Alistair glanced at the bathhouse door. Strange. What is that girl doing in there? She's been gone for nearly an hour.
He was sitting in the antechamber, waiting.
Gods, she didn't drown, did she…?
He shook his head, quickly banishing the absurd and inauspicious thought. The water in the bathing pool was not that deep. Even for someone as small as Abby, it would be impossible.
Just as he was about to get up and check, the door creaked open.
Abby emerged, her face flushed a deep crimson, swallowed by the laughably oversized pajamas. When she saw Alistair waiting, she immediately ducked her head, her fluffy ears drooping with guilt.
Alistair's eyes went wide. His mind supplied a single, unbidden thought: Too cute.
He had known she was pretty, but the dirt and grime had hidden the truth of it. Now, freshly scrubbed, her soft, heart-shaped face with its lingering hint of youthful roundness was on full display. In the gentle glow of the magelights, her skin was flawless and fair, her features small and delicate. Her brows arched like a painter's stroke, and her large, watery, pale-red eyes conveyed a disarming mixture of shyness and innocence.
That, combined with the fluffy ears and tail, and the way the loose collar of the pajamas slid off one shoulder to reveal the elegant curve of her neck and delicate collarbones, created a look that was at once achingly adorable and subtly alluring.
Who wouldn't be captivated by such a sight?
Alistair discreetly pinched his own thigh, the sharp sting of pain forcing him back to his senses.
"Ahem—well, you certainly look much more refreshed," he said, his voice a touch too formal. "Come with me. Mrs. Agnes is waiting for you in the great hall."
He stood and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, once again took the girl's small, soft hand, leading her back the way they came.
Abby kept her head down, following close behind him. Her cool, pliant fingers shyly curled around one of his, and behind her, her long, fluffy tail gave a single, tentative wag.
Mrs. Agnes was a pleasantly plump, middle-aged woman with a kind face that was perpetually creased in a smile. After Alistair had come of age, she could have taken a handsome severance and left the service of House Goldenlion, but she had chosen to stay on as the head of the maids. Now, she had followed him to Frostcrest, assuming the role of castle majordomo.
Her days had been rather quiet lately, her only duty being the management of the handful of servants Alistair had "acquired" the day before. Now, she had finally been summoned for a proper task: to train a personal maid hand-picked by the lord himself.
This was, of course, a breach of custom. A personal maid typically served the lady of the house. But Mrs. Agnes would never say a word against it. Rules were shackles for the weak; the ability to ignore them was a symptom of strength.
Soon, two figures—one tall, one small—entered her field of vision. Her sharp eyes immediately noticed the way Lord Alistair was holding the little beastkin's hand.
It seems young Master Alistair has finally reached that age, she thought, hiding a chuckle behind her hand, pretending not to see.
"Good evening, my Lord," she said with a respectful curtsy. "Is this the young woman you wish for me to train? What a beautiful and delicate little beastkin girl." As they drew closer, her bright eyes appraised Abby with a mixture of admiration and professional scrutiny.
"She is," Alistair nodded, gently nudging the timid Abby out from behind him. "I found her in Silversky Town. She was being beaten to death by a group of children."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "So, I expect you will not be too harsh with her. I trust you understand my meaning."
"Of course, my Lord."
"Where is the priest?" Alistair asked, noticing the hall was empty save for Mrs. Agnes and the knight he had sent, who stood silently beside her.
The knight looked up, his expression strained. "My Lord, the priests of the chapel refused to come. Their bishop also said…" He hesitated, glancing at the thundercloud gathering on Alistair's face.
"He also said what?" Alistair's voice was dangerously quiet.
"He said… he said you must be mad, asking God's own shepherds to heal a beastkin, a creature more lowly than the basest civilian."
At the knight's words, the girl beside Alistair began to tremble violently. He gave Abby's hand a reassuring squeeze, then turned a cold, mirthless smile on the knight.
"They refuse to heal her, is that it? Very well. Go find Thorne. Have him take the cavalry and surround the church. I will be there shortly."
"As you command, my Lord." The knight bowed swiftly and departed.
"I've only just taken my seat, and they already dare to defy a direct order," Alistair mused aloud, his voice dripping with venom. "Give them a few more months and they'll be trying to take a shit on my throne."
His eyes were chips of ice. He knew the followers of Dracoth were reluctant to heal beastkin; that was normal. But they seemed to have forgotten who was giving the order. It was Alistair, the Lord of Frostfell. The entire domain was his, and a petty priest wouldn't deign to help him? They clearly didn't take their new lord seriously.
If he let this insult pass, his authority would be crippled before it was even established. How could he possibly govern Frostfell then?
"It seems the Church has been getting far too comfortable lately." A flicker of killing intent showed in his eyes.
Others might grovel before the clergy, but not House Goldenlion, and certainly not him. They were nothing but a pack of self-proclaimed shepherds, useless in a true crisis. In a war of faith, it was the nobility who supplied the armies, who bled and died on the battlefield. What did those prayer-chanting morons contribute? Did they really think a few squads of Templars made them untouchable?
He, Alistair, had already gone up against the Child of Destiny and a literal legion of Murderhobos. The thought of being intimidated by a handful of local zealots was laughable.
But first, Abby's injuries needed to be addressed. He turned and strode into his study, returning moments later with a small, crystal-clear vial.
It was the Water of Life, drawn from the Spring of Life in the Elven Royal Court. It was an item of immense rarity. While it was the only substance in Continent of Destiny with true healing properties, its real power was in extending one's lifespan and mending deep, underlying injuries.
The game world had no purely restorative potions. There were only buff potions that increased the body's natural healing rate, and those often came with severe side effects. Players in his past life had managed to craft HP-restoring draughts, but they were unreliable, often causing a continuous health-draining debuff after the initial burst of recovery.
It made sense, really. If truly magical healing potions were commonplace, the world of Continent of Destiny would lose all its grit. It was, after all, a real world; the data-like information was merely a guide.
"Drink this," Alistair said, handing the vial to Abby as if it were nothing.
She stared at the shimmering, priceless-looking object in her hand, then looked up at Alistair with hesitant, questioning eyes. Seeing the unwavering certainty in his gaze, she cautiously uncorked the vial and drank.
A cool liquid slid down her throat, and in an instant, a warm current spread through her entire body.
How could she even describe such a wondrous feeling?
For a delirious moment, Abby felt as if she were a child again, nestled in her mother's arms, the scent of wheat carried on a gentle summer breeze. Every cell in her body seemed to sing with joy. The bruises and cuts on her skin vanished before her very eyes, her skin becoming even smoother and more supple than before.
"Thank you… my Lord," she whispered, her heart suffused with a profound warmth. She looked at Alistair, deeply moved. She didn't know what the magical liquid was, but she knew it must have been unbelievably expensive, yet he had given it to her without a moment's hesitation.
Alistair nodded, satisfied. The effects of the Water of Life were immediate.
Now that Abby was healed, it was time to settle his accounts with the priests.
"I leave Abby in your care, Mrs. Agnes. I have matters to attend to."
"You may rest assured, my Lord," the old woman beamed. "By the time you return tonight, you will be greeted by a sweet and obedient little maid."
Alistair cracked a grin at that. He gave a final nod to Abby and Mrs. Agnes, then donned his armor and swept out of the great hall.
As she watched him go, Mrs. Agnes looked down at Abby with a loving expression. "Lord Alistair seems to like you a great deal, little one," she said softly. "He is a good man. You be good for him, and don't cause him any trouble."
Abby looked up, her expression bewildered.
Like? Could I truly receive such a luxury?
And what were her own feelings for the lord? She searched her heart. It was filled with gratitude and reverence, certainly. Everyone is drawn to strength, and she was no exception, especially when that strength belonged to her savior.
But she didn't dare to let any other sentiment take root. It wasn't that she was unwilling. It was that she felt utterly, hopelessly unworthy.
Abby clutched the small, empty vial in her hand, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. She pushed them down and looked at Mrs. Agnes, nodding meekly. She felt no scorn or disgust from this kind woman, and the frantic terror in her heart began, at last, to subside.