Alistair had no idea that, in the minds of thousands of players, he had just acquired a secret, illegitimate half-brother.
If he had known, he probably would have laughed himself sick. The elder brother of the Child of Destiny? What a prestigious title. It would be great for his reputation.
It was dusk by the time Alistair and Thorne finally returned to Frostcrest.
The trip had been delayed. Midway through the flight, his two useless gryphons had declared, with much screeching and complaining, that their stomachs were empty and they could fly no further. Alistair had no choice but to land and let the two gluttons go hunt for their dinner. A significant amount of time was wasted waiting for them to gorge themselves before they could take to the skies again.
Upon his return, Alistair immediately attended to his duties. He arranged for Goodwin to report to Thorne and be officially inducted into the household guard. Then he dispatched two knights: one to fetch a priest to see to little Abby's injuries, the other to summon Mrs. Agnes.
Mrs. Agnes had been Alistair's wet nurse. She was a master of etiquette and the duties of a lady's maid, and her loyalty to House Goldenlion was absolute. She was the perfect person to mentor Abby.
With his orders given, the vast, empty great hall fell silent, leaving only Alistair and Abby.
He glanced over at the girl, who was shrinking into herself near the far end of the long conference table. He was puzzled. The tentative, almost comfortable atmosphere they had shared on the gryphon had vanished, replaced by the same raw fear he'd first seen in the alley.
Abby's head was bowed, her hands clenched nervously as she awaited her fate.
For most of her life, she had been a wanderer, trailing her brother through the borderlands of the Pyrian Empire. Today was the first time she had eaten bread as soft as clouds. The first time she had seen a flying beast with the head of an eagle and the body of a lion. The first time she had soared so high, and the first time she had laid eyes on a city so grand and a fortress so magnificent as Frostcrest.
Her entire perception of the world had been upended. The man before her, this self-proclaimed lord, had shown her through direct, brutal means just how small and ignorant she truly was.
An ingrained, bone-deep sense of inferiority made her want to disappear. The opulent, luxurious furnishings surrounding her only amplified her anxiety; she felt that a single step might soil the priceless woolen carpet beneath her feet.
"L-Lord Alistair," she began, her voice a tiny, trembling whisper. "Is… is Abby truly just to be your… your personal maid?"
Alistair gave her a curious look. Did a few hours on a gryphon make her doubt my word? Still, he answered with patience. "That's right. Your main duties will be to see to my daily needs. You don't need to worry; I'm not like other nobles. I don't have a thousand strict rules. As for the specific work of a personal maid, Mrs. Agnes will be here shortly to teach you."
"Oh…" Abby nodded timidly, though she still seemed lost in a fog of disbelief.
She had heard of maids, of course. But she didn't know if being a lord's personal maid was the same as the ones she was familiar with. In the lower rungs of the human empire, becoming a maid was a common path for young women. Nearly two-thirds of all girls would choose it at some point. It was a way to learn a skill, earn a wage, and perhaps receive a gift from the master.
That didn't mean it was a good life. A maid's well-being depended entirely on the whims of her master and his family. Though theoretically a member of the household, beatings and abuse were common. Worse, they could become tools for the master, his sons, or even other servants to vent their carnal desires upon.
No girl would willingly gamble with her destiny unless she had no other choice.
Abby had no other choice. She was utterly alone in the world. With her brother gone, the farming family that had taken them in would no longer have any reason to keep a useless mouth fed.
If not for the lord, she would have died in that alley. Even if she had survived by some miracle, her fate would have been the same as countless other beastkin: starving to death on the road, or being captured and sold as a slave, passed from one cruel master to the next until she was broken and discarded.
At the very least, from this lord, she had felt a warmth she hadn't known in a long, long time.
"Abby understands… Abby will work hard to become an excellent personal maid."
Feeling Alistair's gentle gaze upon her, she managed to summon a sliver of courage, though her voice was barely audible.
"That's the spirit," Alistair said with a small smile.
He looked at her tattered rags and grime-streaked face, and a pang of pity struck him. To be blunt, he had no idea how long it had been since she'd had a bath. Her hair was a matted bird's nest, and a strange, sour smell clung to her. It hadn't been noticeable on the gryphon with the wind whipping past, but now, in the enclosed space of the hall, it was obvious.
The common folk of this world were generally averse to bathing. So were some nobles in the more remote territories. They held a ridiculous belief that bathing washed away the gods' blessings. Some went their entire lives without a proper wash.
Alistair could not tolerate such foolishness. He couldn't police every citizen in his domain, but within his castle, the rule was simple: anyone who refused to bathe would be stripped naked and hung from the gates of Frostcrest for a full day.
He decided to test the waters. "It will be a little while before Mrs. Agnes arrives," he said gently. "You must have gone a long time without a bath. Why don't you go wash up now and change into some clean clothes?"
Abby understood his meaning immediately. Her little nose twitched, and her small frame trembled. A deep blush of embarrassment crept up her neck, making her fluffy ears twitch and wiggle. Behind her, her long tail swished back and forth, betraying her inner turmoil.
Alistair couldn't help but be amused by her series of adorable micro-expressions. He found himself growing more interested in this girl. In Abby's startled gaze, Alistair reached out and gently took her hand.
"Frostcrest is quite large. You'll never find the bathhouse on your own. I'll take you."
...
In the luxurious bathhouse of Frostcrest, Abby soaked in a pool of hot, rose-petal-strewn water, a rosy flush blooming on her cheeks from the steam. She felt light, as if she were floating.
It had been so very long since she had last bathed, let alone in such an opulent pool, with clean, rose-scented hot water. It felt like a dream she might wake from at any moment.
It wasn't that she didn't like being clean. As a girl, she cared about her hygiene. But since her parents' death, she and her brother had been constantly on the move. When would they ever have had the chance to bathe?
The lands on the Pyrian border were barren, and the lakes were hidden in dangerous forests she dared not approach. Bathing at the farmer's house had been unthinkable; the old woman was a devout believer that cleanliness was an offense to the gods. Besides, clean water was expensive. Commoners struggled just to eat; who had the money for hygiene?
At the thought, a sharp pang of sorrow stung her nose, and large tears welled up, rolling down her cheeks.
If only Mom, Dad, and my brother were still here… Maybe they could have tasted that delicious, soft bread too.
A persistent thought echoed in her mind: she didn't deserve the lord's kindness. She wasn't worthy. She was just the lowliest of beastkin.
Her pessimistic heart was certain of it. Kindness like this always came with a price.
But whether the promise of 'just being a personal maid' was true or not, it didn't matter. If the lord ordered her to die, Abby would do so without a word of complaint.
She rose from the pool, her small body gleaming in the lamplight. After drying herself with a thick, soft towel, she stood on her tiptoes to take the clothes laid out on a nearby rack.
It was a set of men's black silk pajamas. They were enormous on her, large enough to be a blanket.
Are these… the lord's clothes?
Her face flushed crimson. Unbidden, the memory of being held in Alistair's arms on the gryphon surfaced in her mind. She shifted her weight, her body squirming with a strange, nervous energy.
She slowly pressed the soft fabric to her face. Her small nose twitched as she inhaled deeply, committing his scent to memory.