Lady Evelynn stormed toward the squire's quarters, her anger veiled beneath a veneer of grace. She flung open the door to a dimly lit room furnished with a hay-stuffed bed and a threadbare blanket. With a smirk, she turned to Alden. "This is where you belong."
Alden arched a brow. "If you say so, Evelynn."
Her composure fractured. She spun on her heel and marched away without another word. Alone, Alden surveyed the room. His gaze settled on the hay bed, where a weathered doll lay half-buried. He picked it up, lips curving into a bittersweet smile. "Bedringer… it's been years."
Memories flooded him—decades of living in this very room during his past life. He exhaled heavily. "Two decades of this… a few more days won't kill me." His body still ached from suppressing the Patriarch's bloodlust earlier. So that's the power of the peak… He clenched his fist. I'll reach it. Soon. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the bed and drifted into sleep.
Meanwhile, Leonhardt barged into his quarters, slamming the door behind him. He dropped into his chair with a force that nearly toppled it. A hulking figure followed—an orc with gray-green skin and thick braids, his bulk emphasized as he shed his cloak.
"Master, what now?" the orc rumbled.
Leonhardt leaned back, tension easing from his shoulders. "We wait." His eyes flicked to the white-haired woman lingering in the shadows. "Althea. Did you gather the intel on the Lionfelts?"
She bowed. "Yes, Leonhardt."
"Shouldn't you call me 'Master'?" he teased.
Althea's lips twitched. "I thought we were past such formalities."
Ignoring her jab, he gestured for her to continue. For years, Leonhardt had scoured noble households, hunting the prophesied heir. The Lionfelts—renowned for their righteousness—were among his final leads.
Althea unrolled a blank scroll. Chanting in runic tongue, ink bloomed across the parchment:
Alden Lionfelt. Bastard son of Patriarch Lionfelt and maid Martha. Abandoned in a forest shed as a child on Lady Evelynn's orders. Declared dead a decade ago after a demonic beast attack—though no body was found. Report falsified by Holy Knight Corvin. Druids claim "the time isn't right." Fairies witnessed him battling beasts for four years.
Leonhardt grinned. "Fascinating. Let's hope he lives up to the prophecy."
A knock interrupted them. "Master," the orc grunted, "patients are waiting."
Leonhardt sighed. "Duty calls. Let's heal some fools."
Alden slept fitfully, dreams dragging him back to his squire days…
"Alden!" barked Reinhardt.
"Yes, Master?"
"Taste this stew. Might be poisoned."
Trembling, Alden gulped the broth. His veins turned violet; foam bubbled at his lips as he collapsed.
He awoke hours later to Sylvie's face—raven hair, warm brown eyes, her smile kindling warmth in his chest. "Feeling better?" she asked.
That smile… the same one he'd lost forever.