"Brother," Celia's voice called to me as we left the classroom, her tone hesitant but earnest.
"Yes?" I turned to her, noting the determined look in her eyes.
She took a step closer, clasping my hands tightly in her own. "Thank you again!" she said, her voice wavering with emotion. "You… you saved me from my tutor. I didn't realize what he was doing was wrong, not until you stepped in."
Her grip tightened as she spoke, the relief in her expression blending with the lingering remnants of uncertainty.
I met her gaze, feeling the weight of her words settle between us. "You don't need to thank me, Celia," I replied, offering her hands a gentle squeeze. "It's what siblings are meant to do—watch out for each other."
For a moment, she stood there in silence, as if she wanted to say more but wasn't quite sure how. I smiled, letting her know that, for now, no more words were necessary.
"How did you do that?" Celia's voice broke the silence, her eyes wide with wonder. "How did you swing the sword like that?"
I hesitated, searching for an answer that would make sense. The truth felt tangled in memories, too complex to put into words.
There was no easy way to explain it. Baron Cedric, for all his faults, wasn't without skill. Incompetent as he was as a mentor, he was still a capable swordsman—a match for most of the Silver Wolf knights, though far beneath the White Wolf knights who guarded our territory. He wielded his sword with the confidence of someone at the Green stage, on the brink of unlocking Sword Intent.
By all accounts, he should have outmatched me. I was only at the Yellow stage, my body still young, my mana still limited—a difference that should have seen me crushed beneath his strength.
Yet, I'd won.
I won because of a lifetime of battles that no one here could imagine. Because of memories carved into my bones, etched in every muscle, every nerve, from a past life spent fighting things far deadlier than any swordsman.
My sword had become an extension of myself, a seamless part of my being. True, I couldn't wield the full depth of my skill due to the limitations of this young body, but I knew that with time, I would again unlock the fearsome power I once wielded in defense of Earth.
Just as I was gathering my thoughts to explain all this to Celia, our mother approached, enveloping us both in a warm embrace. Her arrival was a timely reprieve, saving me from answering Celia's probing question.
"And how was class?" she asked, her eyes shining with quiet pride.
"Good, Mother," we both replied in unison, prompting her to laugh softly as she ruffled our hair.
"I have to go attend to some work, but I'll see you both later," she said, beginning to turn away.
"Wait, Mother," I called, stepping forward. "There's something I need to talk to you about."
She paused, then extended her hand to me with a nod. "Come along, Lance."
We walked together, her pace slowing slightly to match my own. As we reached a quieter part of the hallway, the air around us shimmered, infused with her mana, sealing out all sound.
"What is it, my son?" she asked, her gaze steady.
I met her eyes, hesitant yet resolute. "Why haven't you questioned me about my swordsmanship?"
Her expression remained calm, a faint smile playing at her lips. "Because," she replied softly, "I didn't think it was necessary."
I tilted my head, a flicker of confusion crossing my face.
Mother's smile deepened as she knelt to meet my gaze, her hands warm against my cheeks as she gently caressed them. "You're my son, Lancelot," she said, her voice soft yet unwavering. "I believe in you, no matter what. I didn't see any reason to question your talent as if it were something troubling or wrong."
Her words resonated, echoing through me with a warmth that felt both familiar and new.
My heart gave a small, startled thump. I was her son. It had been six years since I came into this world, yet, at times, this life still felt foreign, like a coat I hadn't quite grown into.
After all, I'd lived a life already—one far removed from this, filled with different struggles and worlds apart from the warmth of family. Imagining a life here, truly becoming part of it, was something else entirely.
"Yes, Mother," I replied, the sincerity unmistakable in my voice.
That was right. She was my mother, and Celia was my sister. Not just in name, but in heart.
And somehow, that was beginning to feel… right.
__________________________________________________________________________________
After speaking with Lancelot, Eleanor continued down the hallway, a soft smile lingering on her lips.
'He's opening up more,' she thought, a warmth blooming in her chest.
From the beginning, Lancelot had always been… different. There was a subtle distance to him, an aura that set him apart from his twin sister. Eleanor had felt it since his birth, an unspoken wall between them that she couldn't quite explain. Yet today, something had shifted, a small but unmistakable opening in his guarded nature.
The Baron Cedric incident had been a necessary, if regrettable, step—she'd needed to see the depth of her son's talent, even if it meant putting him through that difficult test. She hadn't expected him to see through it all, much less respond with such calm understanding. But he had. And now, for the first time, she felt that she could truly glimpse the man he would grow into.
'I'll announce him as the successor at his tenth birthday,' she decided, her thoughts turning to the debut. It would mark his formal introduction into noble society, solidifying his place as the future head of the Grand Duchy.
But first, she had a conversation to hold with Celia. She called her daughter to her office, wanting to speak with her alone.
At six years old, children still viewed the world through a haze of innocence, blissfully unaware of the complex wheels turning around them. True understanding of noble society and its demands was beyond their grasp—yet it was a world that insisted they learn, and learn quickly, if they were to survive within it.
Eleanor despised the need to press her daughter into that world, to place such weight on her small shoulders simply because society demanded it. Yet, for all her reservations, she knew it was unavoidable.
After they'd shared a light-hearted conversation, Eleanor's tone shifted, becoming gentle but serious. "Celia, what do you think of the idea of Lance becoming the successor?"
Celia tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "The successor?" She repeated the word, tasting its importance. "So that means he'll be the Grand Duke one day?"
"Yes," Eleanor confirmed, watching her daughter closely.
Celia's face lit up with excitement. "I think it's a wonderful idea!" she declared, her enthusiasm untempered. "Lance is smart and strong—he'll be a great Grand Duke!"
Eleanor felt a flicker of relief, but there was a lingering concern that needed to be addressed. She reached over, brushing a stray lock of hair from Celia's face. "And how do you feel about it? With Lance being the one chosen?"
Celia's brows knit together, considering the question with uncharacteristic gravity. "I'm happy, Mother," she replied after a moment. "Lance is always looking out for me. He's like…" she paused, searching for the right word, "he's like my knight! And besides," she added, a mischievous sparkle returning to her eyes, "I'll still be his big sister, so that makes me important, too!"
Eleanor chuckled, pulling her daughter into a warm embrace. "Yes, my darling, you will always be important. You and Lance are both destined for greatness, in your own ways."
As she held Celia close, Eleanor felt a mixture of pride and sorrow—a pride in her daughter's unselfish heart, but a sadness in the knowledge that the paths they walked would demand more of them than childhood ever should. But for now, she would let them have these precious, fleeting years, sheltered as much as possible from the trials that lay ahead.