Year 1466 AD, Thorne Residence (Ironhold)

  Alaric stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest quarters, frowning at the pile of silk and velvet on the bed.

  The maid had delivered a "ceremonial dress" provided by the House of Thorne. It was a labyrinth of fabric. There was a high-collared shirt with intricate ruffles, a midnight-blue waistcoat, a sash, a cravat, and a heavy outer coat with silver embroidery.

  He didn't know the names of half these pieces.

  Does the sash go under the waistcoat or over? Alaric wondered.

  He took a deep breath and relied on logic. He layered them carefully, smoothing out the creases. He tied the cravat in a simple, sharp knot. When he finally pulled on the coat, it fit surprisingly well. He looked less like a commoner student and more like a young diplomat.

  A knock came at the door.

  "Sir?" It was the steward. "Dinner is served."

  Alaric adjusted his cuffs one last time. "Coming."

  The steward escorted him through the stone corridors to the main dining hall. It was a cavernous room lit by floating magical chandeliers.

  Alaric felt a spike of nervousness. The table was long, set with silver and crystal, and a line of maids and servants stood silently against the wall.

  Two people were already seated.

  The Duchess, Lady Elara Thorne, sat near the head of the table. She was a striking woman, appearing to be in her mid-thirties, with sharp, intelligent eyes and an elegance that softened the harsh stone of the fortress.

  And beside her was Lucia.

  Alaric’s step faltered for a fraction of a second.

  She wasn't wearing her official white Church vestments. Tonight, she wore a gown of pale blue silk that matched her eyes. Her silver hair, usually hidden or tied back severely, was braided loosely at the crown before cascading freely down her back in shimmering waves. She looked beyond graceful. She looked ethereal.

  Alaric composed himself. He walked to the table and stopped before the Duchess.

  He executed the Noble Greeting perfectly: He placed his open right hand over his heart and his left hand in a closed fist behind his back, bowing his head slightly but not too low, a sign of respect without servitude.

  "Greetings, Your Grace," Alaric said smoothly. "Thank you for your hospitality."

  The Duchess blinked, pleasantly surprised. Her eyes swept over his posture.

  "My," Lady Elara smiled, her voice warm. "You certainly have your manners right. I expected a rough soldier, given the reports."

  She turned to Lucia, a teasing glint in her eyes. "You were right, Lucia. He is certainly handsome, I must say. The uniform didn't do him justice."

  Lucia, who had been trying to look composed, turned a violent shade of red. She stared at her plate, fiddling with her napkin. "Mother..."

  "Thank you, Your Grace," Alaric replied, ignoring the heat rising in his own cheeks.

  "Please, be seated," the Duchess gestured.

  Alaric took his seat opposite Lucia. They chatted politely for a few minutes about the weather and the journey, until the heavy oak doors opened.

  Everyone, including the Duchess and Lucia, stood up immediately.

  Duke Thorne strode in. He wasn't wearing armor now, but a dark velvet dress that made him look no less intimidating. He walked to the head of the table.

  Alaric bowed slightly. The Duke nodded in acknowledgment.

  "Sit," the Duke commanded.

  The meal began.

  It was luxurious, a stark contrast to the rugged environment of the Borderlands.

  The first course was a chilled soup made from Sun-Melons, a fruit that only grew in the tropical central regions, thousands of miles away. It was sweet and refreshing.

  The main course was Boar Tenderloin, glazed in a reduction of red wine and rare spices imported from the Eastern Continent. The meat was incredibly tender, dissolving on the tongue, paired with roasted root vegetables that glistened with butter.

  Alaric knew that in this country, commoners ate simple stews or bread. This meal cost more than a villager made in a year. The chefs were clearly masters of their craft, likely hired from the capital.

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  Alaric picked up his silverware.

  He didn't hesitate. He knew which fork to use for the meat. He knew how to cutpushing with the index finger, not sawing. He wiped his mouth with the corner of the napkin, not the center.

  He hadn't learned this in the orphanage. He remembered it from before. From the life where business dinners were a battlefield of etiquette.

  Across the table, Lucia glanced at him. Alaric met her gaze. She looked shy, her cheeks flushing pink again. She quickly looked away, taking a sip of water. Alaric smiled internally, returning his attention to the dessert, a delicate Lemon Mousse topped with crystallized sugar.

  When the plates were cleared, Duke Thorne wiped his mouth and stood up.

  "Alaric. Follow me."

  Lucia looked up, worried. The Duchess placed a calming hand on her daughter’s arm.

  Alaric stood and followed the Duke out of the hall, down a corridor, and into his private office.

  A massive map of the sub continent covered one wall, marked with troop movements.

  "Sit," Thorne said, pointing to a leather chair opposite his massive oak desk.

  Alaric sat.

  A maid entered silently, placing a porcelain tea set on the desk before bowing and leaving.

  "Drink," Thorne offered, pouring two cups.

  Alaric accepted the cup.

  In this world, tea was a luxury. It had to be imported from the far East. Commoners drank coffee which was grown locally, it was cheap, and it was a strong energizer for hard labor. Tea was for the rich, the nobles, or high government officials.

  Alaric lifted the cup. He didn't hook his finger through the handle. He held the saucer with his left hand, lifted the cup with his right, and took a quiet sip without slurping.

  He set it down without making a sound.

  Duke Thorne watched him over the rim of his own cup. His eyes were sharp, analyzing every movement.

  After a long silence, Thorne spoke.

  "My daughter is fond of you."

  Alaric stiffened slightly but kept his face neutral.

  "And with you sacrificing yourself to save her from a General's spell," Thorne continued, "I am at least sure of this much that you feel the same, or at the very least, you wish her no harm."

  "I would give my life for the Saintess, Your Grace," Alaric said firmly.

  "I believe you," Thorne nodded. "But I still have suspicions."

  The Duke leaned forward, his gaze piercing.

  "I did a thorough background check on you, Alaric. You are not of noble origin. You aren't even from a fallen house of Horsin. You are an orphan from the church."

  Thorne pointed a finger at the teacup.

  "But you know all the noble etiquette. Your eating style... it looks like you've been doing it your whole life. Even the way you drink tea. No commoner holds a saucer like that. They grab the mug and gulp."

  Alaric’s heart stopped.

  He noticed.

  Panic flared in his chest. Does he suspect? Does he know I’m reincarnated? That I’m not from this world?

  "It seems," Thorne said slowly, "that you have been practicing."

  Alaric blinked. "Sir?"

  "You've been studying how to mingle in noble society," Thorne concluded. "You knew you had talent, and you prepared yourself to climb the ladder. You taught yourself manners so you wouldn't be rejected."

  Alaric let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

  Thank God.

  "Yes, Your Grace," Alaric lied smoothly, lowering his head. "I knew that power alone isn't enough in this world. I observed the nobles in the capital and practiced."

  Thorne leaned back, satisfied with the answer. It showed ambition and intelligence.

  "Good. But regardless," Thorne’s voice turned stern. "I cannot let you associate with my daughter publicly."

  Alaric looked up.

  "You are a commoner. She is a Saintess and the daughter of a Duke. If you are seen together, it will create political turmoil that we cannot afford right now."

  Thorne tapped the desk.

  "But... I will give you a chance."

  "A chance?" Alaric asked.

  "I offer you a path," Thorne said. "I cannot make you my ward right now. Duke Larethin tried to recruit you recently and you rejected him. If I take you immediately, it will look like a political slight against Larethin. It would cause a headache for me and you."

  Thorne outlined the plan.

  "Instead, you will come here to Ironhold during your academy breaks. You will train with my elite knights. In a formal capacity."

  "At the Academy," Thorne continued, "you will not talk to Lucia. You will not sit with her. You will be strangers. If you must meet, you will inform me, and you will do so in disguise, with my agents ensuring safety."

  "After graduation," Thorne said, "if you are still strong, I will formally take you as my Ward. Then, I will employ you as Lucia’s personal guard."

  Alaric’s eyes widened.

  "I will judge you then," Thorne said. "If you are worthy to stand by her side."

  The Duke stood up and walked to the map on the wall. He traced the border of the kingdom.

  "You need to be strong, Alaric. The current political scenario is fragile. His Majesty, the King, is ill. He isn't going to live long."

  Thorne pointed to the capital. "The Crown Prince isn't supported by all the nobles. When the King dies, there will be a power vacuum."

  He moved his hand to the south, near the Horsin region.

  "Either a civil war happens... or Buckland will invade. They are building up forces near the border of Sherisa. Their new King is ambitious. He wants to unite this whole island subcontinent."

  Thorne turned back to Alaric.

  "War will be coming soon regardless of where it comes from. If you want to protect Lucia, you need to be more than just a talented student."

  "You should use your chances properly."

  Alaric stood up. He looked at the map, then at the Duke.

  This was it. The Duke wasn't just offering him a job rather he was offering him mentorship and a chance to prove he belonged in their world.

  "I understand, Your Grace," Alaric said, bowing deeply. "I will not waste this opportunity."

  I will make a name for myself, Alaric vowed internally. And I will be ready for Buckland.