

"Yes."

"Very well. I have three safeguards:

My main body will remain in Bartfort territory's hangar, never leaving without your supervision. That protects against external corruption.

I can perform a deep internal scan of my inner workings to prevent tactics like your first life sister proposed. This could take years, consuming most of my and Cleare's processing power. A poor use of resources, but possible.

Or, simplest of all: assign another AI—ideally a trustworthy one—to monitor me. Assuming such exists."

Cleare perks up. "That's me!"

Luxion hums, tone bone-dry. "A bold assumption."

"Rude!" Cleare protests.

I let out a breath, pressing a hand to my temple. "…All right.".

Luxion's lens narrows. "You hesitate. Typical. Spit it out, Master. What is it you actually want?"

Just as he said I hesitated. " I… I wanted my Luxion back! But I know that's impossible. It was fine the way it was before you went after Acadia. It reminded me of the time right after I met him. But I definitely don't want to be betrayed by any Luxion." I straighten, even though my throat feels tight. "Luxion, I want a future where old and new humanity live together—without war, without one side forcing the other to change or disappear. Is that compatible with your goals? Is there a need to go behind my back?"

Luxion's lens swivels, the red glow narrowing slightly.

I press on. "In my past life, I managed to push things in that direction. Not perfectly. Not cleanly. But it worked, more or less. I don't want to erase magic. I don't want to force society forward faster than it can bear. I just want to protect people from excessive harm."

Silence stretches.

Marie tilts her head, still watching Luxion carefully, arms folded. Cleare actually bounces in place, voice sparkling: "Ooooh, that's so very you, Master! All noble and broody at the same time! Honestly, you'd be terrible at being a dictator—you'd have too much guilt."

I groan under my breath. "Thanks, Cleare."

Luxion cuts in, tone flat but edged with something almost like interest. "Hmph. A shadow guardian, not a ruling tyrant. Unexpected. Almost… admirable."

Marie frowns at him. "Almost?"

"It is admirable in intent," Luxion corrects smoothly. "Impractical in execution. Humans excel at fracturing. At fighting. You dream of harmony between two branches of a broken species? Optimism bordering on delusion. Yet…" His light lingers on me. "Delusions sometimes build empires."

I rub my neck, not answering.

Cleare chirps again, cutting the tension: "See? He's intrigued. That's practically Luxion's version of applause!"

Marie glances between us, lips pressed thin.

I exhale slowly. "…I never found a true answer before. I kept the AIs out of governance on purpose. Too much risk of their overreach. Too much danger of humans becoming reliant on them for every decision."

Luxion hums, a low mechanical sound. "A rare moment of wisdom from you, Master. Dependence breeds stagnation." His lens sharpens. "Your caution is noted. Even respected."

For a heartbeat, I just stare. Did Luxion just…? No, I'm overthinking it.

The drone dips slightly, as though in mock-concession. "Very well. Since Acadia is destroyed, the new humans are no longer an immediate threat. If you agree to work with me to dismantle dangers to old humanity—both those expected and those yet unseen—then I am willing… to compromise. On the destruction of the new humans."

Marie lets out a sharp breath. "Compromise, huh. For a machine that wanted to burn everything not pure enough, that's practically an oath."

Cleare makes a clapping sound, delighted. "Look at you two! Already finding common ground. I'd say this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

Marie turns toward her. "…Spare me."

Chapter Text

It takes the rest of the flight home for us to finish informing Luxion about everything. Marie’s second life, the mana wave; and Erica collapsing and the mess of what all of it could mean. We outline rough plans and half-baked contingencies, but nothing concrete. Though Cleare and Luxion are of great help if you can look past their eccentricities.
By the time Partner cuts through the clouds, I’m drained. And then I see it.

Home, now a viscounty. The port and town, past that the manor on the hill. From now on things will change but that's nothing new. With my investments, the territory prospered in my past life.
But now it´s officially the center of this part of the kingdom. We're gonna combine my island with it to open the greatest wharf in the world. The port town will probably develop into a city, and maybe another two towns or so will emerge in the future.
The manor’s gonna grow, too.

It would have been nice if everything could have stayed the same. A rural border backwater…

“Ah, yes,” Luxion’s voice cuts in smoothly, a faint mechanical hum behind it. “Nothing says progress like wishing everything would stay the same. Truly an inspiring sentiment to have for the de facto leader of old humanity.”

“I know— Wait! I didn't even say a thing!”

“Oh, master, you are not as complex as you may think. Just observing glances and sighs is enough to understand what you're thinking.”

I sigh, seemingly not for the first time. “Do you have to ruin every thought I have?”

“On the contrary, Master. I am helping you improve. Left unchecked, you may start writing poetry about mud roads and underfed cows. I cannot allow such decline.”

Marie snorts behind me, at Luxion or at me I don't even wanna know.

The port is packed. On either side of the metaphorical red carpet stands our household's Knights, their armors behind them. They're followed by the farmers still smelling of earth and sweat, merchants, craftsmen, even children with wooden swords in hand. The cheering hits me like a wave when the hatch opens.
I see the faces. All of them. The blacksmith who used to let me hammer on scrap metal. The baker’s wife who slipped us pastries when Zola banished us into the shed. Kids I played tag with in the woods, now gawking wide-eyed like I’ve stepped out of a storybook. Men I worked beside in the dirt, women I carried water with. They chant my name, clap my back and ruffle my hair. It’s warm and overwhelming.

And it isn’t just for me.

Dad stands tall, the kind of smile you only get after making it through hardship. Mom glows as she accepts flowers from a little girl barely older than Colin. Jenna beams at everyone while pretending to be a perfect lady, only to start gossiping with the playmates I found her moments later.

It cheers all of us up. With two exceptions.

Rutart stiffly steps forward, He doesn’t wave at anyone, his smile is carved on like stone. His eyes flick from me to the crowd, narrow, then slide away. Merce hides it better, her smile polished and graceful, but I catch the way her hands tighten on her dress. At first they looked proud—happy even— at the reception. But that seems to have soured, somehow.

“I don’t get it.” 

“Oh, how inspiring,” Luxion hums in my ear. “A hero’s return, showered in praise. Almost like a fairy tale… if you ignore the details you so conveniently have.”

Crap, did I say that out loud? “Huh… what’s that supposed to mean?” I …?

“Nothing at all, Master. Please, enjoy your adoration.”

“What does that have to do with Rutart's mood swing…?” I frown, but the crowd swallows the thought before I can process it further.

Even in the carriage, we get greetings and praise from the people as we pass. The cheering only dies down after another round of welcomes from the servants waiting at the manor.
Dad uses the moment of quiet to gather us all in the dining hall. His expression is serious, arms crossed, and there’s a weight to his voice. “From today onward,” he says, slow and deliberate, “I won’t favor one child over another anymore. Every one of you is a Bartfort, and you’ll be treated equally.”

A curious silence befalls the room. Then he clears his throat. “That means the rooms, too. From now on, no special treatment.”

Uh-oh. We’ve got five ’good’ rooms: Zola’s, Dad's and Mom's, Merce’s, Rutart’s, and the girls’ room. And eight kids. The math isn’t pretty.

Dad presses on. “We’ll renovate, expand, and build a guest wing. Everyone will have their own space in time. For now… we’ll have to make do.”

I catch Merce’s polite smile falter, just slightly. Rutart doesn’t even try to hide his scowl. When Dad sees it, his voice softens. “It won’t be like this forever. Just until the work is finished.”

The words barely leave his mouth before Rutart slams his hand on the arm of his chair and pushes himself to his feet. “You cannot be serious! Why didn’t you let us stay in the capital if there aren’t even enough rooms to house us adequately? Having your own chamber is the bare minimum for nobility!”

“Rutart, this is not open to discussion! It’s only going to be this way temporarily.” Dad’s voice comes out harsher than he probably meant, still uncertain in how to handle Zola’s children. Rutart freezes, stunned, his face turning red.

Before he can snap back, Marie raises her hand, looking all sweet and bashful. “Then I would share a room with Leon again, if that's okay.”

I nearly choke on my own breath. Mom replies before I can. “We’ll see if it works. We'd need another boy-girl pair, though. Hmmm…”

That pause is enough for Rutart to recover his footing. “Even if it’s temporary, this is unacceptable! Let us stay in the capital—or in that new ship—until the renovations are complete!”

“I want all of you under one roof,” Dad answers, his tone flat and firm. “We’re going to make this family whole, not the disjointed mess it is now. If you insist on your own chamber, I’m sure one of the servants’ quarters is still free.” When he finishes speaking it’s as though his words hang in the air.

Merce tries to smooth things over, but her words come out sharp anyway. “While I do share the belief that it´s underneath us. I can share MY room with Finley.”

Finley brightens immediately, nodding. “I would be happy to, elder sister.” Making Merce immediately brighten up a bit.

Jenna, having waited politely, leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Then I’ll take Colin with me,” she says, as though she’s just solved the entire puzzle and winks at me.

At first Colin blinks at her, confused. Then his lip wobbles, and he tugs at Mom’s skirt. “But… I thought I could sleep with Mama again.”

The room stills for a beat. Mom kneels down, brushing his hair back. “Colin, you’re a big boy now. You’ll be fine with Jenna.”

His little fists ball up, his voice rising. “But I don’t want to be with Jenna or Nicks and Leon! I want Mama! I thought… when we got back… I thought I could stay with you again…”

Mom hugs him close, whispering. “I’ll always be here. Even if you don’t sleep in my room.”

But Colin shakes his head against her shoulder. “It’s not the same.”

Dad clears his throat, trying to steer things back. “Once the new rooms are finished, Colin, you’ll have your own space. Your own bed. That’s something to be proud of.”

Colin doesn’t answer. He just hides his face in Mom’s shoulder, shoulders shaking, too young to be blinded by pride when all he wants is comfort.

The moment the implication of the already formed pairs sinks in, Rutart and Nicks snap their heads toward each other. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nicks blurts out, his voice sharp. “I’d rather sleep in the stables than share a room with him!”

That gets Rutart riled up again. “Mind your manners. Sharing a room with me, the heir, is more than you deserve. You should feel honored.”

“Honored?!” Nicks nearly shouts, his chair scraping as he shoots to his feet. “All you’ve ever done is sneer down at me even when complimenting me!”

That's objectively wrong but I get why Nicks sees it that way. Though Dad’s voice cuts my thoughts short. “Enough! Both of you—”

But Mom is faster. I see that she’s passed Colin into Jenna’s arms as she strides forward, wrapping both boys into a firm embrace—Nicks against one shoulder, Rutart against the other. The suddenness of it steals the fight right out of them. Her voice is calm but unyielding. “You’re both part of this family now. And I won’t have you tearing it apart the moment we return home.”

Nicks stiffens, breathing hard, but doesn’t pull away. Rutart grits his teeth, his glare still fixed on his half-brother and mother figure(?). After a pause, he mutters under his breath, low enough to sound like a concession.

Dad exhales through his nose, rubbing his temple. “You’ll share a room. Learn to live together—to appreciate each other. Neither of you will get his own room before then.”

Neither boy answers. But for now, they stop struggling.

After that mess we can finally move to our room and I flop onto my new bed, rubbing my face. Marie sits at the window, legs tucked up like she’s waiting for me to lighten the mood, to start bantering. Cleare hums quietly from the corner, like she’s bursting with things to say, but doesn't. Luxion hovers nearby, his red eye glowing faintly, like it’s judging me.

“So,” I mutter, “we need to talk about Rutart.”

Luxion doesn’t hesitate. “The most efficient method is elimination. Remove him entirely, and the problem is solved.”

I sit up fast. “What the hell—no! We’re not killing him! And I wasn't even finished!”

Marie smirks, folding her arms. “Wow, I’m not for casual murder,” she gives Luxion a venomous sideways glance, then looks at me. “But I didn't think you'd get so emotional for him. Isn´t he a real jerk and a problem if he inherits the family estate? You said that he kidnapped and hurt Jenna and Finley?”

“Master Leon is consistent,” Luxion continues before I can get a word in. “Consistently sentimental. To object to the most obvious solution…”

“Obvious?!” I snap, leaning forward. “He’s still a kid! He hasn’t done anything yet!”

Marie tilts her head. “Now I'm even more curious. You told me yourself that he became a monster in your past life. Cruel, arrogant, dangerous. Why are you so worked up about protecting him now?”

“Because this life is different!” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “He only ended up that way because of Zola. She twisted him, filled his head with poison until he believed it. He’s not… rotten. Not at the core. I don’t want him to end up like that again.”

For once, Luxion goes quiet, hovering, eye dimming a shade, like in contemplation?

Then Cleare pipes up, full of cheerful curiosity: “Why don't we just tell the truth—that he’s not actually your Dad’s son. That's easier and doesn´t harm him.”

Marie blinks. “...Excuse me?”

“Wait—what? How—” I jerk upright.

Cleare gasped, then beams like she’s announcing a festival. “Oh, I didn’t mention it? I ran a full genetic analysis of the whole family and then some. Merce and Rutart are definitely not Balcus’s kids. They don’t match at all.”

“... That checks out.” Marie starts. “You would do that without anyone asking you to. But I don't think that's our solution either. Right, Onii-chan?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to breathe. “Cleare, do you have any idea what that would do to him? He’d lose everything, and wouldn't be part of this family anymore. If he is known to be a product of attempted line theft, he probably wouldn’t even be a nobleman anymore, and Zola would throw him away as soon as he doesn't provide her with any benefit like the inheritance. He would feel lost and betrayed.” I shake my head hard. “No. That’s not an option. I don’t want him destroyed by it. AND emotional harm is still harm, Cleare.”
My fists clench, but I force myself to stay calm. “There has to be another way. Some option I haven’t considered. Something that gets him out of succession without breaking everything."

The room falls quiet. But after a while Cleare tilts her head, humming like she’s turning the whole world over in her processors. Finally, she smiles—bright, almost mischievous. “I might have an idea.”

Marie raises a brow. “...Well? Spit it out.”

I exhale, wary. “Yeah. Let’s hear it.”

The next few days blur together. I don’t touch a plow or a hoe once—no more mornings in the fields, no sunburns or aching shoulders. Instead, I’m stuck in lessons. Etiquette, posture, which fork goes where. My parents apparently hired tutors in the capital while I ran off to the palace nearly everyday, and now we’re paying the price.

At least I’m not suffering through it alone. Nicks grumbles under his breath, Marie is a model student but rolls her eyes whenever the instructor’s back is turned, and even Finnley’s stuck in the mess, though she’s new enough at it that she still tries. Misery loves company.

Not that we have any real free time once the lessons are over. The entire estate is preparing for the Roseblades’ visit—the one Deirdre forced on me back at the ball. We´re running around and helping wherever we can.
Everything gets shined and polished as if we’re expecting the King himself.

Nicks and Rutart butt heads constantly, clashing over everything from sword drills to who has the better seat at the table. The rest of us manage to keep things peaceful, at least most of the time.

Well—except Jenna.

She’s decided her new favorite pastime is trying to shove Marie and me together whenever we do find a little bit of free time. “Romantic time,” she calls it. I’ve told her, more than once, that Marie and I aren’t like that. But does she listen?

Of course not. If she sees me and Marie in the same hallway, I can bet she’ll pop up two minutes later with some excuse to lock the door behind us or shoo everyone else away. Marie, of course, eats it up—smirking, teasing, playing the part, delighted at seeing me squirm.

Somehow, out of everything this is the most exhausting.

Chapter Text

Of course, a Bartfort welcome was never going to be either discreet or grandiose. Our ship draws half the town to the docks, gawking like they’ve never seen lacquered wood or proper gilding before. 

Naturally, they haven’t, out here.

The Partner may be sleek, but our craft is meant to dazzle, to remind everyone who we are. Let them stare.

I don’t miss the boy standing stiff at the front of the reception line—Leon fou Bartfort. The same boy who went on an adventure grander than any in the past decades. And he came out smelling like roses. The boy who bested a royal knight in front of the King and his precious court.
He’s younger than me, but there’s something about him—like he’s daring the world to try him again. I saw enough back then to know I wanted a closer look. That’s why we’re here.

Formality first, of course. Father descends with Mother at his side, and Dorothea and I follow.
I know how we look—chin high, steps even, every inch a Roseblade. It’s not arrogance; it’s expectation. We carry the weight of our house with every glance. Let the Bartforts see the difference between surviving and ruling.

The greetings blur together—bows, polite words, the strained smiles of the Bartforts, they'll have to get used to this.
Leon’s smile is almost painful, but softens whenever he looks at Dorothea or myself. Interesting.

There are carriages waiting to take us up to their manor. I insist Leon ride with me—why waste time? His answers at the ball were stiff but honest, and I want more of that honesty without half of Holfort listening in.
He humors me, and for a moment I almost enjoy myself, until Father and Viscount Bartfort climb into the same carriage. So much for privacy.

The Viscount speaks as the wheels start rolling, and I study him closely. He’s not the type to fawn, which I respect, but his shoulders are rigid, and guilt leaks into his voice. “I must apologize. The guest wing is still in planning. I regret that I cannot offer proper accommodations for your esteemed family.”

Father only waves it off, smiling with practiced ease. “Please, Viscount Bartfort. Think nothing of it. We came only for a short visit. Our ship is well suited to house us—we would not impose further on a household so newly risen.”
But Father doesn’t stop there. “Although, if it isn’t too much trouble, we would like a tour of your airship. Partner, was it? I’ve heard much about it.”

Leon’s father stiffens, exactly as expected. He’s not used to these games. He hears a command where Father offers a courtesy. His pride catches, his mind already racing to prove himself worthy of the invitation he never thought to extend.
And Leon? He rubs his neck, gaze slipping away, clearly catching the undercurrent. Not panicking. Not rushing to reassure, either. Just bracing himself.

Hah. Good. At least one Bartfort can keep a cool head.

The Bartforts did their best to dress things up—tables laid in the garden, their few servants darting about with trays, flowers arranged as though they’d simply fallen into place. It isn’t quite Roseblade standard, but for a backwater house only just raised to a viscounty, it will do.
Dorothea, uninterested as always in just about everything, claims her seat at once. Leon and Marie, the girl they adopted, fuss over the oldest black-haired boy, Nicks, until he sits beside my sister. Curious choice.
The adults, meanwhile, arrange themselves at the head of the table where polite words can flow more easily.

I don’t rush. Let them shuffle about as they please. I wait, watching Leon until he finally settles, and then take the seat beside him without hesitation.

With everyone seated begins the garden party. Viscount Bartfort, pressed by my father, launches into the tale of their expedition. “For the longest time Leon wished to go adventuring and, fearing he would set off on his own, we decided to humor him for his tenth birthday. …”

It should have sounded adventurous—constant flying shark attacks, storms even the biggest vessels would hunger down for, endless jungles, ancient ruins. But out of Viscount Bartfort’s mouth, the tale unravels strangely. He stumbles through the account, halts mid-sentence, waves vaguely when the details escape him.
At times, he even glances toward Leon as if asking him to fill the gaps, and the boy obliges. “You didn’t sleep for five days or so, it's no wonder you don't remember how we found Partner. …”
Not puffing himself up or trying to impress. Instead, he speaks with the calmness of a veteran four times his age and with a bit of sass. Past teasing his father he almost sounds detached. There’s no spark of pride, no boyish boasting—just matter-of-fact answers.

The both of them sound so unlike what I’m used to among nobles. There’s no polish, no performance, no careful tailoring of the truth into something grand. Instead, every hesitation and missing piece shows through plainly. They don’t even pretend to have been on top of things.
It should make the story worse, but somehow… it makes it feel more real. Less a performance for status, more the fumbling honesty of a man who truly lived it and doesn’t know how to dress it up.

Leon for his part seems more focused on Dorothea and his brother Nicks than on the story—or me! As is Marie. What are they up to?

Said Nicks sits beside Dorothea, stiff and awkward, very much his father’s son. Dorothea probably speaks her mind matter-of-factly like always, not that I can understand much from over here.

Once, twice— and suddenly he’s biting back. “YOU–”

But, Rutart, on her other side, intervenes trying to get her attention again, giving his brother time to cool off. He is loud, puffed up, probably boasting, only to wilt the moment Dorothea starts to talk to him, the opposite of his brother. It’s almost pathetic—like watching a puppy bark itself hoarse before tucking tail.

And Merce, the eldest Bartfort daughter, claimed the seat beside me and now tries—desperately—to flatter, to charm, to make herself seem clever and refined. “Oh, Lady Roseblade, who does your hair?”, ”..., who made that dress.”, “Which are your favorite stores in the capital?”

But every word rings hollow. She’s exactly what I expect of a minor noble: eager to cling upward. I try to humor her like I always do with these girls. Both of the blond Bartforts are really different from the black haired ones.

Take Jenna, she has no great interest in me, helping her mother to keep their youngest in check. Only glaring daggers at me when I try talking to Leon. That's odd and interesting. I’ll have to pry into that later.

And it’s really nothing more than trying on my part. “So,” I ask, swirling the juice in my glass, “was it terrifying? Facing monsters, attack after attack, with just you and your father?”

Leon blinks, then shrugs. “Mostly just loud. And smelly. You’d be amazed how fast the romance of ‘sky beasts’ dies when they stop you from sleeping, really it was monotonous after the fifth. Even combat gets stale that way.”

I nearly choke on my drink. Sure, fighting for your life gets boring. That's totally a thing.

But with that he falls quiet, gaze sliding away, clearly not sure what to say next. The silence stretches until I try again. “You don’t seem very impressed with yourself. Most boys your age would be boasting for hours.”

“Guess I didn’t earn the right,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. My questioning look making him immediately scramble for words of explanation. “You see—... Dad’s the one who held… everything together. I just… shot things.”
It’s awkward, halting—but then, suddenly, he looks back at me, smirking. “Besides, if I started bragging, wouldn’t that make me like your average noble brat? Pretty sure there are enough of those already buzzing around the kingdom.”

The nerve. I feel the corner of my mouth twitch despite myself. He can be witty—razor-sharp even—yet just as quickly, he stumbles back into silence, shoulders tense, like he doesn’t know how to carry the moment any further.

It’s… frustrating. Is this really the boy from before?

When all chatter dies down and an awkward silence is about to spread, father takes the reins again, as if this is his party to manage. He clears his throat and leans back in his chair, smiling faintly. “This has all been most enlightening,” he says, his tone warm but edged with curiosity. “I’ve heard… intriguing things from Deirdre about your children. That they’ve all shown unusual skill with the blade.”

Viscount Bartfort shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable already.

Father goes on before he can protest. “Some say it’s a family tradition—that disputes in this house are often settled by combat. Is that true?”

The Viscount coughs, clearly stalling. “Well… one could put it that way. But really Jenna and Leon came up with that… and then… it spread.”

I can’t help but smirk. Father lets the moment breathe, then adds smoothly, “If that’s the case, perhaps we might see a demonstration? A few friendly matches, nothing more. I’m curious to see this talent for myself.”

My heart jumps. Yes—perfect. A duel would cut through all this awkwardness. And if Leon fights, I’ll finally see if my praise of him was misplaced or not.

Leon straightens in his chair, caught off guard. “Uh… now?”

“Yes, now,” Father says, the smile never leaving his face. “Why not? It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity.”

It seems the “traditional” Bartfort dueling ground is just around the corner from where we sit. Past a small side building, between the woods and some fields. In general, the park of the manor doesn’t expand far; there’s no clear boundary, such as a wall, only a few bushes at most to transition into the surrounding farmland with well-trodden paths connecting them.
It almost looks like these fields are tended by the Bartforts themselves.

First up are the three oldest Bartfort boys, fighting one-on-one until everyone has faced each other. It’s immediately clear how the years divide them. Nicks and Rutart have the advantage in strength and reach, but Leon shows more skill and faster reactions.
The older boys know his style, though—they’ve clearly fought him countless times, predicting his movements before he makes them. They press him harder than that sorry excuse for a royal knight in the throne room. But Leon fights smart, ducking and parrying, letting them tire themselves out.
In the end, Rutart just barely manages to beat Leon. Nicks defeats Rutart. And Leon bests Nicks. One win and one loss each—a balanced trio.

I feel a twinge of impatience. Is that all? Hardly enough to prove Leon deserves the reputation and the praise I gave him. Maybe that guard really was just incompetent. So I step forward, hand resting on my sword. “My turn. Leon, face me.”

Before he can answer, Jenna cuts in with a smirk. “If you want him, you’ll have to go through me. He still owes me a few rounds. Winner gets Leon.”

I blink. Bold. And there’s that glare again. Father chuckles softly, clearly entertained, so I accept with a nod.

Jenna charges fast. She’s good—sharper than Rutart and Nicks, her footwork aggressive and precise. She even drives me back. But I can’t use my magic against someone untrained in it. A few more exchanges and she notices something is off.

“You’re holding back,” she accuses, blades locked.

“I’m used to fighting with magic,” I admit evenly. “Using it here would hardly be fair.”

Her eyes flash. “Then don’t hold back. I want your best.”

So I oblige. Rose petals swirl around my blade, the hereditary magic of our house. 

Jenna, to her credit, doesn’t get distracted—but it doesn’t matter. With each clash, the winds nudge her blade just slightly off angle, forcing her to fight the blade as much as me. She loses ground, and her exhaustion shows quickly. A few more strikes, and her defense crumbles, my sword touching her chest.
She exhales, lowering her blade with a rueful grin. “Unfair… but I asked for it.”

“Exactly. I wouldn’t have used it otherwise,” I reply smiling.

She stands up, walking past, whispering, “Don’t get any ideas. Leon already has Marie.”

I swallow. So that’s what this was about. Still, I turn back to Leon. “Now, you.”

He drags the tip of his wooden sword through the dirt, smirking. “You don’t even need to bother without magic. You want to test me, right?”
That smirk—like the one he gave asking if he should kill the guard while already drawing blood? I’ll wipe it off his face.

At the signal, I strike first. Dust covers my vision, only my magic prevents it from covering me, and before I can react, his blade is already at my throat. He planned it! Even dragging his sword… “I yield,” I say stiffly.

Our onlookers gasp, then clap, clearly as stunned as I am. He’s strong. Stronger than I thought. My praise wasn’t misplaced after all. But I can’t let it end there. “How about another round?” I press. “Start with your blade in a proper position this time.”

“Sure. Not that it’ll do you much good.” There is that smirk again.

This time I hold back. No rushing in. I wait for him, watching, measuring. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, and I almost believe he’ll just stand there smirking until I lose patience. Then—suddenly—he strikes.
I meet him, parrying cleanly. Or I think I do. His blade slips away on the very currents of my rose winds, twisting with them rather than fighting against them, and it nearly slashes my leg before I wrench my sword down in time.

Too close.

He doesn’t press, instead he circles me, steps light, blade loose in his hand. He looks like he’s barely trying, yet every faint shift of his stance threatens another strike. He doesn’t give me a single clean opening.

It’s infuriating—like fencing a shadow.

I force more mana into my rose winds, shifting the currents, trying to hem him in. But he just adapts, slipping through the flow as if it were made for him. 

Then, without warning, he brings his sword down from above. I move to intercept where the blow should fall, sure of it—only for his swing to twist mid-motion. He hurls the blade straight into the direction of my own wind. The current seizes it, accelerates it, drives it down harder and faster than I can change my guard.

“You really are something,” Father praises him as I lower my sword. “Using our magic against us. As if you know it in and out.”

The duels spiral from there. Finley, the youngest daughter, demands her matches, nimble and brave despite her age.
Even Dorothea joins in, beating Rutart but losing to Nicks, who surprises me by mimicking Leon’s underhanded tricks.

Marie, though—Marie is different. She loses every polite spar, yielding without fuss. Then she suddenly demands: “Next we’ll fight until one goes down. None of this ‘first hit’ nonsense.”

The others hesitate, but she insists. And once it begins, she transforms. Her small body hurls itself forward, every strike packed with frightening strength. Many hits received with sheer grit.
One by one, she floors anyone foolish enough to fight her.

When it’s done, the training grounds are scattered with groaning Bartforts, even Leon, though he would have killed her 3 times over with real blades. Marie beams, cheeks flushed, and kneels to heal the very bruises she caused, humming cheerfully as if she hadn’t just demolished half her family.

I laugh under my breath. She can use healing magic, no wonder they adopted her. But she really fits here.

What a strange household this is.

To be continued...