[Leif's Pov—Later]
According to the original story, after I swore the oath before the saintess, she was supposed to gain recognition. That was the turning point—the moment she began mingling with the nobles, charming them one by one, until the most powerful houses bent to her will. That was where the real plot began.
But me? Oh, I had to go and trip on the storyline, didn't I?I messed it up—just a little.… Fine, maybe a lot.
But who the hell cares? Certainly not me.
Because, my friends… I have the most precious treasure in the world—
TA-DAAAAA!!! Cue sparkle, cue shine.
I stood proudly near the cart sent by my father. The maids and servants busied themselves unloading boxes, but me? I hugged one of the glass bottles like it was my long-lost lover.
"MY BEER! My life! My one and only TRUE LOVE!" I declared dramatically, kissing the label. "Finally—after a looot of struggle, I finally got you… my holy water, my sweet bitter syrup~~~"
My crimson babies and all the loyal knights stared at me like I'd lost the last three screws in my head.
"Even though you're not chilled yet," I whispered lovingly to the bottle, "I know you'll be cold in a second."
And then—
"YOU SURE LOVE DRINKING BEER."
"GAHHHH!" I shrieked, nearly dropping my holy water to the ground. My head whipped around so fast I almost gave myself whiplash.
And there he was.
Alvar Ragnulfsson. Mr. Frosty himself. Standing there like he'd stepped out of a Gucci winter campaign—tall, sharp-jawed, and devastatingly handsome. Arms folded. Eyes colder than a glacier.
"You—!" I jabbed a finger at him. "Can you, I don't know, make some sound when you walk? You nearly made me kill my holy water!"
He blinked at me. Then at the beer bottle. Then back at me.
"…Yeah. I'm sorry."
I froze.
Wait. Did—did Mr. Frosty just say sorry?Holy hops and barley. I didn't think his mouth was capable of producing those words.
But then… a mischievous thought sparked.
I glanced at my unchilled beer. Then at Alvar. Then back at my beer. A wicked grin spread across my face. Before I could stop myself, I pressed the cold glass bottle against his cheek.
Silence.
I blinked.
He blinked.
The maids blinked. My crimson knights blinked. Hell, even the snowflakes paused midair just to blink.
His brows furrowed. His voice was low, dangerous, and so not amused. "…What the hell are you doing?"
I smiled sweetly. Innocently. "Well… you're colder than the snow here. Soooo, I thought—maybe my beer will chill faster on your face."
WHOOSH~~
The wind itself seemed to gasp. The knights' jaws dropped, and the maids tried (and failed) to stifle giggles. One of them actually snorted.
Alvar's gaze sliced toward them like a blade of ice. Instantly, they snapped to attention, choking down their laughter.
Then… his eyes cut back to me.
Oh. Shit.
Alvar's boots crunched against the snow as he closed the distance between us. Step by step. His shadow swallowed mine until there was nothing left but frost and tension. And then—bam—he leaned in.
Close. Too close. Face-to-face-close.
I froze, beer bottle still hovering in my hand like the world's dumbest sword. My brain short-circuited. Error 404: chill not found.
Oh no.Ohhh no-no-no-no.
Why the hell is he this close? Do we not have a law about personal space in medieval-fantasy-land?!! Someone call the police—or at least HR, because I feel harassed by cheekbones.
Alvar leaned in so close our noses almost touched. His eyes, sharp as glacier blades, narrowed on me. The whole world froze. (Literally. I swear the temperature dropped by five degrees. Do y'all see? He's not a man. He's an air conditioner with legs.)
My heartbeat? Yeah, it betrayed me. Loud. Obnoxious. Like war drums in my chest.
His voice came low, quiet, and dangerous enough to make even the knights behind him shift uneasily.
"Do you… enjoy playing with fire, Lief?"
I swallowed. "Uh… only when it keeps my beer cold."
"Do you always speak this much nonsense?" he muttered, and his breath ghosted against my skin.
I squeaked. (Yes. Squeaked. Like a rubber duck at a crime scene.)
My beer hand wobbled dangerously. "D-Don't move closer! If my holy beer water falls, your icy reputation will never recover!"
I shoved Alvar back a step, pressing my palm to his perfectly tailored chest as if he were some overzealous door-to-door salesman.
"And also—please, for the love of hops—stop seducing me with your looks. It's unfair."
He blinked. Slowly. Like a frozen glacier thinking about melting.
And then—
"My… lord…"
Baron Sigrud appeared at the side like he had been waiting behind the curtain for his line in a play. I tilted my head toward him, still clutching my bottle.
"Yes, Baron? Don't tell me you also want to steal my beer."
"No, my lord." The baron said and he cleared his throat. "Could we… perhaps… deliver some of these goods to the villagers outside the gate?"
"Villagers?" I breathed, my voice catching. Past the wrought-iron gates, a mass had gathered—men with hollow cheeks, women clutching children too frail to stand.
Their eyes weren't merely watching. They were fixed on the crates behind us with a hunger so raw it felt like it might consume the wood itself.
My joy shriveled like spilled beer on snow as I saw desperate faces.
"What are they doing here?" My words came out softer than I intended.
Baron Sigrud stepped forward, his face tight. "They must have seen the food cart entering, my lord."
Alvar's voice cut through the air, steady but edged with steel. "They look… starved." His gaze swept over them, cold and unyielding as winter itself. "I wonder...Why?"
The baron bowed his head, as though the answer itself weighed on him. "This land yields almost nothing in the cold months. No grain. No vegetables. They survive on dried fish, roots, or broth made from scraps. Even that is running thin. Many have not eaten a full meal in weeks, my lord."
The silence that followed was heavy. Only the sound of the gates groaning under desperate hands broke it—fingers clawing, trembling, pleading without words.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. The children clung to their mothers, eyes wide, too large for their thin faces. The men did not look angry—they looked defeated. Resigned. That was worse.
Behind me, the maids shifted uneasily.
My chest tightened.
"...Baron." My voice came low, steadier than I felt. "Keep two boxes within the estate. The rest—distribute among them. I'll send word to my father. He must send more. Enough so that no one here looks like a ghost in their own home again."
The baron froze, then bent deeply, his voice rough with restrained emotion. "Yes, my lord."
At his signal, knights moved forward, unlocking the gates. The villagers surged—not with violence, but with tears. Some wept openly; others pressed trembling hands together in prayer. Children reached forward as though unable to believe food was real.
I turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer.
Beside me, Alvar spoke quietly, his words carrying more weight than any praise. "…You did well."
I stiffened but said nothing. The relief in the villagers' faces should have been enough—yet in his tone, there was something sharper, unyielding.
Then he added, his gaze never leaving the desperate crowd, "But you understand… this is not the solution."
I turned to him, searching his face. "Then what should we do?"
His eyes followed the line of villagers as they clutched their boxes like treasures, as if the food might vanish from their arms at any moment. "Hunger doesn't end with handouts. When the crates are empty, they'll starve again. If we cannot give them a way to endure, this cycle will repeat until it breaks them—or us."
His words settled like cold iron in my chest. He was right.
I drew a slow breath, forcing myself to meet his steady gaze. "Then we shall find a way. Together."