A black-haired boy of fifteen with silver eyes sat in front of a wooden desk, a history book resting loosely in his hands. Lean and wiry, with sharp cheekbones and a jawline hinting at the man he would become, he would have been considered good looking if not for the unsettling contrast between his dark hair and those pale metallic eyes. They did not shine. But looking into his eyes make people uneasy for some reason.
He wore a noble's fine black velvet doublet, embroidered with silver thread at the cuffs and hem, over a crisp white shirt. Dark trousers of fine wool tucked into polished leather boots, and a silver clasp at his collar bore the distinct Wintermarch crest.
"Damn," he muttered, flipping a page. "These history books are full of loopholes. If you are going to lie, at least make it convincing. This reads like ninety percent pure glazing. Did they write this while their heads were already under the guillotine?"
With a sharp snap, he closed the book and exhaled, leaning back on his palms. His gaze drifted toward the rain streaked window.
Outside, the world moved slowly. Too slowly.
At first glance, he looked like he was simply daydreaming.
But his expression kept changing. A faint smile tugged at his lips, then vanished. Disgust crossed his face, followed by something darker. Fear.
It was as if he were replaying memories that did not belong to this body.
"Nathaniel Wintermarch," he murmured, turning his palm upward as if expecting something to appear there. "That is who they think I am."
The name felt wrong. Heavy. Like wearing someone else's skin.
This Nathaniel was already in deep shit. It felt like someone had handed him a controller when the character was already down to one HP Just immediate consequences.
His eyes shifted just in time to catch movement beyond the window.
A black iron carriage rolled through the gates, its wheels crunching against wet stone.
He watched it without interest.
The Bloodweaver era completely strangled scientific progress, he thought. Everyone chasing divine bloodlines instead of actual advancement.
It almost annoyed him.
Not because he cared about the world or advocated science as the ultimate truth, but because he could never again play video games, surf the internet, or enjoy the perks of the 21st century.
So many minds brilliant ones could have existed in this world. People who might have reached that level of advancement. But instead, talent was measured by ancestry. By whose veins carried a so-called blessing.
A quiet bitterness settled in his chest.
Maybe I am biased.
He leaned his forehead against the glass.
If someone asked him whether his old world was better, he would hesitate.
If someone asked him whether he wanted to go back…
The answer would still be No.
But did he want to live as Nathaniel Wintermarch?
Also No.
Being born into a powerful family in a fantasy world where strength actually meant something sounded great on paper. Reality, however, was different.
This place was a minefield. Politics, bloodlines, expectations it's like you are fighting a never ending war.
His thoughts were cut short by the approching
footsteps from the hallway.
Nathaniel straightened slightly and drew in a slow breath, forcing his emotions back under control. Whatever was coming, panic would only make it worse.
The door opened.
A man if average build stepped inside.
He looked strikingly similar to Nathaniel, as if years rather than blood separated them. The same sharp features. The same black hair. But where Nathaniel's eyes were silver, the man's were completely dark.
A long black coat hung from his frame, its edges trimmed neatly. A golden chain rested across his chest, subtle yet unmistakable in its authority.
His presence was not overwhelming, nor did he exert pressure on him.
Yet the moment he entered, the room felt smaller. His body automatically became tense, as he felt a sense of obedience crawling onto him.
There was a quiet certainty about him. A calm that suggested he was already in control of everything around him.
Including Nathaniel.
Nathaniel stepped forward and bowed.
"Father."
His posture was perfect. His movements precise. Every detail matched what was expected of a Wintermarch heir.
But his body trembled.
Not from fear of the man's strength, nor from intimidation by his presence. It was the fear of disappointing him, of failing to live up to his expectations, that made his frame shake the instinct drilled into him long before these memories ever existed.
From the outside, nothing seemed amiss.
From this angle, his father could not see his face.
And that was fortunate.
Nathaniel's expression was blank. Empty. Detached.Inside, his mind worked rapidly, replaying memories that were not his own, adjusting his breathing, his stance, his tone. perfecting the mannerisms of the old Nathaniel Wintermarch carefully imitating the fear and obedience his father expected to see.
A mask, worn flawlessly.
The man I now call father, "Rodric", was not known for strength. In fact, he isn't even a bloodweaver. No noble lineage runs through his veins. He was an ordinary man.
If I had to define him as a person, I'd say he's like that one German man with charisma, in a world where strength means everything. This man carved out a place for himself with his sharp mind, charismatic personality, and his uncanny ability to make other follow his lead. He reads a room like an open book, Many Bloodweavers from the wintermarch hang on his every word.
He weaves dreams from ashes of doubt, binding allies to his cause with words alone.
You ask how he become a Wintermarch? Obviously, marrying in. It's like a fairytale of an ordinary man marrying into royalty. If someone told me it was all part of his plan, I wouldn't even be surprised. I don't even know how he does it.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, that familiar glint in his eye cutting through my thoughts. "I came to remind you about tomorrow. Everything we worked on hinges on you. Tomorrow, you have to win, no matter what."
I didn't meet his gaze. I voiced my reply. "I know, Father. I've been training non-stop. The odds are in my favor and --"
He cut me off before I could continue. "Odds?"
His voice sharpened, slicing through my words. "We are not gambling here. It should happen. That's it. No excuse for failure. Tomorrow, you make it happen or everything crumbles."
"S-sorry, Father," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper, heat rising to my face. "I-I won't let you down."
He turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back. "Stop wasting time. Prepare well."
The moment he stepped out of the room, I almost felt pity for him.
Because he is just a dancing monkey, someone who is being played like a fiddle. In fact, Nathaniel was also dancing with him.