After we turned six, new responsibilities found their way into our daily lives—duties that included the early steps into the arts of swordsmanship and mana.
"Lancelot, Celia," my mother addressed us over dinner one evening, her voice steady as always.
"Yes, Mother," I replied calmly, while Celia giggled beside me.
She dabbed her mouth with a handkerchief, her movements refined and deliberate. "You'll both begin etiquette training," she announced, her gaze moving between us, "and if you wish, you may start learning a weapon and training in mana, now that you've both awakened."
I nodded, though Celia was nearly bouncing in her seat with excitement. In this world, we were born with mana cores, unlike Earth, where the Towers had only recently brought mana into existence. Here, mana was woven into the very fabric of life, a force as natural as breathing.
Over the years, I'd come to understand that the mana here was different—its presence more organic, integrated into the world over centuries, rather than introduced suddenly by alien Towers. Almost everyone had a mana core from birth, and while few could truly master it, everyone could wield a measure of its power.
On Earth, we had used a separate ranking system, as the strength of one's core was a poor indicator of true power. But here, the mana cores developed in a clear, structured order, with eight colors marking their growth: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, and, ultimately, white.
Both Celia and I had awakened our mana cores, but mine was already purified to the orange stage, a task I could accomplish with ease thanks to the knowledge lingering from my former life. Celia, on the other hand, was still at red—though her enthusiasm was boundless.
"I want to learn the sword!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling as she looked at our mother. "I want to be like you, Mama!"
My mother's smile softened as she looked at Celia, her expression warm with pride and affection. Then she turned to me, a question in her gaze. "And you, Lance?"
"The spear," I answered simply.
I had no need to learn the sword. In my previous life, I'd achieved mastery over the blade to a level no one could reach. The spear would offer me a new path, a chance to broaden my skills and deepen my understanding of combat. It seemed the practical choice.
"The spear…" my mother murmured, a thoughtful glint in her eyes.
"Is that alright?" I asked, meeting her gaze. "I know that the Grand Duchy of Silvaria is renowned for its swordsmanship, but… I would prefer to learn the spear."
A soft smile broke across her face. "Of course, Lance. If the spear is what calls to you, then so be it. You're both still young, after all. It's perfectly fine to explore whatever piques your interest at this stage."
"Thank you, Mother." I returned her smile before turning my attention back to the meal.
Beside me, Celia was valiantly attempting to slice through a particularly stubborn piece of venison, her small knife struggling against the tough meat. With a quiet chuckle, I swapped our plates, giving her my already-cut portion.
"Thanks, Lance!" she beamed, immediately digging in with all the joy only a six-year-old could muster.
Our mother observed this exchange, an approving smile touching her lips. "Etiquette is important, Celia," she remarked, though her tone was light. "You'll both begin your etiquette training tomorrow. And as for your weapon training, teachers in both swordsmanship and spearmanship will likely arrive within three days."
Celia's eyes lit up at this, and I felt a sense of anticipation growing within me as well.
After we finished dinner, Celia and I made our way out, though "made our way" might be generous, as Celia was practically pulling me along with her boundless energy. She had no intention of retiring for the night just yet, far too excited for that.
Soon enough, I found myself seated among her dolls and figurines, engaging in her favorite games. Playing with dolls wasn't exactly my chosen pastime, but there was a certain charm in these small, carefree diversions.
'It's a pleasant change of pace,' I thought.
The past six years in this new life had been a kind of gentle respite. On Earth, even in the best of times, the shadow of the Towers was always there, hanging over every moment, a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked just out of sight. Happiness had been a fleeting, guarded thing, tainted by the ever-present threat of alien invasion.
Here, though, it was easier to let go, to simply exist without the weight of impending doom. This world, with its mana, nobility, and mysteries, offered something I hadn't had in years—peace.
And I found that I did not dislike it at all.
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The moon's light spilled through the high, arched window, bathing the chamber in silver and shadow.
Eleanor von Silvaria, Grand Duchess of Silvaria, stood by the window, her gaze distant. Behind her, two figures stood in silent attention—Harland, the butler with iron-grey hair and eyes sharp as a hawk's, and Mara, the head maid with a serene face framed by chestnut waves.
Harland's posture was impeccable, every line of his tailored uniform crisp and precise. He was a man who had served the Grand Duchy for decades, his loyalty forged in trials known only to a select few. Beneath his professional demeanor lay a dry wit and a fierce, almost paternal protectiveness for the young heirs.
Mara, by contrast, exuded a quiet calm. Her eyes were kind, with an edge of steel that spoke of resilience. She had once been the daughter of a minor noble house, but circumstances had led her to serve, where she quickly became invaluable. The household thrived under her meticulous care, and the young twins adored her gentle, patient nature.
"How are they?" Eleanor's question broke the silence, her tone softer than it would be for anyone else.
Mara exchanged a glance with Harland, a fleeting moment of unspoken understanding passing between them. The butler stepped forward, inclining his head respectfully. "The young master and young miss continue to exceed expectations, Your Grace. The young master, especially, displays remarkable maturity and skill."
Eleanor's crimson eyes softened, a rare look of pride crossing her face. "Yes," she murmured, "I've noticed."
"Young Master Lancelot is… different," Mara added, a thoughtful lilt to her voice. "There's wisdom in him that belies his years."
Harland's expression tightened almost imperceptibly, but he nodded in agreement. "He will make a fine heir if chosen."
To be nearly at the yellow stage by six years old—such a feat was as astonishing as it was rare. It was a talent that verged on the uncanny, something almost otherworldly in its intensity.
A shadow of doubt flickered across Eleanor's face. "Yes, if chosen," she repeated quietly.
The question of who should be the heir lingered unspoken. Lancelot and Celia were twins, with Celia born mere moments before Lancelot. Despite her being the elder, tradition had yet to name either child as the official heir to the Grand Duchy of Silvaria.
For most noble families, the choice would be clear: the firstborn male would inherit the title without contest. But Eleanor, ever practical and fair-minded, was determined to grant them both an equal chance, free from the constraints of birth order or gender.
And so far, Lancelot had proven himself the clear frontrunner. He was undeniably gifted, possessing a maturity and talent that set him apart, even at six years old. He had begun to show the qualities of a true heir—qualities that could not go unnoticed.
Of course, it was still early, perhaps even foolish, to judge them so soon. But the pressure from the other nobles was mounting, each with their whispered opinions, their calculations and schemes.
'Especially with the Emperor himself yet to declare an heir,' Eleanor thought, a subtle frown crossing her face.
She sighed, letting the matter drift for now. "Well, it will do for the time being," she murmured.
The butler's eyes, sharp as ever, caught the subtle shift in her demeanor. He took a step forward, his voice low but resolute. "Whatever choice you make, Your Grace, know that loyalty in this household runs deeper than bloodlines and titles."
Mara's lips twitched into a small smile, her nod a silent echo of Harland's words.
Eleanor's gaze hardened with resolve, a subtle nod acknowledging their pledge. "Summon these two teachers," she said, handing the list to Harland. His brow furrowed slightly as he read the first name, a hint of surprise breaking through his composed exterior.
He looked up, a question in his eyes, but Eleanor's unwavering stare silenced it. With a deep bow, Harland accepted her choice, Mara standing by with a steadying presence, as if saying, 'We trust you.'
And so, with a shared understanding, they turned to carry out her orders, the weight of the future resting on the small shoulders of the twins, and the watchful eyes of those who served them.