The library of Castle Götthain was not a grand place. It was a single rectangular room with tall, dark oak shelves holding more dust than wisdom. Yet, for Albert, it was a fortress.
Here, among tedious harvest reports and dusty genealogies, he could find fragments of his new world—the era's war strategies, records of border disputes, outdated agricultural treatises.
That day, his eyes traced the pages of a crumbling manuscript titled "Infantry Tactics of the Helvetian Mountains." His hands, still remembering the ache from training with Gregor, turned the pages carefully.
Slope-based defensive formations, the use of light troops as harassers... the patterns mirrored the mountain guerilla warfare from his past life, only with chainmail and arrows replacing camouflage uniforms and rifles.
The peace was shattered not by an explosion, but by a familiar, heavy knock on the door.
"Enter," Albert called, without looking up.
The old manservant, Sebastian, opened the door. His face, wrinkled like tree bark, looked awkward. "Young Master. His Lordship the Baron summons you. In his study. Immediately."
That "immediately" was unusual. Baron Friedrich was not a man given to panic. A sudden summons in the middle of the day usually meant trouble—taxes, border issues, or bad news from the capital.
Albert marked his page with a leather ribbon and stood. "What is the matter, Sebastian?"
"His Lordship did not explain, Young Master," the servant replied, avoiding his gaze. "But... the Baroness is with him."
His mother was there too. That meant it was a family matter. Not merely administrative. A small, cold thread of anxiety began to coil in his chest. Was something wrong with them? Or... with him?
He followed Sebastian through the cold stone corridors. The sound of his own footsteps echoed, sounding too loud in his ears. He tried to remain calm, recalling Gregor's lessons: Control your breath. Read the terrain.
The terrain in his father's study, as Sebastian opened the door, was one of thinly veiled tension.
Baron Friedrich stood before the fireplace, his back straight, but his shoulders seemed slightly rigid. Lady Elara sat in a high-backed chair by the window, her knitting needles still in her lap. Her expression was gentle, but a fine line of worry was etched between her slender brows.
"Father. Mother," Albert greeted, offering a short bow. "You sent for me?"
Friedrich turned. His face, usually so cold and controlled, looked... strange today. There was a sort of restlessness, or perhaps forced enthusiasm. "Albert. Sit."
Albert sat in the indicated chair, directly across from his father's large wooden desk. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"We have received a visitation," Friedrich began, his hand worrying a lump of inkstone on his desk. "An envoy from Earl Lancaster, of the Lanser lands, at the foot of the Ironpeak Mountains."
Earl Lancaster. The name was vaguely familiar from geography lessons. A wealthier, more strategic neighboring territory than Götthain, famed for its quality iron mines and its longbowmen. But what did they have to do with them?
"The envoy brought news and a confirmation," Lady Elara continued, her voice softer, trying to soothe. "Regarding... an old compact."
Albert frowned. "A compact? What does it have to do with us, Mother?"
Friedrich took a deep breath, as if gathering courage for something. "It has everything to do with you, Albert. And the Earl of Lancaster's daughter."
The room suddenly felt airless.
"The Earl's... daughter?" Albert repeated, his mind spinning. An alliance? "Are we forming an alliance with Lancaster? Do they request military aid? Or passage rights?"
Friedrich and Elara exchanged a look. The Baron finally forced the words out. "Not an alliance in the common sense, son. This is... more personal. Years ago, even before you were born, Earl Richard—the girl's father—and I served together on the eastern frontier. We saved each other's lives. As a pledge of friendship and a guarantee for the future, we... made an arrangement."
Albert froze. The pieces began to click together in his mind, forming a picture that made his stomach churn.
"An arrangement to unite our houses," Lady Elara finished for her husband, her voice nearly a whisper. "Through the marriage of our children."
BOOM.
The explosion was silent, but felt inside his skull. A muffling pressure, replacing the roar of artillery. Marriage. Children.
"Children..." Albert murmured, his voice sounding alien to his own ears. "Meaning... me? And... the Earl's daughter?"
"Yes, Albert," said Friedrich, now with a tone of attempted reassurance. "You are betrothed. Since you were both infants. And the envoy came to remind us of that commitment, and to bring word that Lady Alena—that is her name—will be visiting tomorrow. To... make your acquaintance."
Tomorrow.
The world around Albert seemed to tilt. The library, war tactics, training with Gregor, village visits—all of it was suddenly swept away by this ludicrous, terrifying reality.
He had a fiancée. A noble girl he'd never even seen. And she was arriving tomorrow.
"Wait... isn't it winter? Why would they come now?" he blurted out.
"I cannot say, perhaps they have their own reasons..." Friedrich said uncertainly.
"How old..." Albert coughed, clearing his suddenly dry throat. "How old is she?"
Friedrich frowned, as if the question were odd. "Her age? She is of an age with you, of course. Perhaps a few months' difference. Why?"
Of an age. Twelve years old. Twelve...
In Albert's mind, a voice—the voice of Dilan, older, cynical, and wounded—almost screamed a protest. Twelve years old! That's still a child!
In his old world, children that age were busy with schoolwork, playing games, or just beginning to feel the rumblings of puberty. Not being betrothed for a political marriage!
But that voice was swiftly suppressed, drowned out by a cold current of historical rationale. This was not his old world. This was a medieval, feudal world. Marriages at 12, 13, 14 were commonplace, especially among the nobility. This was about alliances, inheritance, securing lands. Not about love or emotional readiness.
He knew this. He had read about it. But knowing it in theory and facing it head-on were as different as heaven and earth.
Breathe. Control, Gregor's voice whispered in his head. Read the terrain. Show no weakness.
He clenched his fists under the table, his nails digging into his sweaty palms. His face, trained by years of hiding his older soul, struggled to remain neutral.
"I... understand," he said at last, the words measured. "It's just... why was I never told before now?"
Now, Friedrich's face showed a rare hint of sheepish color. He looked away toward the fire. "That... was an oversight on my part. I intended to tell you when you turned ten, after your foundational lessons on aristocracy. But then there was the issue with the village taxes, then the poor winter, then... reports from the border." He sighed, weary.
"Life here, Albert, is full of 'and thens.' And before I knew it, time had passed. And now the envoy is at our gate." He looked at his son. "Forgive me. This is my failing. I... forgot."
Forgot. The simple word hung in the air, tasting more bitter than any accusation.
His father had forgotten about the betrothal that would shape the future of his only son. Forgotten because of 'more pressing' affairs—taxes, winters, war.
In that bitterness, Albert almost smiled sardonically. In the priority scheme of a hard-pressed frontier baron, his son's betrothal—even to an Earl's family—could apparently be trumped by administrative duties.
It was profoundly sad, and somehow, profoundly human.
"It's alright, Father," Albert said, and even he was surprised by how flat his voice was. "I understand the burdens you carry. It is... merely a shock."
Lady Elara, moving to his side. She placed a hand on Albert's shoulder. "She is an Earl's daughter, Albert. Well-educated. Fair to look upon, by all accounts. This is a good opportunity for us, for Götthain. A connection that could... shelter us in these difficult times." In her eyes, Albert read the unspoken message: With the threat of taxes and conscription hanging over us, we need a powerful ally.
It was logical. Even brilliant from a political survival standpoint. But the logic felt like a stone in his gut.
"So, tomorrow?" Albert asked.
"Tomorrow noon," Friedrich confirmed, looking more relieved now that his son wasn't protesting. "She will be escorted by a suitable guard and a handmaiden. We will receive them with due honor. You," he looked directly at Albert, "must be impeccable. Courteous, dignified, showing the quality of a scion of House Götterbaum. We cannot afford to be embarrassed."
Be impeccable. Albert gave a slow nod. It was another order, another mission.
The objective: to charm, to display strength, to secure the alliance. The terrain: the drawing room. His weapons: his bearing, his words, and his pretense.
"Understood, Father."
***
That night, Albert could not sleep. He stood at the window as usual, but this time he did not watch the moon. His thoughts churned.
Alena vin Lancester the only daughter of the lord of the Lanser lands. A strange girl his own age, whose life was now tied to his by a promise from two fathers, one of whom had forgotten all about it.
What did she think of all this? Was she just as shocked? Or had she been raised for this from the cradle, accepting it as her destiny?
His mother, during the silent evening meal, had supplied more information in a low voice. "Earl Richard, her father, was grievously wounded in a northern battle ten years past. An injury to his... lower body. They say he can sire no more children. Lady Alena is his sole heir."
That piece of the puzzle fell into place with a loud, ugly click.
Of course.
That was why his father, beneath the apologies and oversights, had seemed almost... eager. This was not just a betrothal. This was a ticket to something greater.
If Earl Richard died—and an injury like that in a world without antibiotics or modern surgery could easily turn fatal—then Alena would inherit Lancaster. And as her husband, Albert would hold effective control over that territory in his wife's name. Tiny, poor Götthain could suddenly become attached to a richer, more strategic domain.
It was a dream scenario for a frontier baron like Friedrich. It was also a dangerously high-stakes power play.
There would be other nobles, closer relatives, perhaps even the crown itself, who would look askance at such a shift in power. His father might be too blinded by the prospective gain to see the lurking peril fully.
***
The next day, Castle Götthain hummed with unusual activity.
Old tapestries were beaten free of dust, heirloom silverware normally kept locked away was brought out and polished to a shine, and the scent of roasting meats and sweet pastries filled the air. A performance of prosperity, however hollow.
Albert stood in his chamber, letting the old manservant help him into a fine dark green woolen tunic—the Götterbaum color, taken from their eye shade—with simple silver-thread embroidery at the edges.
It was his best clothing, and it made him feel like a dressed-up doll.
"Steady, Young Master," Sebastian whispered as he fastened his leather belt. "She is but a young lady."
But a young lady, Albert thought with bitter irony. A young lady who could chart the course of my life.
He descended to the front courtyard just as a small trumpet sounded the arrival. His heart, which he had vainly tried to master, pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He hadn't expected it to race like this outside a battlefield.
A small cavalcade of riders entered the gate. About a dozen in all: guards in mail and deep crimson cloaks—the Lancaster color—several attendants, and a simple covered carriage.
And at their forefront, riding an elegant white palfrey, was a girl.
Albert, compelled by years of training in feudal courtesy, immediately dropped his gaze to the ground. But the first impression was already caught, seared into his mind like a flash of lightning.
She was small. Her hair, intricately braided and coiled beneath a fine crimson net, was the color of burnished copper, catching the weak winter sun. She wore a simple but perfectly cut traveling gown of dark brown, with a fur collar of sable brushing against her pale cheeks.
The procession halted. A guard swiftly dismounted and helped the girl down from the saddle. Her movements were graceful, practiced. She stepped forward, followed by an older woman who was surely her handmaiden.
Baron Friedrich and Lady Elara moved to greet her. So did Albert, following the rehearsed rhythm.
"Welcome to Götthain, Lady Alena vin Lancaster," Friedrich declared in a hearty, performatively gracious voice. "Your journey must have been wearying."
The girl executed a perfect curtsy, graceful and precise. "Thank you for your welcome, My lord. My father, Earl Richard Lancaster, sends his greetings and goodwill." Her voice. It was clear, un-trembling, and had a cold, bell-like quality. Not childish, but not mature either. Controlled.
Then, her eyes—warm, earthy brown—shifted from the Baron and Baroness, and landed on Albert.
And for the first time, her flawless control cracked, just for a fraction of a second. Her eyes widened a touch. She is surprised too, Albert thought. Perhaps she had imagined a childish boy, or a coarse lout. Whatever it was, Albert—with his upright posture, his steady gaze, and that strange aura of premature maturity—was not what she had expected.
Albert bowed gracefully, as he had been drilled. "Lady Alena vin Lancaster. I am Albert vin Götterbaum. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
He spoke the words, the polished, empty phrases, while his mind worked at full speed. He noted everything: her stance (balanced, alert), the way her eyes took in her surroundings (swift, analytical), how she had concealed her surprise (quick, nearly perfect). It was like looking into a mirror—a child forced to grow up too fast, playing a role demanded by their birth.
Alena returned a smaller curtsy. "My lord. The pleasure is mine, at last." An equally polished phrase, yet in her warm brown eyes, Albert saw a flicker of something: wariness? Curiosity? Or perhaps relief that she wasn't betrothed to some foul-looking oaf? He couldn't tell.
"Let us go inside," his mother invited warmly, breaking the tension. "We have prepared refreshments to ease the weariness of your travel."
As host, Albert was expected to offer his arm to Alena. He did so, the movement stiff.
Alena, after a moment's hesitation, placed the tips of her gloved fingers lightly on his arm. The touch was feather-light, almost imperceptible.
They walked toward the castle's great door, their parents ahead. The sound of the Baron and Baroness's polite chatter filled the silence between them.
Albert stared straight ahead. "Was your journey from Lancaster uneventful, Lady Alena?"
"Tolerably so, thank you. The roads were frozen in places, but we met no trouble." Her reply was brief, formal.
"Winter is setting in harshly."
"Indeed."
A beat of silence.
"I hope this visit will proceed smoothly," he offered, another line from the script of noble small talk.
"As do I," she replied, her tone giving nothing away.