The morning light slanted through the narrow windows, colder than yesterday.
He sat on the edge of the high bed, feet dangling because they didn't quite reach the rushes on the floor, staring at the girl kneeling by the hearth as she coaxed the fire back to life.
Her name was Klara—or so she'd said earlier, eyes fixed on the floorboards. Bruises bloomed along her wrists where rough hands had bound her the day before. The steward had dragged her before my so called father (this boy's father) after she'd burst into the babbling about "the young master speaking the tongue of devils, words of fire and iron birds."
Luckily..
Pops dismissed the girl's accusations with a single wave.
"Superstition," he'd called it. "The boy was fevered from a nightmare."
Oh well, that is how it works now. But at the very least i managed to calm everything down, and gained a servant i guess?
"Guten Morgen, junger Herr," she murmured, barely audible. "Shall I help you dress?"
He stared at her. Thirteen years old in this body, maybe fourteen, and someone his own age was calling him "young master" like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Uh… yeah. Sure."
"What year is this?"
She blinked, confused. "The year of our Lord fourteen hundred and sixty-five, Herr."
He let her help him into the layers—linen shirt, padded doublet, hose that felt ridiculous—while his mind raced. Klara moved carefully, efficiently, like someone used to avoiding notice. When she tightened the laces at his back, he caught her reflection in the bronze mirror: thin, dark-haired, eyes downcast.
"you… okay?"
She froze.
Servants probably weren't supposed to be asked that.
"I am yours to command, junger Herr," she answered, voice flat and practiced.
"What's my name?" he asked suddenly, turning to face her.
Klara's eyes widened, just a fraction. "You are… fifth young master—" She hesitated, as if testing dangerous ground. "Everyone knows you."
"No, I mean—" He stopped. How do you explain amnesia without sounding possessed?
"—Just say it."
She lowered her voice to nearly a whisper. "You are called Otto, junger Herr. Otto von…" She trailed off, uncertain if she was allowed to speak the full family name.
Otto.
The name settled over him like a too-heavy cloak.
He exhaled slowly. "Right. Otto."
Klara waited, hands clasped, for his next order.
He looked out the window at the snow-dusted courtyard below—stables, smithy, men clashing with swords.
Information gathering, done.
….
First fact: He was a noble boy named Otto in 1465 Austria, or what the language sounded by, maybe german i suppose.
I need more information, but that's today's information gathered. I want to sleep.
"You can go now Klara and thanks for your work."