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As a child, Sigrid had not known whether to believe him.
Stories circulated throughout noble society: neglected mistresses, abused illegitimate children, jealous wives who tormented the competition. He'd met many who bore scars from such cruelty.
He prepared himself for the same fate.
But it never came.
The Countess — the legitimate wife — did not lash out, did not sabotage, did not retaliate. Instead, she maintained distance. Cold? Yes. Indifferent? Certainly. But malicious?
Never.
She didn't acknowledge them with warmth, yet she didn't harm them either. She treated them as part of the household — nothing more, nothing less.
Still, distrust clung to Sigrid and his mother. They kept their heads down, spoke little, avoided conflict. They lived quietly in the manor's east wing, always wary of overstepping.
But one day, unexpectedly, the Countess summoned them.
It was the first time Sigrid entered her private parlor.
He remembered how his heart hammered with fear.
But when he looked at her — truly looked — he sensed no malice. No hostility.
Only calm, steady command.
The Countess spoke clearly:
«I understand why you distrust me. Your fear is not without reason. But hear this: as long as you and your mother belong to House Anatole, you are under its protection. No harm will reach you here. This is my oath.»
As a child, Sigrid could barely comprehend the depth of her words — but he remembered something far more important.
Her eyes.
Cold, yes — but clear. Unwavering. Honest in their own distant way.
It was the first spark of stability Sigrid had ever known.
Life at the manor became bearable. Servants still whispered behind their backs, but no one dared lay a hand on them. The Count visited when he could, offering small gestures of apology for the distance time forced between them.
And Sigrid gained two half‑siblings — both legitimate heirs of the family.
The eldest: the Young Master, the heir of House Anatole.
The second: the Young Lady, rumored to be engaged to the Crown Prince himself — a woman respected for intelligence and beauty throughout their kingdom.
Despite their noble status, neither half‑sibling directed cruelty toward Sigrid. In truth, they hardly interacted at all — but that was far better than hostility.
For Sigrid, neutrality was a blessing.
He grew up between worlds: neither wholly embraced nor wholly rejected.
That delicate balance shaped him. It forged in him a quiet resilience, a determination to stand on his own. He trained relentlessly, studied rigorously, and poured his entire soul into mastering the sword, because it was the only path he could carve by his own hands.
A sword, to him, was honesty.
A promise of protection.
A vow he wanted to uphold with everything he had.
And that vow, that core belief, was what eventually earned him a place beside the Crown Prince — the highest honor he had ever known.
Until everything crumbled.
And he ran.
And Sigrid Anatole died…
…replaced by Sid, the nameless adventurer.
......…
............….
...................
A gust of wind ripped him from the depths of memory.
Sid blinked hard, pushing the painful recollections away.
That life is over, he reminded himself.
That country is gone. That version of me doesn't exist anymore.
But the sword lying in the dirt still pulled at him — like a fragment of a past he wasn't ready to face.
And the mysterious woman's voice sounded again, cold and sharp.
«Pick up your sword…»
Sid slowly looked up.
The woman was still locked in fierce combat, exchanging blows with a monster that should have crushed her. Her movements were clean and precise, her presence radiating both danger and calm.
Sid clenched his trembling fist.
Maybe he didn't know what he believed anymore.
Maybe he wasn't sure whether he deserved to wield a sword.
But right now—
Someone was fighting in his place.
Someone who healed him.
Someone who stood between him and death.
And I… can't just watch anymore.
He exhaled shakily.
His hand reached toward the sword.
Because whether he liked it or not…
Sigrid Anatole wasn't as dead as he wished he was.
And picking up the blade again…
felt like breathing life back into a part of himself he had long tried to bury.
......…
.............
...............….
Ever since Sigrid Anatole was a boy, he carried a single, unwavering dream in his heart — to wield a sword in service of his homeland. To stand as a knight who defended justice. To pledge loyalty not to power or privilege, but to a sovereign he respected and to the citizens who relied on their protectors.
To some, it was a childish fantasy.
To others, a naïve ideal.
But Sigrid never cared for anyone's opinion. In a world where titles determined worth and status dictated opportunity, he had vowed to carve out a path that reflected his own values, not the expectations forced onto him.
When his father, the Count of House Anatole, finally acknowledged him and presented him publicly as the second young master of the household, the noble society reacted predictably.
Smiles on the surface.
Poison in their eyes.
Some congratulated him out of courtesy.
Most — especially the highborn heirs and daughters — looked upon him with poorly disguised disdain. They hid it behind polite façades and rehearsed courtesies, but Sigrid, even at a young age, sensed every whisper beneath the surface.
Yet none dared insult him openly.
Because on that day, the Countess — the legal wife of Count Anatole — stood beside him. His father and his two elder half‑siblings stood with them, forming a front that the nobles could not easily challenge.
His mother, however, had not joined them. She remained in the manor, choosing to avoid scrutiny rather than face the venomous whispers aimed at illegitimate children and their mothers. The Countess had invited her several times, but Sigrid's mother refused — too ashamed, too afraid of causing trouble for her son.
The Countess didn't pressure her further. Instead, she sent a trusted servant to stay by Sigrid's mother's side.
There were many moments that tested Sigrid's patience, moments when he wished to snap at the hypocrisy of the nobles who pretended to be civil while their eyes brimmed with contempt. But every time he felt that anger rising, he remembered the Countess's quiet words — words that had carved themselves into his memory.
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