Reborn As Papa Silva

Chapter 51: Their Story (1)

"...Acier..."

"...Acier..."

"ACIER!"

"Bwah! Wha—What?!" Acier jolted upright, her absent mind snapping back into focus at the sharp call of her name.

Clang!

The sound of metal cutlery clattering against a ceramic plate yanked her fully back to the present. Her eyes darted to the table before her, the half-eaten sunny-side-up egg, and then across it to meet the twin sets of pink eyes boring into her.

Her sister's gaze was calm, calculating, while her mother's radiated exasperation, tinged with an edge of annoyance.

Acier stiffened, forcing a practiced smile onto her face. "Yes, Mother? What can I do for you?"

Her mother didn't answer immediately. Instead, Amara Silva let out a long, deliberate sigh, dabbing at her mouth with an intricately embroidered silver handkerchief. The gesture was elegant, deliberate, and entirely designed to amplify her frustration.

When Amara finally lowered the handkerchief, she shot her eldest daughter a disapproving glare that made Acier feel about two inches tall. Then, she inclined her head toward the figure seated to Acier's left.

"Your grandfather," Amara said coolly, "has been trying to talk to you for the past five minutes. The least you can do is acknowledge him."

Acier froze. She turned her head slowly, meeting the awkwardly smiling face of Nicklaus Silva, her grandfather. His long silver hair, now faded to white with age, framed sharp features softened by time. His once piercing silver eyes now held a faint haze, but his presence still commanded the room like it always had.

Acier felt a pang of guilt twist in her chest. Lowering her head, she murmured, "Apologies, Grandfather. Could you repeat that?"

Nicklaus waved her off hurriedly. "No issue at all, my dear. No issue at all. I was just asking—" He paused mid-sentence, his gaze narrowing slightly. Then, with a faint frown, he added in a much cooler tone, "Didn't I say to call me Grandpa?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Amara and Aurelia both visibly tensed, their gazes darting to Acier.

Oh, great.

Acier kept her head bowed, hiding the grimace that threatened to surface. She clenched her teeth imperceptibly, forcing herself to steady her breathing before lifting her head.

Her lips stretched into a radiant smile, showing perfect, pearly white teeth, her lavender eyes wide and shimmering with faux innocence. She knew what he wanted—to see her. Or rather, to see Grandmother.

Is that all you ever see, old man? she thought bitterly, but the smile never faltered.

"Sorry, Grandpa. Care to repeat that?" Her voice came out sweet and casual, dripping with forced warmth.

She knew the tone would make her etiquette teacher writhe in despair, but that was a problem for future Acier. Right now, all that mattered was Nicklaus Silva's mood.

His eyes lit up at her response, his earlier frostiness melting away. His smile stretched wide and grandfatherly, as though he hadn't just iced over the entire room moments ago.

Nicklaus reached out his right hand and gently caressed Acier's left cheek. She fought every muscle in her body to keep from cringing, forcing her distaste deep down where it couldn't surface.

"Don't be, my dear Amethyst," he said softly.

I'm not your Amethyst. I'm Acier. Not Acyer! she wanted to spit back, but the words stayed locked behind her teeth. Instead, she maintained her dazzling, unbreakable smile and repeated her question for the third time, desperate to move on.

"So, Grandpa, I didn't hear you before. Could you ask your question again?"

Nicklaus hesitated for a moment before retracting his hand, coughing into his fist as a faint blush crept across his aged face. His usual composure—the air of a steadfast and unflappable royal lord—crumbled in an instant. He fidgeted awkwardly, looking more like a nervous child than the powerful patriarch of the Silva family he once was.

"Well, it's August now," he began shyly, "and your birthday isn't far away. I was wondering if there's anything you've set your eyes on. Just tell me, and Grandpa will get it for you."

He patted his chest dramatically, putting on a show of confidence, as if to say he would move mountains for her if she asked.

Because to him, she was his greatest pride.

Anything except giving me some breathing room and space, Acier thought bitterly, but she buried the dark notion alongside all the others. She could never voice that, not when it would break the old man's heart.

Even if it was toxic, it was still love. And love—real love—was a rare thing. Not everyone got it. Aurelia doesn't even get it, she reminded herself. I have no right to be selfish and turn it away.

Acier's weakness was her family. She loved them, and they loved her, in their own flawed, suffocating way. So she smiled even brighter, ignoring the ache in her jaw, and beamed at her grandfather with the warmth he needed to see.

"I'll love anything you give me, Grandpa. You know that," she said sweetly.

Nicklaus chuckled softly but shook his head. "Now, now, that won't do. Everyone has something they want. You just need to tell me what that is—"

"Speaking of birthdays," a cold, gruff voice cut through the air, interrupting Nicklaus mid-sentence.

All eyes turned toward the head of the table, where a broad-shouldered man with short silver hair and piercing eyes sat like a statue. Nathaniel Silva, the current Patriarch of House Silva, radiated authority even in silence.

As Nicklaus' only son, Amara's husband, and father to Acier and Aurelia, Nathaniel rarely spoke, but when he did, every word landed like a hammer.

He set down his fork, his scrutinizing gaze locking onto Acier. "This is your fourteenth birthday. I don't need to remind you what that means, correct?"

Acier straightened instinctively, her posture perfect, and nodded stiffly. "Yes, Father. I know full well."

Fourteen. The milestone that marked her transition from girl to woman in the eyes of the aristocracy. But it was not a celebration she welcomed.

This birthday wouldn't grant her independence; it would only steal her freedom further. Fourteen meant she was courtable, and those men—those greedy, lecherous men who had only been restrained by her age—would now be free to pursue her.

She would face suitors. Disgusting, predatory, slick, conniving suitors.

None would dare to force themselves on her, of course. Her position as the prized jewel of House Silva safeguarded her from such indignities. But no one would court her without House Silva's blessing, and therein lay the problem.

The main branch of House Silva couldn't afford to turn those suitors away.

Acier clenched her fists under the table, nails digging into her palms. With no brothers to inherit, she was the heir apparent. The burden of extending the family's main line rested squarely on her shoulders. If she failed, the side branches would seize the opportunity, sparking a succession war over inheritance.

Of course, Aurelia could take on that duty, Acier thought. But I'll never let that happen.

Aurelia deserved better. She deserved love. Real love. If she married, it should be because she wanted to—not because duty demanded it.

Acier's jaw tightened, but she kept her expression serene. She would endure it. She had to.

For her family.

Nathaniel nodded, his voice measured and precise. "This birthday will mark your coming-of-age ceremony, where all the upper echelons of royalty and nobility are invited."

"As a lady, you'll be expected to perform a waltz with a partner. Has your dance practice been progressing well?"

"Yes, Father," Acier replied, her tone polite but restrained. She had to force herself to remain composed. He already knew the answer. All of her educational progress was meticulously reported to him—reports that confirmed she was on track, especially with dancing.

Dancing was the one area where she excelled naturally, even when the more traditionally "feminine" pursuits—like knitting, cooking, or singing—eluded her. Perhaps it was because dancing allowed her to feel expressive, free. She loved it for that.

But the thought of dancing with some slimy older man, a predator looking to pin her against the wall and use her as a tool to sire heirs for House Silva, made her stomach churn.

Her mind conjured the image vividly: some bloated, balding noble slob, sweat glistening on his forehead as he tried to roam his hands over her body under the ballroom's glittering chandeliers. Her skin crawled at the thought. She wouldn't be able to push him away or call him out. Doing so would bring humiliation not just to herself but to House Silva.

That single, inevitable dance had the power to sour every ounce of love she held for the art. She knew her father understood that.

So why? she thought bitterly. Why do you have to bring it up and ruin my mood all over again?

Under the table, Acier's hands trembled, her nails digging into her palms as she clenched her fists to vent her frustration.

"UNACCEPTABLE!"

Amara and her daughters jumped as Nicklaus' furious roar filled the dining hall. He slammed his hands on the table, the plates clattering in response, and glared daggers at his son.

Nathaniel met his father's rage with an unflinching, ice-cold stare.

Nicklaus jabbed a finger into Nathaniel's chest, his voice rising in fury. "I will not accept Acier being forced to dance with those disgusting beasts who know nothing of propriety or respect for women! She has no need for men in her life, especially ones so morally depraved! She doesn't have to dance. We are House Silva. The rules bend for us. We don't cater to the whims of lowborn nobles—"

"Father." Nathaniel's cool voice cut through Nicklaus' tirade like a blade. His glare sharpened as he continued. "Many noble ladies have their coming-of-age ceremonies as early as twelve. You've already abused our House's standing to delay Acier's until now, under the pretense of waiting until she turned fourteen to align with kingdom law."

"That delay has already sparked rumors—that she is inept, slow-witted—"

"WHO DARES?!"

Nicklaus' fists came down on the table once more, harder this time, sending plates skittering. His voice was a thunderclap of rage, but it was soon followed by a hoarse cough as his fury overtook him.

"Give me the names of those bastards," he demanded, pointing a trembling finger at Nathaniel. "I'll have them disappear—"

"Father." Nathaniel interrupted again, his voice as steady as ever. "Acier's coming-of-age ceremony will proceed on August 31st. It will conform fully to aristocratic trends, including the dance."

Nicklaus gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening as he glared at his son. His hands trembled in frustration, his lip caught between his teeth in an attempt to hold back his rage.

"...Why you... you..." His voice cracked, helplessness breaking through his anger.

As much as Nicklaus was used to having his way, Nathaniel was the current Patriarch of House Silva. If he chose to enforce his will, there was little Nicklaus could do to overrule him.

Acier felt a sinking sensation in her stomach, an invisible weight pressing her down. She wanted to lower her gaze, to retreat inward, but uncharacteristically, Nathaniel spoke again, even though the matter had seemingly been settled.

"Acier." His voice was calm but commanding, drawing her attention once more.

"Yes, Father?" She straightened her posture, forcing herself to meet his cold, unwavering stare. Her body fought the urge to squirm as he continued.

"Do you have a partner in mind?"

"Huh?" The question jolted her. She blinked in confusion, scrambling to compose herself. "I—I mean, of course not. After all..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Acier harbored no fondness for the male gender, especially the way they always looked at her—like she was a prize to be claimed or a vessel to be used. Even if she'd dared to befriend a boy, she knew her grandfather would probably make him disappear before anything could develop.

Nathaniel seemed unfazed by her faltering response. He nodded with detached indifference. "Very well. I will arrange for a partner in secret. He will be close to your age and of respectable moral standing. I will ensure he understands his role: nothing more than a proper dance partner."

"Does that satisfy you, Father?" Nathaniel turned his attention to Nicklaus, who hesitated before nodding begrudgingly.

The plan was simple. When the time came for the men to swarm Acier and request a dance, her prearranged partner would be in the crowd, stepping forward to spare her from unwanted attention. It was a classic strategy among nobles and royals to protect their daughters' chastity and dignity—an old trick everyone in the aristocracy would see through but could do little more than gossip about.

The arrangement would fulfill her duty: dancing before the aristocracy as a symbol of her maturity and grace. After that, Acier could retreat to her family's side and refuse any further invitations, ending the ordeal without incident.

Nathaniel didn't bother seeking her opinion; he knew his daughter well enough to recognize this was the most tolerable outcome for her.

Moments later, Nicklaus turned to Acier, his expression softening as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, my dear. Grandpa will personally vet all the possibilities to ensure your dance partner has no ulterior motives."

Acier's forced smile became more genuine, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Thank you, Grandpa. That means a lot."

Nicklaus smiled in return, though concern soon furrowed his brow. "Is that why you didn't respond to me before? Has this been weighing on you?"

He lowered his gaze, his tone growing somber. "Don't worry about it. Grandpa will push this back another year—"

"No." Acier interrupted gently, her smile softening further as she reached up to pat his hand. "It's not that, Grandpa."

And she was telling the truth. The dance, the ceremony—it hadn't even been on her mind until her father brought it up. No, her lack of focus, her untouched plate, stemmed from something else entirely. She wasn't preoccupied with the event.

She was just...

"Tired."

Both Acier and Nicklaus turned their heads toward Amara, who had finished her daughter's unspoken thought.

Amara brushed back her silky, silver hair, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she regarded Acier with that same disapproving stare.

"She's tired, Father. Perhaps even exhausted."

"Hm?" Nicklaus raised an eyebrow before reaching out, grabbing Acier by the chin without ceremony. He tilted her head slightly, raising it to scrutinize her face.

As he leaned in closer, he noticed it—faint, but there. The dark circles under her eyes, almost expertly concealed by her makeup, would've gone unnoticed had he not been looking for them. Her complexion was paler than usual, and it didn't take a sharp eye to recognize the signs of exhaustion.

Nicklaus grimaced in distaste, loosening his grip but not letting go, keeping her from averting her gaze.

"Acier..." His voice was low and somber, carrying a weight of disapproval she rarely heard from him. This tone wasn't for her; it was usually reserved for disobedient servants, unworthy competitors, or anyone foolish enough to cross House Silva.

Her hands trembled slightly.

"How many times have we gone over this?" he asked, his brows furrowing deeply. Acier winced as his words struck with finality. "You must stop waking up early and wasting yourself with that abuse you call training."

Acier clenched her fists, ready to retort, but her mother joined in before she could get a word in.

"It's not just the mornings, Father," Amara interjected, her tone brimming with frustration. She leveled a disgruntled stare at her daughter. "According to Alfred, she's been training late into the night as well. After dinner, no less."

Nicklaus's frown deepened. His grip on Acier's chin tightened unconsciously, making her wince in pain. Realizing it, he immediately jerked his hand away, his expression softening with a hint of regret.

Acier, however, paid no mind to the gesture. She whipped her head toward Amara, her eyes flashing with fury and betrayal.

"Mother!"

"Don't 'Mother' me!" Amara snapped, her voice rising as Acier flinched. "I've let this slide long enough, but do you honestly expect me to stay silent while you batter your body like this?"

Amara gestured sharply toward her. "Look at yourself! You look like you're about to collapse at any moment, and you can't even stomach a bite! How many breakfasts have you skipped now? This isn't healthy, Acier!"

"I don't skip breakfast!" Acier shot back, her voice trembling with indignation. "I just eat it later!"

Amara sneered. "Oh, is that something to be proud of? Then you barely eat at lunch, either!"

Acier gripped the edge of the table, preparing to defend herself again, but Amara wasn't done.

"Then you gorge yourself at dinner, take barely a moment to digest, and train until you're vomiting your guts out! You stumble to bed at midnight, collapse, and wake up before sunrise to start all over again! And you think that's acceptable?"

"Acier!"

Her grandfather's booming voice made her stiffen. She turned toward Nicklaus, whose expression mirrored Amara's anger.

"How can you do this to yourself?!" he spat, his tone dripping with exasperation. "A princess must treat herself with respect! You mustn't skip meals, nor neglect your beauty sleep! And all this for what? Training?"

He ground his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. "If you must train, do it during the day—before and after lunch! That is the proper way, the healthy way—"

"You think I don't know that?!"

The dining room froze. Even Nicklaus and Amara stiffened at Acier's outburst. Across the table, Aurelia ducked her head low, pretending to focus on her bread to avoid being dragged into the conflict. Nathaniel, as always, watched the scene unfold with his usual detached indifference.

Acier's voice cracked as she glared between her grandfather and mother, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"Whose fault do you think this is, huh?!" she demanded, her voice breaking as she pointed accusingly between them. "Do you think I like missing sleep?! Do you think I want to skip meals and vomit every night?!"

Her words hung in the air, cutting through the tense silence.

"Do you think I'd do this if I had a choice?!"

Amara and Nicklaus exchanged a glance, their expressions hardening with guilt and frustration.

"Don't take that tone with us, young lady," Amara said firmly, her voice regaining its edge. "Neither your grandfather nor I are responsible for you wasting yourself away—"

Acier abruptly pushed back her chair, rising to her feet. The sudden motion silenced Amara mid-sentence. Acier shot her a dark glare, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Without a word, she turned on her heel and strode toward the dining room exit, her steps sharp and purposeful.

"Don't you dare turn your back on me, Acier!" Amara shouted after her, her fury boiling over. "Where are you going—"

"Out!" Acier cut her off, her voice ringing with finality.

The twin doors slammed shut behind her with a resounding bang. The sound echoed through the room, leaving an uneasy silence in its wake. Amara froze, her anger momentarily replaced with shock.

Amara flushed crimson with outrage, shooting up from her seat. She looked ready to storm after her daughter, Nicklaus rising with her, but they both froze at the sound of Nathaniel's voice.

"Sit back down," the Silva Head commanded, his tone calm yet cutting, his focus never straying from slicing into his cod.

"Nathaniel?!" Amara hissed, her voice sharp with indignation. "Did you hear what that girl just said?! We've spoiled her rotten! It's time we discipline her, teach her some respect—"

"Sit. Back. Down."

Nathaniel cut her off, enunciating each word with such finality that it brooked no argument.

Amara stiffened under the weight of his tone, reluctantly lowering herself back into her seat. Her jaw clenched, and she forced herself to resume eating, though each bite seemed to stick in her throat.

Nathaniel spared his wife only the briefest of glances before turning his sharp gaze to the right, fixing it on his father.

Nicklaus, still standing, met his son's silent challenge with an indifferent look.

Nathaniel's unspoken question was clear: I, the Lord of House Silva, have ordered you to sit. Why are you still standing? Is this insubordination?

Nicklaus raised an eyebrow, gesturing to his empty plate. "I'm finished. Now, I shall take my leave."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began walking toward the exit.

Nathaniel didn't look back at his father, but his voice rang out, calm and commanding. "You are not to chase after Acier. Understood?"

Nicklaus froze just before reaching the door, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly.

Nathaniel continued, his tone steely. "Give her some space and time to calm herself. The capital and the kingdom are not in a stable state right now—you know that. Do nothing untoward or reckless that might draw more eyes to our house."

Nicklaus stood silent for a moment, then opened the door. As it swung shut behind him, he let out a single word in response, tinged with a snort of reluctant agreement.

"Fine."

—

Acier stormed through the grand halls of the Silva estate, her strides quick and purposeful. She spared not a single glance for the numerous servants who hurriedly stepped aside and bowed as she passed, nor for the polished decor that adorned the mansion's walls.

Her sharp, withering glares kept any opportunistic branch family members or scheming nobles at bay. Anyone foolish enough to think they could strike up a conversation, make an impression, or—heaven forbid—flirt with her was swiftly dissuaded.

Acier was in one of the foulest moods of her life.

Those... snakes!

The word hissed through her mind, though it hardly felt satisfying. She wanted to call her mother and grandfather much worse things—conniving, deceitful manipulators—but the words stuck in her throat. No matter how angry she was, she couldn't bring herself to curse those she loved so dearly.

Even so, she wouldn't tolerate their behavior. Turning black to white, manipulating the narrative to make her look like some immature, ignorant girl who was always in the wrong, who had no choice but to obey them—no.

Acier couldn't bring herself to shout at them or give them the full tongue-lashing they deserved, but she had no problem walking away. If they wanted to turn her into their scapegoat, she wouldn't stand for it.

She rounded a corner, her strides carrying her toward the main exit. The heavy doors loomed ahead, and her thoughts churned like a storm.

Acier hated training early in the morning and late at night. She loved her sleep and relished dining on the finest delicacies—so why would she willingly deprive herself of both?

Because her grandfather and mother, in their overprotective love, had left her no other choice.

Training during the day? Out of the question. Thanks to them, her so-called "training" sessions were anything but productive.

Whenever Acier attempted to train, her grandfather and mother insisted on spectating—under the pretense of monitoring her progress. In truth, they only wanted to ensure she didn't hurt herself. As a result, her drills, practices, routines, and even sparring partners were so restricted that her training barely qualified as exercise. She couldn't even work up a sweat.

And if that wasn't frustrating enough, sometimes they canceled her training altogether, claiming her other studies weren't up to par. This, despite the fact she had already mastered her lessons in arithmetic, financial management, history, and etiquette over two years ago.

They're wasting my potential! Acier clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as she stormed out of the main estate toward Castle Silva's gates.

Acier was no ordinary noble; she was acknowledged as a magical prodigy. Despite not having received her grimoire yet, she could already best many magic knights and even some royals.

And they use that against me!

Her frustration deepened as she thought of how her mother and grandfather dismissed her need to train. They would tell her she didn't need to push herself like a commoner or peasant, citing her victories as proof of her innate talent.

But Acier knew the truth. The only reason she had won those battles was because she had pushed herself to the brink, battering her body in secret during the hours when they weren't around to fuss over her.

She wasn't going to lie to herself—Acier knew she was talented. But talent meant nothing without hard work to hone it. And thanks to their overbearing interference, she had no choice but to train during stolen hours, cultivating her skills while they slept.

And then they have the gall to pretend it's not their fault!

Acier grit her teeth as the royal guards wordlessly opened the gates for her. Without pausing, she strode through, her steps echoing on the expansive marble pathway leading into the heart of Clover Castle.

She stopped at the three-leaf clover engraved in the center, each leaf pointing to one of the royal houses. Looking up at the sky, she bit her lip.

Mother is one thing... but Grandfather is different.

Unlike Amara, who was merely an overprotective mother with little knowledge of magic or combat, Nicklaus was a former captain of the Silver Eagles. He knew better. He knew that natural talent could only take someone so far. To reach the upper echelons of magical might, to one day become a Magic Knight Captain—or even the Wizard King—required relentless effort.

He knew this. He just didn't care.

Acier's voice softened into a whisper, tinged with hurt. "Because if Grandfather has his way, I won't even become a Magic Knight. I'll be locked away in House Silva as some... defenseless princess, all in the name of my 'safety.'"

This was the problem with traditional houses like Silva and Kira. They clung to outdated values, believing women should remain indoors, managing households and looking pretty, while men handled the hard work.

Even her mother, Amara, adhered to these ideals, believing women belonged in dresses and jewelry—not in armor or battle gear. Cooking, dancing, and singing were deemed appropriate pursuits, but wielding a sword? Unthinkable.

Acier could barely stomach these restrictions, especially since they extended beyond combat. She wasn't allowed to practice even the simplest of "feminine" skills like cooking, under the excuse that royalty didn't need to cook when they had servants.

It was infuriating. Aurelia could make herself comfortable in the kitchen or among noble ladies during knitting sessions without issue, but the moment Acier tried, her grandfather would intervene. His excuse was always the same—he didn't want her cutting or burning herself.

As if I'm some fragile doll!

Her fists tightened as she stood under the vast expanse of the sky, frustration simmering in her chest. She couldn't help but wonder: when would they finally let her grow into the strength she knew she was capable of?

Acier lowered her gaze and turned her head toward the castle across from hers, letting out a wistful sigh. "I wish I was born a Vermillion."

The thought stirred a pang of jealousy she couldn't quite suppress. If she had to be born a royal, why couldn't it have been into the one House that cared little for rigid tradition or stifling conformity?

House Vermillion had always been progressive, openly defying the norms that other noble families clung to. That rebellious streak was, in fact, a major reason behind the ancient split between the Silvamillion lineage, which had fractured into House Silva and House Vermillion.

Over time, the two Houses had drifted further apart, becoming factions in their own right: the staunch traditionalists of House Silva and the free-spirited nonconformists of House Vermillion. The split had allowed House Silva to double down on their prideful, stagnated ways, while House Vermillion—like the lions they admired—were free to stretch their legs and carve their own paths.

Because of that freedom, countless women from House Vermillion had made names for themselves. Many joined the Crimson Lions or other Magic Knight squads, some became heads of their House, and one had even ruled as Queen Regent for a decade.

In contrast, House Silva had never produced a single female Magic Knight who kept the Silva name. Both Houses were descended from the First Wizard King and boasted proud lineages of magic knights, yet only the men of House Silva were granted that privilege. The women? They were mere ornaments, decorative pieces to bolster the House's image.

Acier Silva was envied across the Clover Kingdom for her position, heritage, and status. But maybe—just maybe—she was the epitome of spoiled and ungrateful, because she felt she'd trade it all away for a taste of freedom.

She clenched her fists, the feeling of invisible chains wrapping tighter around her. Her life at Castle Silva was an invisible cage, and she wore an invisible collar that bound her to it.

But then, Acier shook her head and smacked her cheeks lightly, forcing herself out of her thoughts. "Don't say that, Acier. You'll show them," she muttered, voice brimming with determination. "Grandfather, Mother, all of them. You'll take over House Silva, become a Silver Eagle, and one day..." Her fists tightened as a confident smile spread across her face. "One day I'll be Wizard King!"

Her mana flared in response to her resolve, crackling faintly in the air as she turned away from Clover Castle. With renewed energy, she began speed-walking down the marble entryway, her steps purposeful.

As she walked, she let her imagination run wild, picturing herself sitting on a grand throne in the future. Her family would clap and shed tears of joy, apologizing profusely for ever doubting her. Her enemies—those who schemed and plotted against her—would grovel at her feet, trembling as they begged for forgiveness.

"Hehe..." A smug chuckle escaped her lips as she imagined herself striking down those enemies with a single decisive blow. Acier raised her fist in an animated swing, fully engrossed in her fantasy.

But then she froze mid-step, her smug grin fading in an instant. Her body stiffened, and a cold sweat ran down her back.

She felt it—no, she definitely connected with someone.

"Ack!"

Forcing herself to open one eye, she cringed at the sight before her.

Kneeling on the ground a few steps away was the back of a silver-haired figure, panting slightly in pain. He looked dazed, clutching his side as if he'd been struck.

Acier blinked, confusion swirling in her mind. His hair was unmistakably Silva silver, but he wore no House Silva emblems or garments.

Acier's eyes darted to the silver-haired figure, and she hoped—prayed—he wasn't a Silva. He didn't look familiar, and considering the current tension between the main line and House Silva's branch families, she needed him to be unrelated.

If word got out that Acier Silva, the heiress of House Silva, had just physically struck a branch family member, it would cause an uproar. Plenty of opportunists would use the incident as leverage to blackmail her family.

Please, please let him just have silver hair by coincidence, Acier thought desperately. Yet, deep down, she knew the truth: only Silvas had silver hair.

Her stomach dropped as the boy spit out a mouthful of blood.

Acier froze, her face paling. She jerked her head around frantically, searching for witnesses. When she found none, she let out a shaky sigh of relief. By some miracle, no one seemed to be around to see what had happened.

Of course, the royal knight mages monitoring the castle's magic barrier might have witnessed it. But Acier knew she didn't have to worry about them. Their loyalty was to the royal family—the main branches—and they'd gain nothing by reporting her actions. If they tried to stir trouble, they'd likely be fired and replaced by Silva-aligned loyalists. Why risk their careers to curry favor with someone like the Kiras?

They'll pretend they saw nothing, Acier assured herself, though her confidence didn't ease the growing pit in her stomach.

She winced as the boy continued spitting up blood, each cough making her guilt claw deeper. She hadn't held back much on that punch, and—unfortunately—had instinctively reinforced it with mana. If she caught him straight in the face, she had likely shattered his jaw.

I need to find a healer.

Her head swiveled back toward House Silva, but the thought of returning filled her with dread. Her mother and grandfather would jump at the chance to use this incident against her, lecturing her endlessly about obedience.

Still, watching the boy cough up blood—and now what looked like chunks of teeth—she bit her lip hard and turned to dash back toward the estate.

This is my fault, and I need to make it right.

But before she could cross into Castle Clover's grounds, she froze. A burst of mana flared behind her.

Acier turned, her eyes narrowing as she watched the boy sit upright. He raised a hand swirling with water mana and brought it to his face.

To her surprise, the blood pouring from his mouth slowed and then stopped altogether.

He's a recovery mage?

Relief washed over her as she relaxed her posture. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment before she turned to leave again, mumbling to herself, Even so, he'll need a seasoned healer to fix him completely—

She stopped mid-thought, turning back once more.

The boy was standing now, his figure straightening as his hand remained pressed to his mouth. His once-crippling injuries appeared to be healing at an impressive rate, far quicker than she'd expected.

He fixed himself up?

Acier blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. Though she'd held back slightly, the mana-enhanced blow should've taken a seasoned healer more than a minute to mend. Yet this boy had managed it with ease.

Her gaze lingered on his back, and she took a moment to analyze him. His mana seemed unremarkable at first glance, but the control he displayed... It was surprisingly refined.

But just as quickly as admiration crept in, Acier felt a wave of awkwardness wash over her. She stiffened and shifted nervously, fidgeting with her hands as she debated whether to say something—or simply disappear before he noticed her.

But her stomach churned at the thought.

That'd make me a snake, she thought bitterly. And Acier hated snakes. Creatures that bit others the moment they let down their guard, sinking venomous fangs deep, only to slither away when their prey managed to fight back.

She twirled a strand of her hair, unsure of what to do, her gaze moving from the boy's back to the ground in front of him. That's when she noticed it: a book sprawled across the dirt, its pages speckled with fresh blood.

Well, there's still something I can do...

Acier chuckled at herself, self-deprecatingly, and walked toward him. She couldn't bring herself to look him in the face just yet, so she ducked her head, crouched down, and reached for the book.

"S-sorry about that..." she stuttered, running a hand over the bloodied pages in an awkward attempt to clean them. But the moment she touched the stains, she winced—they only spread further.

Cringing, she tried again. "S-sorry about decking you..." she added weakly, still avoiding his gaze. Her eyes lingered on the book's contents—a roughly sketched diagram of the human body, partially obscured by blood. She let out an awkward laugh. "...And sorry about ruining your book."

God, I sound so lame, she thought, her cheeks flushing. Shutting the book, she held it out to him with trembling hands, still crouched and too embarrassed to stand.

The silence stretched on, each second making her feel like her legs would give out beneath her. Take the book, man! she screamed inwardly, desperate to end the excruciating moment.

"Hah hah..." Acier forced out a laugh, trying to lighten the tension. "You're a doctor or something, right? Well, you know what they say: practice makes perfect. I just gave you the chance to practice—"

She didn't get to finish. The boy snatched the book from her hands with a sharp motion, jerking her arm painfully to the side.

Acier winced, instinctively rubbing her arm. I probably deserved that, she thought, though the sting in her pride hurt more than her arm.

Normally, she'd let something like this slide and walk away. But her morning had already been ruined by her grandfather and mother, and her pent-up frustration boiled over.

With a forced smile that was anything but pleasant, she raised her head and spoke. "I know it was my fault, but there's no reason to be so rude—"

Her words faltered as her gaze met his face for the first time.

He wasn't looking at her. His eyes—ocean-blue and hauntingly lifeless—were fixed somewhere far ahead. No, "fixed" wasn't the right word. They weren't looking at anything.

His gaze was empty, absent, like a hollow shell devoid of purpose or drive. He looked alive but not living, a vessel simply going through the motions.

Acier stiffened. She knew that look.

It was the same expression she'd seen in her own reflection, so many times, when she sat alone in her room. Styling her hair the way her grandfather liked. Dressing in her grandmother's old gowns. Feeling like a doll being posed. A puppet on strings.

She shivered, remembering how her lilac eyes would grow dull every time her dreams were taken from her—every time she was told that something she loved was forbidden or "unbecoming" of a princess. Her eyes, like his, had once been vibrant but had dimmed to swirling voids of nothingness.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, noting that there wasn't even a trace of blood left. No sign of broken teeth. The injury, which should've required a skilled healer, had been dealt with flawlessly—and without a grimoire.

Impressive, she admitted to herself, though the admiration was fleeting.

The boy grabbed the book by its spine and, without sparing her so much as a glance, turned and walked away. His movements were slow, his shoulders slumped and defeated. He headed down the hill toward the heart of the noble realm, his figure retreating into the distance.

Acier shot to her feet. She wanted to call out to him, to ask for his name or learn why he seemed so... broken. She wanted to reach out, to touch that void and understand it.

But her hand faltered mid-air, her voice caught in her throat.

I can't. I shouldn't. He's a stranger—someone I sucker-punched, no less. I'd just be imposing for the sake of my own curiosity.

Her arm fell limp at her side, and frustration bubbled within her. She bit her lip, watching his figure grow smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared from view.

And yet, as he vanished into the distance, Acier felt her chest tighten. Her eyes stung for a brief moment, and she clenched her fists in irritation.

Why am I sad? she thought angrily. I don't even know him.

"Young Miss!"

Hmm? Acier raised a brow and turned, her sadness and frustration vanishing from her face as a familiar, squeaky, pubescent voice pierced the air.

A petite girl, perhaps no older than her sister, sprinted into view. She had long blonde hair tied into twin pigtails and wore a maid's uniform.

The girl charged toward her, stopping abruptly in front of Acier, panting heavily. She quickly straightened herself, composing her demeanor.

"Princess... I-I've finally caught up to you..."

Acier's lips curved into a soft, fond smile as she reached out to pat the girl's head. "What is my cute little Hilda chasing after me for?"

The girl froze, her cheeks flushing pink before she pouted and hastily adopted an indifferent facade.

"Princess, it is a maid's duty to accompany their lady everywhere they go," Hilda recited, her voice stiff with practiced rhythm, as though the words had been drilled into her.

Acier crossed her arms, her smile fading into an unimpressed look. "Quit it with the acting, Hilda. You know I hate the distance."

Hilda paused but held onto her cold act. "I do not have the slightest idea what you mean, Princess. This is how I am. A servant has no need nor cause to cozy up to their master."

Acier's expression darkened, her teeth gritting slightly. Another thing they took from me... my Hilda.

Hilda had been more than just a maid to her. She was Acier's first and only personal maid, someone she had chosen because of their closeness and casual camaraderie. To Acier, Hilda wasn't just a servant—she was her first and only friend. The one person who made her feel almost like a normal girl.

But apparently, that was unacceptable. Royals weren't supposed to form personal bonds with their servants. So, unless Hilda wanted to be reassigned, she had to endure "reeducation" on how to properly behave around her master.

And now, an invisible chasm had grown between them. Even in the most intimate moments—when Hilda dressed her or gave her a bath—Acier barely felt her presence anymore.

There was no warmth, no connection. Only rote actions and formalities. Hilda would ask how she wanted her hair styled, but she no longer commented on how soft, silky, or beautiful it was. Her hands, once gentle and teasing, no longer lingered.

When bathing her, Hilda would coldly inquire about soap or lotion preferences. She never mentioned how smooth her skin was or cracked jokes about how flawless she looked.

Even when helping her choose dresses, Hilda stopped offering her opinion. Everything was deemed perfect because the dresses were selected by her mother or grandfather. They had to be perfect, even if they pinched Acier's waist or left her miserable.

Hilda had become just another face in Acier's life. The only difference was that Hilda's face had a name attached to it.

Acier had come so close to telling her grandfather, I hate you, in those days. It was the closest she had ever been. But she couldn't say it.

It wasn't true.

No matter how controlling her grandfather was, how picky her mother, or how cold and distant her father, she loved them. And because she loved them, she couldn't speak those words aloud.

Maybe they know that, she often thought bitterly. Maybe that's why they push me so far—they know I'll never fight back.

Acier pushed that disgusting thought aside, refusing to let it linger, and nodded. "Very well then, Hilda," she said, her voice laced with coldness.

The way she said her name made Hilda's heart ache, but the maid didn't protest. This was the only way they could stay together now—bound in body, yet separated in spirit and soul.

"Why are you chasing after me in such a hurry?" Acier asked, her gaze cool as she looked down at her.

"The Old Master sent me." Hilda curtsied, her eyes closed as she answered.

Of course, he did. Acier clenched her teeth, a sneer curling her lips. "If Grandfather thinks sending you to convince me to return will be that simple, he's sorely mistaken."

Still holding her curtsy, Hilda responded calmly, "My Lady, you are mistaken. The Old Master has not sent me to stop you, but to accompany you, as a servant should."

Acier froze, caught off guard by the response, as Hilda continued in her measured tone.

"The Old Master has given three conditions to allow you to leave the estate. First, I must accompany you at all times. Second, you must keep this with you at all times..." Hilda handed her a magic transponder. Acier hesitated but took it, her fingers brushing against the cold device.

"And third, you must return to the castle before dinner time."

Hilda rose from her curtsy, standing upright and opening her eyes. "Are these terms acceptable, Princess?"

Acier sighed softly. Grandfather, when you do things like this, it's impossible for me to hate you.

The concessions were so small they barely warranted a mention. They were nothing compared to what she had expected. Just this bit of breathing room—it was all she could ask for.

"Yes, it is," she replied with a nod.

Not that she had much choice. Even if she'd disagreed, her grandfather would have sent the Silver Eagles or the royal castle knights to retrieve her. He'd done it before, and he'd do it again.

She cared little for the royal knights, but the Silver Eagles—the order she aspired to join—were another matter entirely. She couldn't bear the thought of being seen by them as a spoiled princess or a runaway brat. They were protectors of the kingdom. They shouldn't waste their time on her family's petty affairs.

Hilda, sensing the Princess's acquiescence, hid a sigh of relief behind a deferential smile. "Excellent, Princess. Is there a specific place you wish to go? I can summon the carriage."

Acier paused, then shook her head. She gestured casually down the street. "Let's just walk. I came out to get some fresh air, after all."

Hilda bowed her head slightly, a servile smile on her lips. "Of course, My Lady."

The two began walking down the cobbled street. To Hilda, it seemed like an aimless stroll, but Acier was subtly guiding them, her mind elsewhere.

Her thoughts drifted to that figure she had seen just minutes ago—the one who had quite literally crashed into her life.

She didn't plan to talk to him, nor did she intend to call him out. But she couldn't help herself. She wanted to watch him from a distance, to study him.

Acier wanted to know more about that void.

Author's Notes:

[1] No update yesterday, because many things have been going on in life, and I'm now lazy and unmotivated on top of that. I can no longer promise the daily updates, I'll try to stick to every other day, at worst every three days.

If the delay goes on longer than that, just know I'm not dropping this story, I'm either in a slump, or life has just gotten in the way.

[2] If you see a character act uncharacteristically or differently than you're used to in the present timeline, there's a reason for that. People will be different in the past, and a lot can change them in 20 years or so.

[3] As always feel free to join the discord at: https://discord.gg/s3MME8X8ar

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