The Baron's stern gaze swept across the assembled company, pausing briefly upon Zhang Lin and Eric. Then, with a deliberate motion, he spread his arms, allowing the servants behind him to unbuckle and remove his armor.
"Mary will remain. The rest of you—leave us."
At his command, the hall swiftly emptied. Eric, in particular, vanished almost the instant the words were spoken, while Zhang Lin, lingering at the rear, faintly caught the sound of Mary's voice reporting the week's affairs to the Baron.
It was nothing more than the usual litany of taxation and household revenues—matters of no real interest to Zhang Lin.
There was still some time before supper.
On the third floor, candle in hand, she walked along the saffron-lit corridor and came before a door. Producing a key, she unlocked it; at once the flickering flame banished the darkness within, revealing the chamber's contents.
It was a library—the repository of the Green family's collected volumes.
Once, in childhood, Freyja had delighted in playing here. But as she grew older, her curiosity for the wider world lured her away, leaving this place both familiar and estranged. Now, standing once more among its shelves, Zhang Lin felt a strange dissonance, as if two lives overlapped within her.
In this world, the spread of learning was poorer even than in the distant ages of her former China. Common folk had little chance to read, many not even knowing their letters. To learn required either costly schooling—well beyond the means of an ordinary household—or binding oneself to a noble house or faction, in effect selling one's freedom.
Though she carried Freyja's memories, they were far from sufficient to truly grasp her circumstances. Books, however, offered the surest path forward.
The library itself was not vast—three shelves in total, yet neatly arranged and immaculately kept, clearly tended with care.
Zhang Lin approached the foremost shelf and drew forth a geography.
The candle burned softly, its pale flame casting a fragile glow upon the girl's intent features. Her eyes moved swiftly across the page, her sharpened intellect absorbing each word with ease, as though comprehension and memory had become second nature.
By the time the candle had burned a third of its length, a small pile of books had already grown at her feet. Most were frivolous—biographies of dubious worth, or cheap romances of no use to her. Only a scant few contained anything of real value.
She set aside a wretched novel entitled The Love of the Hero and the Princess and reached for a crimson-bound volume at the center of the shelf.
Its cover was not paper, but something like leather, stamped with a title in gilt letters: On the Practicality of the Noble Rapier, authored by Leonardo Fresis.
The name stirred her memory—only moments ago, she had encountered it among the biographies. Two centuries past, this man had been a famed noble swordsman of the Byron Empire, lauded as among the greatest of his age. With a mere rapier—considered ornate and impractical—he had defeated veteran commanders seasoned in war. Yet, at the height of his renown, he strode into battle with his cherished weapon to prove its worth. He never returned. No corpse was ever found. Only half of his broken blade was discovered amidst the carnage—a symbol of both his demise and the rapier's fall into disrepute.
And now, here in her hands, was his work.
The volume was slim; in little time Zhang Lin had turned its last page.
Its contents dealt largely with the rapier's use and maintenance, with some passages on how it might contend against heavier arms. Most striking was one principle: unlike the knightly cross-sword or broadsword, the rapier did not demand brute force, but agility and finesse.
If the cross-sword embodied the upright strength of a soldier-knight, then the rapier was akin to the subtlety and cunning of an assassin—two weapons of utterly different purpose.
Closing the book, she returned it to its place. For now, it held little meaning to her, yet in a world where might was law, such knowledge would one day prove of worth.
She was about to take up another when a knock sounded at the door.
"My lady, supper is served," came the maid's voice from beyond.
"Very well, I shall come at once."
The maid withdrew. Zhang Lin glanced at the candle, now half-consumed.
"I had not thought so much time had passed…"
Tilting her stiffened neck with a faint crack, she gathered the scattered books back to their places, lifted her candle, and stepped into the hall, pondering the gleanings of her study.
For the moment, the Byron Empire's skirmishes with its neighbors seemed far removed from the Green family's affairs. Though their lands lay at the frontier, the dense forest rendered invasion impractical; only bands of vagabonds and fugitives troubled them.
Within Byron itself, however, nobles wielded vast power—life and death over their peasants, the right to keep private armies thinly veiled as guards or enforcers. By Freyja's memory, the Baron commanded near a thousand men.
And Freyja herself—his most cherished daughter—enjoyed not only a position of favor but a future wide open before her.
Yet Zhang Lin's heart was not at ease. Perhaps it was the sudden thrust into a realm stripped of law and conscience, a world where strength alone mattered. She felt as though clothed one moment, and the next laid bare before the wind—though unseen by any, she trembled within.
"I must make ready… whatever comes."
With this resolve, she raised her head, finding herself already at the threshold of the castle's great dining hall.
Beneath a blazing chandelier stretched a long oaken table. The family's core members had gathered, save only the high seat and a few places beside it.
Here sat not only the kin of Green, but also those who held weighty office or rendered great service to the house. Many turned at her arrival, offering smiles and nods.
Zhang Lin returned their courtesy with a gentle smile of her own and took her place at the Baron's side seat. The table was already laden with dishes of every kind.
Eric sat next to her, head bowed, silent, lost in thought.
Before long, the Baron's voice reached them, low and commanding, drifting closer with each step.
"Send more men to the forest's edge… those vagrants, I suspect… within my lands…""My lord… the northern caravans that pass… their dealings are foul… perhaps Viscount Berta's hand…""Hmph! Let him scheme… the iron mine this year is mine alone…""Yes, my lord!"
With their approach, the conversation ceased.
The Baron entered with a broad-shouldered man clad in the white garb of a swordsman. Together they came to the table and sat.
The Baron's eyes swept the company; then he took up knife and fork, tapping them lightly against his plate.
"Let us dine."
He sat in silence, brow furrowed, his mind elsewhere. Zhang Lin, however, found her gaze drawn to the man at his side.
Howard Bailey. Once he had fought beside the Baron on campaign, even shielding him from a mortal blow. Now he was captain of the castle guard, the man the Baron trusted above all others.
He was larger still than the Baron himself. Seated at table, he seemed to cast a shadow across it, his swordsman's tunic strained over his massive frame.
His cropped black hair bristled upward; across his rugged face ran a diagonal scar from eye to mouth, lending him a savage cast.
Yet, in Freyja's memory, he had been striking—handsome, even. There lingered a trace of girlish fondness there, something like… a secret infatuation.
"An infatuation…" Zhang Lin nearly laughed aloud at the thought, staring at the fearsome visage before her.
Perhaps sensing her gaze, Howard smiled faintly. The scar twisted with the motion, rendering his expression all the more fearsome.
Zhang Lin's lips twitched; quickly she lowered her head, lifting her spoon to feign absorption in her stew.
"To think… Freyja harbored such a taste." She sipped the mushroom and meat broth, a curious, inexplicable feeling stirring within her.