In the morning, Royfield quietly entered Lord Arlecia's bedroom, setting about the familiar routine. The calming aroma of freshly brewed rosemary tea filled the room, its sweet, soothing fragrance drifting through the air.
Seth awoke at his usual time, stretching slightly before sitting up. Today, he chose a more casual noble outfit: a crisp, white, high-collared shirt adorned with a sapphire clasp at the throat, its gem catching the morning light. He paired it with tailored black trousers and a deep navy velvet overcoat, intricately embroidered with silver threads along the edges. The sapphire at his collar added a touch of regal elegance to his otherwise relaxed attire.
Once dressed, he headed to his office, where he met briefly with Claire to discuss the estate's current business affairs. Over the past weeks, Seth had become more familiar with the daily responsibilities of being Lord Arlecia. It was a strange but welcome routine, a rhythm he had started to understand.
Sometimes, he visited the training grounds to watch the knights spar or even practice swordplay himself. Other days, he wandered the castle halls, inspecting rooms and observing the staff at work. On occasion, he would find solace in the garden gazebo, dozing off to the calming murmur of the marble fountain.
Today, however, the rain tapped persistently against the windows, a heavy downpour that painted the world outside in shades of gray. Seth stood by the window, his gaze distant as he watched the rainfall.
It's been raining more than usual, he thought. It's still summer, yet the air feels colder, as though winter is arriving early.
Arlecia's climate was known for its mountain weather. Summers were cool and mild, but winters were harsh and unforgiving. This year seemed to promise a particularly brutal season.
Seth thought of Killian and the anger the young man carried. He couldn't blame him. The previous Lord Arlecia had abandoned the people in their time of greatest need, leaving them to suffer through a merciless winter without food or shelter. Thousands had perished, victims of cold and starvation. Royfield's report from that year was grim, a testament to the original Seth's cruelty.
Seth's expression remained unreadable as he contemplated this. It wasn't truly his sin—it was the original Seth's, the tyrant he had read about in the novel. Yet, the responsibility now lay on his shoulders.
He sat down near the window, the rain drumming a steady rhythm against the glass. The life he lived now still felt shrouded in mystery. How had he come to be here, in this world he had once known only as fiction? Why was he still alive when he should have perished, his body left broken on the battlefield beside his fallen comrades?
I still have no answer, he thought, frustration flickering through his mind.
He raised a hand, and a small blue flame sprang to life at his fingertips. The ethereal fire danced, casting ghostly light across his palm. This power was another mystery. In the novel, the Unseen Lord was an enigmatic figure, described only as an outsider—a deity who watched the rise and fall of civilizations, a presence that didn't belong to this world.
Seth flicked his wrist, extinguishing the flame. His thoughts felt heavy, weighed down by unanswered questions.
Both this world and my past one share a grim fate, he thought, recalling the apocalyptic invasion he had faced on Earth. The Red Gates had opened, and hellish creatures had poured through, wreaking havoc. He remembered the terror, the desperation, and how he and his comrades had fought to their last breath. Cerberus had been his end.
Five years, or maybe sooner, he mused, his expression darkening. Will I be ready when it happens again?
Leaning back in his chair, Seth took a deep breath, trying to calm the tension in his body. The power he wielded now was greater than what he had known in his past life, but he was well aware that such power always came with a price.
Great power demands a great price, he thought. If death is the cost, I'll pay it. As long as I can fulfill my purpose.
He allowed the rain's soothing cadence to wash over him, the weight of his thoughts slowly fading into the background. For now, he let himself be still, simply listening to the storm and feeling the present moment.
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Claire sat at her desk in the estate office, her workspace cluttered with documents and reports. Her pen moved swiftly as she tackled each estate management issue, her mind focused but restless. Each proposal she submitted to Lord Arlecia was approved without question, which made her wonder.
Does the lord trust me that much, or does he simply not want to be bothered reading through them?
Despite her curiosity, she found it difficult to complain. His swift approvals allowed her to push through critical projects without delay. The reconstruction plans for the town had been greenlit, including better housing in the slum districts and the establishment of a clean water system.
One proposal she was particularly invested in involved reinforcing the riverbank with proper revetments. With the heavy rains growing more frequent, it was vital to protect the town from devastating floods.
But even as she worked, her thoughts drifted to her brother, Clark. Worry gnawed at her. Lord Arlecia had assured her that Sir Aiden was bringing Clark back to Arlecia, but the weather made her anxious. The muddy roads were treacherous, and Clark's fragile state made every delay feel like a blow.
Clark's illness, called the Black Death, was a terrifying enigma. No one understood its cause, nor had anyone found a cure. The lord had promised to help her find one, but time was running out, and fear gripped her heart with every passing day. Clark was her only family, her greatest and most precious bond.
Their mother had died giving birth to them, and their father had always been indifferent, barely acknowledging their existence. House Robert had been a cold place, full of whispers and exclusion. But through it all, Clark had been her light, her constant source of strength. Even when life grew dark, they had faced it together.
The illness had robbed Clark of his vitality. It had started with discomfort in his chest, then black marks had spread across his skin like twisted, inky roots. At first, he could carry on, but as the disease progressed, he had fallen into a comatose state. The last time Claire saw him, the marks had covered his entire body, and the smell—an unbearable, rotting stench—had been so strong that it was hard to breathe around him.
Claire's fists clenched, her resolve hardening. She would do anything to save Clark, even if it meant sacrificing her dreams of becoming House Robert's matriarch or giving up her revenge against her father. Clark's life was her only goal.
If Lord Arlecia kept his word and saved Clark, Claire would devote herself to him entirely. Even if his actions were questionable, she would support him. Her loyalty would be unwavering.
But then, doubt whispered in the back of her mind.
Lord Arlecia has changed so much... But could he ever do something terrible, something beyond what's already recorded about him?
She questioned herself, her heart uneasy.