Lined up in front of the brick mansion, two rows of servants waited for us.
"Welcome back, Master Miklas," they said in unison while bowing.
In front of the door, a middle-aged man with Asian features also bowed politely. "Good morrow, Master. We have prepared everything for your return. Also, we have received some letters from your family. I think they are still trying to find a match for you."
"Thanks for your hard work, Hunti. Prepare a bath for me and my daughter, and at dinner, I will read my mother’s letters."
"Your daughter, sir?" Hunti asked, blinking.
"Yes. She is Elvit, and you should address her as your young miss."
Hunti quickly recovered his polite composure and bowed deeply toward me. "It is a pleasure to finally know someone who shares the master’s blood. I will humbly serve and protect you, Miss."
"Thank you," I said, my voice tighter than I intended.
I stood there in my dirt-stained clothes and makeshift splint, surrounded by pristine servants bowing to me. All my survival instincts and my introverted nature screamed at me to hide. I felt completely exposed, utterly overwhelmed by the sudden aristocratic treatment.
The interior of the mansion was a testament to practical wealth. It wasn’t overly luxurious or gaudy—there were no golden statues or excessive displays of jewelry—but the quality of every single item was undeniable. The floors were made of polished dark oak that reflected the warm light of the chandeliers. Rich, thick carpets dampened our footsteps, and the furniture was carved from solid, expensive timber. It felt less like a noble’s decadent palace and more like the comfortable, fortified retreat of a very wealthy merchant family.
"The maids will take you to the washroom, Elvit. Take your time," Miklas said, unbuckling his heavy sword belt and handing it to Hunti. "I need to scrub the smell of the dead off me."
Two young maids in immaculate grey dresses gently ushered me up a sweeping wooden staircase and into a spacious, tiled washroom. A massive copper tub sat in the center, steaming with hot water and smelling faintly of lavender and expensive oils.
"Allow us to assist you, young miss," one of the maids said, stepping forward to untie the filthy, blood-stained tunic I had scavenged from the battlefield.
"I can do it myself," I blurted out, stepping back instinctively.
"Nonsense, miss. You are injured, and it is our duty," the other maid insisted, her voice soft but unyielding.
Before I could protest further, they expertly stripped me of my ruined clothes and gently guided me into the hot water. As I sank beneath the suds, a wave of profound, suffocating discomfort washed over me, and it had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.
This is a psychological torture I was not trained for, I thought, closing my eyes tight as the maids began to scrub the ash and dried mud from my shoulders.
In my past life, I was a grown man. I was a veteran soldier used to rough barracks, communal showers, and the heavy, scarred physical presence of a male body. Being trapped in the delicate, developing body of a fourteen-year-old girl was already a constant, underlying source of dysphoria. But having two women delicately washing me, touching my fragile limbs and tending to my hair, made my skin crawl with an intense, awkward shame. I kept my knees pulled tightly to my chest, staring at the copper edge of the tub, desperately waiting for the ordeal to be over.
Once I was finally scrubbed clean, my splint re-bandaged with fresh medical linen, and dressed in a comfortable, high-quality wool dress, I was led down to the dining room.
Miklas was already sitting at the head of a long mahogany table, wearing a clean, loose-fitting linen shirt that left his Ancient Rune fully visible on his neck. His wet hair was slicked back, making him look exactly like the wealthy aristocrat he was born to be.
But it was the table that captured my complete attention.
In Oakhaven, meat was a rarity. If we were lucky, we had some tough, boiled chicken on feast days, or a bit of salted pork to flavor our vegetable stews. Here, the servants had laid out a feast: a massive roast of beef dripping with savory juices, bowls of seasoned potatoes, roasted vegetables glazed in butter, and thick slices of soft, white bread. My mouth watered instantly.
"Eat up, little girl," Miklas smiled, gesturing to the spread. "You need to rebuild your strength."
I abandoned all pretense of aristocratic manners. My body was starving for calories, and the taste of rich, heavily spiced meat sent a shockwave of pure pleasure through my brain. I ate ravenously, though I kept my chewing quiet.
As I devoured my second slice of beef, Miklas picked up a stack of parchment letters tied with a silk ribbon. He cracked the wax seal with a silver knife and began to read. Almost immediately, a long, exasperated sigh escaped his lips.
"Is there a problem, Captain?" I asked between bites.
"My mother," Miklas groaned, rubbing his temples. "She writes from the Trade District. It seems that surviving a barbarian horde and nearly dying of magical burnout is not a valid excuse to avoid my familial duties. She has attached three portraits of daughters from rival merchant guilds. She says I am thirty-seven and if I don’t produce an heir soon, she will personally march to Shepfold and drag me to the altar by my ears."
I couldn’t help it. A small, genuine chuckle escaped me. The image of the terrifying Knight-Mage being scolded by his mother was deeply amusing.
"Don’t laugh," he pointed a finger at me, though a rogueish grin was already forming on his lips. "In fact, you are going to be my salvation."
"Me? What do I have to do with your marriage prospects?"
"I am writing her back tonight," Miklas announced, taking a sip of dark red wine. "I will inform my dear mother that I have already secured an heir. I will tell her that during my deployment, I discovered I have a lovely, intelligent teenage daughter who I have officially added to the family register."
I stopped chewing, staring at him in disbelief.
"You are going to use me as a human shield against your mother?"
"A tactical shield, Elvit," he corrected, his amber eyes dancing with amusement. "Think about it. A bastard daughter from a border village is a massive scandal for a high-born family. It will throw her into a panic. She will be so busy organising priests and bureaucrats to verify your bloodline that she will completely forget about finding me a wife for at least two years."
I survived a massacre, outsmarted a barbarian, and walked for days on a broken ankle, I thought, letting out a long, defeated sigh, only to become a pawn in a wealthy family’s domestic dispute. Jute really has a twisted sense of humor.
"Fine," I grumbled, grabbing another piece of bread. "But if your mother actually shows up here to inspect me, you owe me double portions of this beef."
Miklas laughed, a rich, booming sound that echoed warmly in the large dining hall. "Deal."