Every member of the Wolfhard family was assigned their own personal battle maid upon reaching the age of six—the age when a Wolfhard was considered old enough and deemed worthy to sit and dine at the Patriarch's table, and the age when a Wolfhard first gripped the hilt of a blade in the name of swordsmanship. These women were no mere servants; they were shadows, ever-present. They became both guardian and confidante. Some grew to be surrogate mothers, their care a soft counterpoint to the family's martial rigor. Others, in whispered tales, became forbidden lovers, their hearts caught in a dance of duty and desire. Above all, they were shields—sworn to protect as much as to serve.
Such was the bond between Sushila and her battle maid, Ruby, who had devoted her entire life to her mistress. The warmth of her loyalty was unyielding, like a shield forged in the heat of devotion.
The selection ritual was simple and absolute. At six years old, a Wolfhard was required to choose a maid from among those presented before him. Some children chose beauty, some strength, and others a strategic mind. The maid had no say; once chosen, her life was no longer her own. From that day until death, she was bound to her master. If a Wolfhard fell first, tradition demanded the maid follow—to take her own life and continue serving him in the afterlife—or face the wrath of House Wolfhard, a fate worse than death. And if a maid perished while her master still lived, another would rise to take her place.
Today, this body turned six.
I stood in Sushila's chamber—my sanctuary from the moment I came into this world—while Zora, her battle maid, dressed me as though I were a toddler. I stood, a child in body but not in mind, as she adjusted my collar with care.
"Allow me to fix his cravat, Zora," Sushila said, her voice warm as summer honey. Zora stepped aside, her expression as unreadable as stone, as I crossed the room to Sushila's bedside.
"I can't believe it. You're finally six." Sushila's hands worked at the fabric with practiced ease. "Time flies. It feels like yesterday I was breastfeeding you."
"Mom!" I protested, heat rising to my cheeks.
"What? It's nothing to be ashamed of," she teased. "I know it's hard to believe, but even I, your mother, was once an infant who was breastfed. Even Zora here was." She glanced at her maid. "Isn't that right, Zora?"
"That's right, ma'am," Zora replied, her voice a flat echo, betraying no flicker of emotion.
"And now you're getting your own room." Sushila's smile turned theatrical. "With my little hero gone, who will protect me from the monsters of the night?" She dabbed at her eyes in exaggerated sorrow.
"Zora, please protect my dear mother from the monsters of the night. I would hate for her to have sleepless nights." I caught the maid's eye with a smile. She nodded once.
Sushila pouted, her lips a playful curve. "You're just as cold as your father," she said, finishing the knot of my cravat with a flourish. Then, her eyes lit with sudden inspiration. "Oh, right. Since I didn't get you a gift for your birthday, I know what will complete your outfit." She reached up, unfastening a single silver earring from her left ear—a delicate hoop adorned with a tiny crescent moon, its twin gleaming on her right.
"It'll sting a bit," she warned, and before I could protest, she pierced the earring through my left earlobe.
"Ouch, it hurts," I said as pain flared, sharp and bright, while a bead of blood welled.
"Don't be such a baby," Sushila chided gently. "Please heal him, Zora."
Zora's voice rose in a soft chant, her words weaving a faint shimmer of magic. The bleeding ceased, though the piercing throbbed, tender and raw.
"These belonged to my ancestor—the only one to escape his burning kingdom. When they found him, he had nothing but these two earrings." Sushila adjusted the metal carefully. "Now you have one and I have one. We'll stay connected, even if we're far apart."
My grandmother's voice echoed in my memory—she would have called a boy who wore earrings a delinquent. The thought tugged a faint, bittersweet smile to my lips.
"Thank you, Mother. I'll treasure it," I said, my smile genuine despite the ache in my chest.
In the novel, these earrings were the only thing Sushila left her son before taking her own life. The Earrings of Semilunar. They were not artifacts, nor enchanted relics. Simply an heirloom from a forgotten kingdom, passed down through generations until they reached her.
Sushila beamed, her eyes bright with pride. "Look at him, Zora. Doesn't he look like a young gentleman?"
"Yes, ma'am, he does." Zora's expression never changed.
Sushila's smile faltered, a shadow passing over her features. "I wish I was there to see you choose your maid. It's a big event, but because of my legs…" Her voice caught, but she quickly masked it with a radiant smile.
"It'll only bore you. It's really nothing special, Mother," I said softly.
A knock interrupted us. Reginald, the head butler, entered with a bow, his silver hair catching the sunlight. "I greet the mistress and the young master. The Patriarch requests your presence. It's time for the ceremony."
"Thank you, Mother. Zora," I said, my voice steady. "I must go—they're waiting."
"Good luck, and don't forget to pick Raina," Sushila called as I stepped toward the door.
"This is the hundredth time today you've told me that," I said with a smile, glancing back before leaving the room.
---
The courtyard was crowded. My siblings, the Patriarch, his wives—all stood like carved statues, their eyes fixed on me. Before me, a row of maids stretched in solemn silence, faces blank, eyes lowered.
Reginald's voice rang out, clear and commanding. "We gather today to witness the young master, Arthur Romaeus van Wolfhard II, choose his maid, the one bound to him until death."
My palms grew slick with sweat. I'm sorry, Sushila, I thought. Unlike the original Arthur, I can't choose Raina. Not in this life.
"It's time, young master," Reginald said, his tone expectant.
I drew a breath and stepped forward, my voice steady despite the tremor in my heart.
"As you all know, I'm an illegitimate son with a shattered mana core. I will not burden you with my troubles, nor force you to dedicate your lives to someone like me. Unlike those who came before and followed tradition for years, I will not choose your paths for you. Instead, the one who truly wishes to serve me may step forward."
Silence. Even the birds had gone quiet.
The maids stared at the ground, their stillness a refusal to meet my gaze. The Patriarch frowned in displeasure. One of my siblings scoffed, quickly stifled. One of the Patriarch's wives hid her smirk behind a flabellum, its feathers trembling with her amusement.
Whispers slithered through the line of maids, their voices low but cutting. "I was scared thinking he was going to choose me," one murmured.
"Who would be dumb enough to step forward? Forget about illegitimate—he doesn't even have a mana core," another hissed.
"I guess we're lucky he's just a kid, but if no one steps forward, won't the Patriarch choose for him?" said a third.
No one will step forward, I told myself. No one should.
Then—movement.
A single figure broke the line.
No, not you.
Raina.
Please stop.
She knelt before me, one knee pressed against the cold stone, her head bowed.
"I, Raina, bind my soul and steel to Arthur Romaeus van Wolfhard II. His breath is my breath; his wound, my wound. Should death come for him, it must first claim me. Until the grave sunders bone from spirit, I am his living armor, his live shadow, his breathing sword—forged in this vow until my final breath is spent in his stead. Should the reaper hunger, let it feast upon me first—only when my heart's final beat stills and my blade falls may darkness touch him. This I swear, in blood and bone, till death's cold scythe severs our bond."
My heart ached. Why, Raina? I wanted you to be free. To live unburdened by my cursed fate.
But her choice was made, and it was final.
Reginald handed me a sword, and I had no choice but to proceed with the accolade.
I tapped Raina's shoulders with the sword.
"Please rise, Raina," I said, and she obeyed.
Reginald approached, holding a set of keys.
"Congratulations on finally having a maid. It's a big day. These are the keys to your room, young master." He bowed low.
"Thank you, Reginald." I turned to Grael. "Father—I mean, Patriarch—I have a favor."
"What is it?" His frown deepened.
"I want my mother's chair at the dining table."
Grael's laugh was a low rumble. "And what do I gain from indulging your request? Why would Sushila's seat be honored at my table when she's crippled? Even if she wasn't, what makes you think I'd agree to dine with a lowborn?"
"Because I'm a Wolfhard," I declared, my voice ringing with defiance.
He laughed again. "A Wolfhard, huh? Then prove it—if you manage to defeat one of your siblings, I'll grant your wish. Wolfhards are fighters. Prove to me you're a fighter." He gestured toward my siblings. "Choose. Which one will it be?"
"Young master—" Raina whispered, trying to stop me, but I'd already decided.
Without hesitation, my gaze fell on Caesar.
In the novel, in this very arc, this moment had played out before. Arthur—still a child—had longed to see his crippled mother's chair at the table beside him, even if she couldn't walk, even if she never came. He still believed one day she would walk again. He hadn't known she would die within a few years. He'd chosen Caesar because he was closer to his age, believing naively that his brother's youth made him a fair opponent. He had been wrong. Caesar's cruelty had left him broken, unconscious for days, while Grael turned away, dismissing the fight as pathetic. But I was not that Arthur. I knew this story, and I would rewrite it.
Reginald brought two wooden swords, their edges dull.
The rules were simple: the first to drop their sword would lose.
"Since I'm your older brother and you have no mana core," Caesar grinned in arrogance, "I'll let you strike first. I won't even dodge."
Using my own lines against me, huh?
In the novel, I wrote: Arthur had been genuinely delighted by the offer. He had bowed respectfully, a spark of hope in his eyes, and even attempted a friendly strike, trusting that Caesar would honor his word. But Caesar's grin twisted cruelly. "On the battlefield, you shouldn't trust your opponent—it could lead to your death," he said, his voice dripping with cruelty. Without warning, he struck—beating Arthur bloody, laughing as he slammed him into unconsciousness. That single act of betrayal marked the beginning of relentless torment—the first moment Arthur learned that trust could be weaponized against him.
I widened my eyes, feigning childish innocence. "You'd really do that for me, big brother? Is this like the knight's Code of Chivalry from the stories Mother used to read? You're the best! You're just like a real knight! When I grow up, I want to be just like you!"
Laughter rippled through the courtyard, the crowd charmed by my apparent naïveté.
Caesar's grin widened, his pride swelling. "You know what, little brother? This older brother won't use his aura. I swear on the Patriarch's name."
Got him.
I knew my character. Caesar was ego-driven and prideful. His pride was his Achilles' heel, a flaw I had written into his character. Flatter him, and he'd lower his guard, leaving himself vulnerable.
I charged forward, wooden sword raised, pretending to strike, counting silently. Five, four, three, two, one—
I leaped back just as Caesar's sword swung, missing me by inches. In that split second, I drove my fist into his throat, the impact sharp and precise.
He choked, staggered.
As he clutched his neck, gasping, I swung my wooden sword like a baseball bat, striking his face with all my strength.
Blood sprayed, dripping to the cobblestones from his shattered nose. The courtyard fell silent, shock rippling through the onlookers.
I knew Caesar's moves, his tells, his every feint. I had crafted this fight in the novel, and I would not lose it now.
I let out a low whistle, long and mocking. "That's gotta hurt. If it was a real sword, your head would be rolling."
"Thanks for the first attack, knight in shining armor." I beckoned with a finger. "Come at me. Now it's your turn, dear brother."
Fury contorted his features. He charged—sword in his right hand.
Who are you fooling? You're left-handed, you southpaw bastard, I thought, anticipating the feint.
In the last seconds, he shifted the sword to his left hand, trying to regain his dominance.
I had already adjusted, my sword parrying his in perfect counter—his eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his features.
Now to make him drop it.
I needed him angry, reckless enough to break his oath and use his aura—invoking the Patriarch's name in vain.
An opening presented itself. Like kicking a football toward goal, I drove my right foot into his groin with everything I had.
His sword clattered to the ground as he collapsed to his knees with a strangled cry.
Now for the words that would ignite his fury.
I leaned in, my voice venomous. "I guess no more kids for you. You're just as good as someone who's been castrated. Forget the patriarchy and leave it to us—it requires heirs. Maybe you should join the church instead."
The crowd went silent. Even Reginald didn't announce a winner. One of my older siblings broke the silence and chuckled. "Guess the bastard's got more balls than you after that one."
And that caused a chorus of snickers, like knives in Caesar's pride.
"Did you hear what he said to him? He became a eunuch before his manhood even came in," a servant whispered.
"Maybe he should wear the maid's apron instead of a sword," another said.
Another added, "Even without a core, he carries the strength of the founder. I think Raina saw what we all couldn't."
"At least the Church takes geldings—perhaps he'll find a place there," whispered another.
A few maids stifled giggles, heads bowed but shoulders trembling.
Caesar's face contorted, his pride shattered. He scrambled to his feet, snatching his sword. His aura exploded outward—a blazing emerald that pressed against the air, a testament to his prodigious talent. The air itself seemed to groan under its weight as he charged.
Before my body could react, he was there. Something warm trickled down my neck. Pain came a heartbeat later.
Blood. The dull wooden sword had grazed my throat, impossibly sharp with his aura's enhancement.
He raised his sword again, his eyes wild with fury. Fear gripped me, my body frozen like a rabbit before a wolf.
Before the blow could land, Grael's aura crashed across the courtyard like thunder, forcing everyone to their knees—me, Caesar, all the onlookers, including his wives and my siblings.
"Caesar!" The Patriarch's voice cracked like thunder. "What do you think you're doing? You lost. The rule clearly said—first to drop their sword forfeits. You dropped yours. You gave your word you would not use your aura, swearing on my name. Is this how you show me respect? Do you dare insult me?" His killing intent pressed down like a physical weight. "And you lost to someone without a drop of aura. Pathetic. Not once, when your sword fell, but twice, when you dishonored your vow."
Caesar trembled under Grael's killing intent, his bravado crumbling. I exhaled, my heart pounding. If Grael hadn't intervened, I would have died.
Call this win cowardly. Call it dirty. I didn't care. I had no mana core to defend myself with.
Whispers spread among the witnesses. The Patriarch's wives wore expressions of pure disdain.
Fix your faces, hags.
I will not be bullied in this life.
The Patriarch paused at the edge of the courtyard. He said, "You bled for it, boy. That's proof enough. Wolfhards are fighters. And so are you."
"Reginald," Grael commanded, his voice final, "get Sushila a chair and place it beside Arthur's."
He turned and strode away, his cloak snapping in the wind.
I had won. I had made enemies. But above all—I had secured a seat for my mother.