Gradually, fragments of long-forgotten memories surfaced.
She still remembered their very first encounter—it was on an early summer afternoon… at least, in another version of her memory, it was so.
—It was an ordinary afternoon. The early summer breeze brushed gently across the land, sunlight streaming through tender green leaves, spilling quietly onto the country path.
A man was riding a stallion he had just acquired from some court noble. Behind him, his servant led a mule laden with the man's luggage, following closely step by step.
His gaze swept across the villagers toiling in the fields nearby. Though it was only early summer and the sun was not yet at its harshest, the peasants had already been laboring since morning, their brows and cheeks covered in sweat.
The sight pleased the man greatly.
These commoners would spend their entire lives bound to the fields, slaves to toil. But he was born into a different world altogether, destined to stand above them. Soon, through marriage, he would gain claim to these lands. And once he seized them, those very peasants would become his subjects. Everything they worked for, every fruit of their labor, would ultimately be his… The thought delighted him all the more.
Just then, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a girl passing by the roadside, and his eyes froze.
Heaven bear witness—never had he seen such beauty. She was like a wildflower blooming by the road, pure and unadorned, her beauty natural and radiant, leagues beyond the servant girls in his castle.
At first glance, desire bloomed within him. He wanted that girl.
"Hey," he called to his servant, "you have thirty minutes. Find out everything about that girl. By tonight, I want her in my chamber."
"But, my lord, she's just a peasant's daughter," the servant said cautiously. "Your true purpose here is to meet your fiancée—the daughter of the great king."
"Impudent! Since when do you dictate my actions?" The man glared and barked, "Meeting my fiancée has nothing to do with plucking a wildflower along the way. Why shouldn't I?"
"Yes, my lord. As you wish."
The servant bowed low, not daring to defy him, then hurried off toward the villagers to inquire. The man, meanwhile, kept his greedy eyes fixed on the girl ahead, already imagining the sight of her flimsy garments torn apart.
That girl wouldn't dare refuse. She couldn't. He was the heir to all of Orkney, while she was nothing but a peasant girl. Even if she weren't his subject, how could she resist the will of a king's son?
At that very moment, another girl hurried down the narrow path. In her haste, she brushed too close and accidentally collided with his horse's side. The startled animal neighed loudly, rearing onto its hind legs, nearly unseating its rider.
The girl, of course, was knocked to the ground, her small basket tumbling and scattering apples across the dirt.
When the man had finally calmed his horse, he saw the girl, shaken but not panicked, pick up one of the fallen apples and timidly offer it to him, as though to atone for startling his steed.
"Peasant! Do you think this pitiful token will buy my forgiveness?!"
Enraged, he raised his whip high, ready to strike her. But at that instant, a dark-haired, dark-eyed youth in a tattered cloak sprang from the roadside, shielding the girl. The whip lashed across his back, leaving a bloody welt.
"Well, well! And what's this? A foreign beggar daring to defy me?"
The man's fury grew. He lifted his whip again, intent on beating the stranger to death. Yet as he raised his arm, an inexplicable dread seized him.
It felt as though something terrible would happen if he struck again.
He hesitated, then held back, settling instead for kicking the youth aside.
"Out of my way, peasant!"
With that, he spurred his horse forward, leaving quickly. His servant, who had been gathering information, saw his master riding off and hurried after him in confusion.
"My lord, wait! Please wait for me!"
Once the pair had disappeared, the youth finally released the girl and helped her to her feet.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Thank you."
Though she spoke words of gratitude, her tone was calm, almost detached—neither shaken nor especially thankful. It puzzled him slightly, though he didn't dwell on it.
Perhaps she was simply reserved by nature.
In any case, he had been following that noble for some time. Now that the opportunity had arisen, he couldn't let him slip away.
"Be more careful next time," he told her briefly, then turned to leave.
But as he moved, he felt his wrist tugged. Startled, he looked back to see the girl holding out one of her apples to him, a quiet gesture of thanks for saving her.
"Oh? Well, thanks then."
He smiled, took the apple without hesitation, and strode off, biting into it as he chased after the noble.
He finally caught up to the noble and his servant on a lonely forest road, where they had stopped to rest. Both looked startled as he appeared.
The youth scanned the surroundings—empty, deserted. A perfect place.
"You again? Still following? Do you want to die—" the noble began, but the youth cut him short, drawing a rusted sword from beneath his cloak and pointing it forward.
"I challenge you to a knight's duel. Do you dare accept?"
"What?" The noble blinked in surprise, glanced at his servant, then burst into laughter.
"A knight's duel? With me? You?"
He pointed mockingly. "You think yourself worthy? Only true knights may issue such a challenge! And you, a worthless beggar?"
Laughing, he readied himself to trample the youth beneath his horse. But then, strangely, against all reason, he made another choice.
"Very well! As you wish—I shall grant you a duel!"
His servant froze. "Wait, my lord! Your noble station—how can you stoop to duel such a wretch…?"
Truthfully, the noble agreed. It was beneath him to risk himself in a duel with this nobody. And yet, when he opened his mouth, his words came out differently:
"Enough! My mind is made up. Armor me!"
Sighing, the servant obeyed, fetching the armor from the pack mule and helping his master don it. Soon, the noble stood encased in steel.
Though puzzled by his uncharacteristic decision, the noble shrugged it off. After all, there was no way he could lose.
The youth's sword was likely scavenged from some battlefield corpse. A lowborn like him could never match the skill the noble had learned from his father's knights. Though he'd never been diligent in training, crushing this ragged foreigner would be simple.
Or so he thought.
The moment they crossed blades, his confidence shattered.
The youth's stance was strange, unlike any style he'd seen before. Yet it worked. Within only a few exchanges, the noble's sword was knocked wide, leaving him exposed.
Surprised but not afraid, the noble reminded himself he wore full armor. That peasant couldn't possibly pierce it. He could stand still and let him strike, and the fool would still fail.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the youth reaching into his cloak.
What was he doing?
The last thing the noble saw was the youth swinging something down at him.
An iron hammer.
It smashed into his helm with crushing force. Against a blunt weapon, his helmet offered no protection. His skull shattered instantly.
"My lord!"
The servant cried out in horror as his master fell lifeless. He watched, trembling, as the youth knelt and began unbuckling the noble's armor.
"What are you doing?!"
"Claiming my spoils," the youth said evenly. "By duel's law, the loser must yield his horse, arms, and armor. His family must pay ransom for his return. I regret striking too hard, but dead or not, the spoils are still mine. Once I strip this armor, you may take him away. Leave the horse, though. And his clothes—I'll need them. We're about the same build."
The servant glared at him with hatred, but dared not resist. If this youth could slay his armored lord, he could easily kill him too.
When at last the armor was removed, he lifted his master's corpse and fled down the forest path. The youth, meanwhile, led the warhorse and carried off his loot, heading toward a nearby lake.
The armor was bloodstained and fouled with brain matter. It had to be washed before it rotted.
By the lakeside, he set to work, scrubbing the gore away despite the stench. His mood, however, was elated. With this prize, he had secured his first true fortune since arriving in this world.
More than fortune. The noble's clothes were finely made. If he crossed the sea to the Continent, he could easily pose as a destitute nobleman fallen on hard times. Perhaps he could even infiltrate some royal court and begin a new life altogether…
As he dreamed of the future, he suddenly felt a cold hand upon his neck, sharp nails pressing lightly against his throat.
Then came a woman's chilling voice from behind:
"Who permitted you to foul my lake with that vile blood?"
Looking back later, he would realize—this was the beginning of his fated entanglement with her.