—Selvaria—
The letter had been written weeks ago.
Three drafts. One ink-stained sleeve. Two burned copies thrown into the hearth.
And yet here she was, sat in the eastern parlor of House Valacre, dressed in navy silk and guilt, rehearsing lines she would never say properly.
It wasn't nerves.
It was exhaustion.
Selvaria of House Idran, once betrothed to the heir of Valacre, had grown up with duty braided into her hair. Since the age of ten, her future had been decided. Arman Valacre was to be her husband.
Noble alliances. Political preservation. Land and bloodlines secured through cold contracts.
But Arman had made it harder than it had to be.
Spoiled. Arrogant. Uncaring.
He wasn't cruel in the loud, boorish way some nobles were. No. His cruelty was apathetic. He didn't see people. Not the servants. Not the knights. Not even her.
He never once remembered her birthday.
Not once asked about her studies or her swordsmanship. Never visited during her illnesses.
And the stories—gods, the stories. The late-night returns from the pleasure halls. The drunken duels in merchant alleys. The whispers of coin passed under tables to nobles who knew better.
She wanted to hate him.
And yet part of her still remembered the Arman who, once upon a time, knelt beside her when her dog had died. Before the weight of inheritance turned him to ash.
That boy was long gone.
This man—this version of Arman—was a stranger.
So when she sent the letter to request this meeting, it had not been with the rage she expected.
It was resignation.
She no longer feared him.
She no longer loved him.
She wanted closure.
And maybe, just a little, to look him in the eye and say:
"You never deserved me."
The maid who escorted her was courteous. A girl named Miren, she believed. Quiet. Sharp. Loyal.
Selvaria clasped her hands together and waited.
—Miren—
She hated mornings like this.
Too much perfume in the halls. Too many lords pacing like wolves. Too much politeness masking disgust.
And worst of all—him.
Arman Valacre.
She had served the Valacre estate for three years now. Since her brother died in the border raids and her mother sold their land, Miren had found herself scrubbing glass and silverware for noble houses who never learned her name.
But House Valacre had taken her in.
She respected the Count. The Lady. The estate knights and the stewards.
But the heir?
He was a walking disgrace.
Lazy. Late to his own duels. Obnoxiously flirtatious with passing maids. Never thanked them. Never saw them.
Miren had poured his tea every morning for the last year, and she could count on one hand the times he'd even glanced at her with recognition.
But this morning?
This morning was… strange.
When she brought the tea, she expected the usual.
Slumped posture. Drunk eyes. A groan. Maybe a complaint about the sun.
Instead, he had woken with a start. Sat bolt upright. Clutching at his own chest as if expecting a blade there.
His hands had trembled.
And when he looked at her, it wasn't through her.
It was at her.
He asked her name.
She didn't know what to say.
She'd brushed it off, assumed he was hungover—but no. There was something in his eyes. Like a man who had seen something that couldn't be unseen.
Something monstrous.
She didn't speak of it when she escorted the fiancée to the parlor.
But she watched him carefully.
And for the first time… she was uncertain.
—Arman—
He stood before the mirror, buttoning a coat that didn't quite fit.
The sleeves felt too tight. His collar too loose.
Everything about this body still felt borrowed.
The memory fragments were still blurry.
Arman Valacre. Eighteen. No magical affinity. A silver spoon fed failure of a noble heir.
Betrothed to Selvaria Idran since childhood.
He had never attended the academy. Never qualified. Entrance exam in one month. Level 1. No known combat ability. Reputation among the servants: poor.
All this came in flashes.
But the man who stood here now was not the boy who ruined his own name.
He was something else.
He was the one who refused.
The parlor was too quiet when he entered.
Selvaria stood by the window, arms crossed, blade resting at her hip.
Her eyes—sharp. Unforgiving. Beautiful in a way that made the room itself look plain.
Arman bowed.
Not stiffly.
Genuinely.
Selvaria turned.
She didn't smile.
"I'm surprised you came," she said, arms still crossed. "You usually ignore my letters."
"I wasn't myself," he said.
And meant it.
She narrowed her gaze.
He sat across from her. Poured tea. Quietly. No shaking hands.
"I won't drag this out," she said. "I'd like to dissolve the engagement."
He nodded.
No protest. No tantrum.
Just acceptance.
That startled her more than a slap would have.
"You agree?"
"I do."
Her hand on the cup froze.
"I don't think we've ever agreed on anything," she muttered.
"There's a first time for everything."
She looked at him—really looked—and something shifted in her gaze.
Not affection. Not nostalgia.
Curiosity.
"…Who are you?" she asked softly.
Before he could answer, something pinged in the corner of his vision.
> [Pending Reward: Final Warden Clear Drop Acquired]
>[initialising reward]
And the world shifted