The morning air did not just bite, it felt like a physical weight pressing against Edric’s burning lungs.
Thwack.
The wooden practice sword struck the left side of Edric's helm, his knees trembling lightly from the impact.
"Gah!" He groaned as he fell to a knee.
He stayed crouched for a moment, his head hanging low as he dragged ragged, desperate gasps of cold air into his chest. Sweat ran in stinging rivers down his temples, dripping off his chin onto the front of his plain leather training vest.
"You leave your left side open when you thrust, young master." Serah's voice cut through the quiet dawn.
She stood a few paces away, completely at ease in her full plate armor, the wooden sword leisurely pointed at the young lord.
Behind her visor, her sharp eyes watched his every micro-movement with a mixture of professional appraisal and lingering bewilderment.
Edric gritted his teeth, forcing his trembling thighs to straighten. 'Goddamn this body is weak!' he cursed inwardly for the hundredth time. The old Edric’s sedentary lifestyle had left this body with the physical endurance of a wet piece of parchment.
Merely two hours of basic sparring and single-strike forms, and he felt like he was on the verge of a cardiac arrest.
"Again," Serah ordered flatly.
Edric lifted the wooden weapon. It felt like a block of solid lead. "Serah..." he panted, wiping his brow with a bruised forearm. "A moment."
Serah lowered her blade, the wood clinking softly against her leg guards. She studied his pale face, his blistered palms through the thin leather wraps, and the sheer exhaustion radiating from his posture.
"I must admit, young master," she began carefully, her voice dropping into a rare tone of genuine curiosity. "When you formally requested that I oversee your daily training, I assumed it was a passing whim."
She stepped closer, the iron soles of her boots crunching against the frosty earth.
"If your goal is strictly self-defense or projecting power, I still do not understand why you choose this path. Your house has connections with a few talented mages. You have access to the manor's private archives. Why endure the mud and blood of martial training when you could simply request a tutor for magecraft? A competent mage can dismantle a dozen armored men without ever raising their heart rate."
Magic.
Edric kept his expression stoic, but inside, his mind raced back to the discarded worldbuilding notes on his laptop. He had designed a magic system for this frontier—a system based on internal energy manipulation, elemental sparks, and rigorous mental constructs.
The character Edric from his drafts had a natural affinity for it, but magic in this world required immense focus, mental stability, and a refined, aristocratic patience.
More importantly, Edric knew a fundamental truth about this world that Serah didn't.
"Magecraft is like a sword, Serah," Edric said, his voice steadying as his breathing finally slowed. He looked down at his soft, plump hands, clenching them into tight fists until the leather wraps groaned. "It's useless in the hands of an incompetent person, no matter how sharp it is."
He looked up, meeting her piercing gaze directly.
"Magic is completely useless if my body is too weak and feeble to wield it properly."
Serah stared at him through the narrow slit of her helm. For several seconds, the only sound in the courtyard was the distant caw of a raven circling the granite towers of Galehelm.
The authority in his voice was completely alien, yet entirely unshakeable. He was rejecting the easy, prestigious path of a noble mage to sweat in the dirt like a common levy soldier, all because he understood the foundational weakness of his own body.
A faint, grim smile touched Serah's lips beneath her visor. She raised her iron longsword once more, settling into a perfect, low-centered guard stance.
"A reasonable philosophy, young master," she murmured, her tone sharpening back into that of an unyielding instructor. "Then let us see if your discipline can survive the next hour. Raise your sword. Drive from the hips, not the arms."
Edric took a deep, freezing breath, adjusted his footing to a tighter, more mobile stance, and lunged forward.
Another hour passed before Edric's body finally gave up and collapsed under fatigue.
"I can't anymore, Serah." He gasped as he held out his hand. "Let's continue this tomorrow, I need a bath."
"As you wish, my lord." Serah responded as she offered a light bow.
Miles away, the iron-reinforced wheels of the carriage groaned as they rumbled along the cobblestone roads, passing through the massive outer gates of Galehelm.
Inside the cabin, Lira pulled back the velvet curtain, her green eyes widening as she peered out. She had spent her entire life in the quiet, dirt-path confines of Sunspeak.
The sheer scale of the stronghold was dizzying. Towering granite walls rose high above the landscape like a sleeping stone leviathan, and massive stone buildings lined the bustling thoroughfares.
Yet, as the carriage moved deeper into the market district, Lira’s wonder quickly turned to a heavy, familiar sorrow.
The people of Galehelm looked utterly miserable. Despite the grand architecture, many of the steep buildings had roofs sloppily patched with rotting thatch instead of proper slate.
The commonfolk huddled along the walkways were hollow-cheeked and dirty, their clothes faded and heavily mended. They walked with their heads down, their faces masked by a thick cocktail of fear and deep-seated resentment.
It was a bleak reminder of the Artos legacy, a family that ruthlessly squeezed every last copper from its people, leaving them with barely enough to survive the approaching winter.
A cold knot of dread tightened in Lira's stomach. If this was how the lord treated an entire capital city, what would he do to a solitary village girl handed over to him on a silver platter? Images of the young lord’s rumored cruelty and depravity flashed vividly in her mind. Her hands began to shake, her fingers gripping her canvas bundle until her knuckles turned stark white.
‘No,’ she thought fiercely, taking a slow, stabilizing breath to force the panic down. She locked her jaw and steeled her resolve. ‘This is my responsibility, this is for my village.’
The carriage finally climbed the upper tier of the city, passing through the inner keep's gates before grinding to a halt in the central courtyard of the lord’s manor.
When the heavy carriage door clicked open, Lira was not met by harsh guards, but by a noticeably younger woman.
"W-welcome to the Artos estate, my lady." The young woman stammered, offering a somewhat amateur courtesy. "I am Celia. The young master has been expecting you. P-please, allow me to escort you inside."
Lira stepped onto the gravel, 'my lady is it?' she thought to herself. Never in her life had she ever thought of being called that.
Murmuring a polite thank you, Lira followed the young girl through the sprawling manor. As they walked, she couldn't help but stare at her surroundings. The sheer wealth on display was staggering. Ornate tapestries lined the high corridors, polished marble floors reflected the candle fire, and intricate gold trim adorned every doorway.
A bitter pang of resentment flared in Lira's chest. She felt a deep, biting lamentation for her people. Her neighbors in Sunspeak struggled day by day, bartering their remaining scraps of grain and praying their children wouldn't starve before the first frost, all while this spoiled lord lived in absolute, sickening luxury.
It was deeply unfair.
Celia led her to a large, beautifully furnished office. "Please, make yourself comfortable," she said politely, gesturing toward a plush leather chair. "The young master will be with you shortly."
Within moments, a servant entered, placing a silver tray on the low table beside her. It held a steaming porcelain pot of expensive tea and a plate of delicate, sugar-dusted pastries.
Lira stared at the snacks, her stomach twinging. A single one of those pastries could likely feed a child in her village for a day. She sat rigidly on the edge of the chair, leaving the food untouched, her heart hammering against her ribs as the quiet of the office closed in.
After a few agonizing minutes, the heavy oak doors slid open.
A sharply dressed elder gentleman first stepped into the room, his posture immaculately rigid. Then followed a tall female knight with crimson hair, her helmet tucked under her arm. And finally, a tall plump young man dressed in black and gold.
Lira instinctively stood up, bracing herself to face a pampered, arrogant tyrant.
Instead, she froze, completely thrown off balance by the sight.
'This must be the lord."
Lord Edric looked like he had just gone through the depths of hell. Though his skin was scrubbed clean and he had changed into a fresh, simple tunic, his appearance was alarming.
His pale face was drawn, and deep rings of sheer exhaustion framed his sharp golden eyes. He walked with a subtle, stiff tightness, and despite the biting autumn chill lingering in the room, a fine sheen of sweat was already breaking out across his forehead and neck. He looked utterly drained, his chest rising and falling in heavy, controlled breaths.
He didn't look at her like a predator lounging on a throne. He looked like a man fighting a war against his own body.
Edric barely acknowledged her presence as he entered.
Lira quickly sank into a deep, formal bow, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Greetings, Lord Edric. I am Lira, daughter of Brenn, from the village of Sunspeak. I have come to fulfill our village's end of the bargain."
She kept her eyes lowered, waiting for the cold, arrogant decree of a tyrant. Instead, the only sound was the heavy, dragging scrape of boots across the polished floorboards. Edric lazily bypassed her entirely, barely casting a glance in her direction as he walked toward the massive walnut desk.
He sank heavily into his high-backed chair with a sharp, involuntary hiss of pain that he quickly tried to mask with a low cough.
He leaned back, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger, his sharp golden eyes finally drifting down to analyze her.
"So," Edric muttered, his voice gravelly and deeply fatigued. "You're the literate girl from Sunspeak?"
Lira hesitated, her jaw tightening slightly beneath her lowered gaze. The casual indifference in his tone was infuriating, yet the sheer physical exhaustion radiating from him was utterly baffling. "I am, my lord," she replied, her voice steadying as she raised her head to meet his eyes.
"I can read the common script, and I am proficient with numbers."
Edric picked up a quill from his desk, twirling it idly between his fingers as he studied her posture. "Sunspeak is a frontier farming hamlet. Literacy doesn't exactly grow on trees out there. Where did a village chief's daughter learn to read and write?"
"I studied under a traveling priest, my lord," Lira answered truthfully, keeping her hands folded neatly beneath her cloak. "He spent two winters in our village when I was a girl. He taught me a great many things, not just reading and writing, but also the basics of logistics and managing resources. Since then, I have spent the last few years helping my father manage the village's stores, tracking our yields, and organizing our winter allocations."
At those words, Edric stopped twirling the quill.
The lazy, exhausted haze in his golden eyes vanished, replaced instantly by a sharp, calculating intensity. He didn't look back down at his desk. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the walnut surface, his gaze pinning her to the floor.
"Logistics," Edric repeated, his voice gravelly but sharp. He studied her for a moment before a cold, testing smile touched his lips. "Let's see what that priest actually taught you.
"If a high house’s scribes are actively stealing coin and grain from the master ledgers, and they are clever enough to fake the transport manifests, how do you catch them?"
Lira didn't hesitate. "You don't look at the manifests. You look at the grease," she stated flatly. "You count the wagons that actually passed the toll gates, you check the tallow expenses used to grease the wheel axles, and you cross-reference the grain tax with the birth and death registries of the farming districts."
Edric and the others listened intently.
"Dead men don't farm, and light wagons don't burn through axle grease," she continued. "If the grease expenses match a full shipment but the registries show a labor shortage, the scribes are pocketing the difference."
A heavy silence descended upon the office.
Gareth’s eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter—a monumental reaction for the old steward. Serah let out a low, appreciative grunt from behind her visor.
Lira kept her shoulders back, though a flicker of anxiety returned. "My lord... what exactly is my purpose here?"
Edric leaned back in his high chair, the sharp, calculating mask softening into something entirely unexpected. He looked at her directly, the brutal authority in his posture carrying a sudden, raw honesty.
"My house is surrounded by conniving rats, Lira." Edric answered exhaustedly.
"External threats, internal incompetence. I am looking for people who are capable, and above all, loyal. Can you be that for me?"
Lira hesitated. The question felt like a trap, yet the sheer physical state he was in, made it impossible to see him as a simple, lazy tyrant. She looked into his sharp golden eyes and found a terrifyingly iron will.
"If it keeps my village safe and my people fed, my lord... I can," she replied carefully, keeping her suspicion guarded.
Edric smiled.
It wasn't a cruel smirk or a patronizing grin. It was a genuine, striking smile of absolute satisfaction.
The expression completely transformed his face, utterly surprising everyone in the room. Lira’s breath caught slightly in her throat.
She found herself staring. Though his body was visibly out of shape and plump from years of soft living, in that single moment, the sheer, undeniable nobility of his features flashed through. His jawline, the symmetry of his face, and the piercing clarity of his eyes radiated the ancient, fierce heritage of House Artos.
For the first time, she didn't see a spoiled boy; she saw a lord who could be dangerous, and perhaps, captivating.
Edric broke the moment, turning his head toward the old steward. "Gareth."
"Yes, my lord," Gareth bowed, his voice carrying a new tier of deference.
"Take Lira down to the archives. Assign her to Matthus. Tell him she is to have full access to the secondary records, and the two of them are to begin dismantling and reconstructing the house’s financial and grain records from the last five years. I want the names of the corrupt scribes on my desk before the first heavy snow."
"It shall be done immediately, young master," Gareth replied.
Edric gave Lira one last, lingering look before closing his eyes, letting out a long, exhausted sigh as he leaned back to rest his aching muscles.
Lira picked up her canvas bundle, her heart pounding a completely different rhythm than before. She followed Gareth out of the office, her mind entirely consumed by the image of the sweating, exhausted lord who was nothing like the monster she had prepared to face.