Klaus woke to a knock that was trying very hard to be polite—and failing.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.
"Big Brother," came a small voice from the other side of the door, breathless with effort. "Are… you awake?"
He exhaled slowly, a corner of his mouth lifting.
"Enter," he called, voice still thick with sleep.
The door opened just enough for the little girl to peek in, hands clasped behind her back as if anchoring herself in place. Her eyes were bright, excitement barely contained, but she stayed where she was.
"Good morning, Big Brother. Breakfast is ready, " she said properly. Then, unable to help herself, added, "Um—today is… the day, right?"
Klaus pushed himself upright, rubbing his face. "Good morning," he replied evenly. "And yes. Today is the day."
Her lips pressed together, shoulders drawing in for a heartbeat—then her eyes shone.
"I understand," she said quickly. "Let's have breakfast then, Big Brother."
Then she closed the door gently. The sound of small feet sprinting away, followed by a triumphant shout from the dining area.
"He said yes! He said yes!"
Klaus sighed and rolled out of bed, stretching until his joints popped softly. He pulled on his clothes and followed the smell of breakfast, already bracing himself.
"…That child is going to explode if I delay even five minutes," he muttered.
After breakfast, they changed clothes and prepared to leave.
Klaus chose a plain shirt and his brown cotton coat—well-worn, practical, deliberately unremarkable. The kind of clothing that didn't invite attention or questions. Habit, not humility.
When he stepped into the entrance hall, the other two were already there.
They usually wore tunics. Today, both wore dresses. Simple, modest, but clean and well-fitted. The fabric looked new, or at least newly cared for.
The girl stood with her hands clasped in front of her, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
"Big Brother," she said, voice careful. "Look—is it acceptable?"
She turned slowly in place, just once. No wild spinning, no laughter—just a quiet, hopeful glance up at him.
He regarded her for a moment longer than necessary, then nodded. "It suits you," he said. "As long as you're comfortable. That's important."
She smiled and went back to her mother.
The walk took them away toward the quieter edge of town. Klaus led at an unhurried pace, eyes moving constantly—treelines, houses, intersections. Nothing alarming, but he didn't stop watching.
The girl stayed close to her mother, excitement tempered by the unfamiliar direction. She glanced at Klaus occasionally, then forward again, as if reminding herself where she stood.
Halfway there, her steps slowed.
She winced, then stopped altogether.
"…Mom, my feet hurt," she admitted quietly, eyes downcast. "Can you…"
Her mother immediately knelt, concern flashing across her face, then looked up at Klaus for permission.
He waved a hand. "Go on."
She lifted the girl into her arms with practiced ease.
"Thank you, Klaus," woman said softly.
The girl rested her head against her mother's shoulder, careful not to cling too tightly.
The church came into view after half an hour.
Small. Brick walls. Tiled roof. Simple craftsmanship. At the top stood the symbol of Tharion—a half moon cradling a downward-hanging sword at the upper tip.
Children ran nearby, laughter echoing across the yard. An orphanage.
At the entrance, a middle-aged priest stepped forward, his robes clean but worn, eyes kind but sharp.
"Mr. Klaus," he said with a respectful bow. "Welcome. Thank you again for your continued support. May I ask what brings you here today?"
Klaus stopped a step short of the threshold.
"May I ask first? Is what is spoken within these walls of the church kept in secrecy, Priest Maynard?" he asked calmly.
The priest straightened. "Always. It is bound by divine oath. What is confessed here is heard only by the faithful—and by Lord Tharion."
Klaus nodded once.
"I wish to grant them names."
The priest froze.
Just for a heartbeat—but it was enough.
"Grant them… names?" Priest Maynard repeated, blinking once as if he had misheard.
His gaze shifted, not rudely, but instinctively, moving from Klaus to the woman and the child. His brows drew together, surprise and something closer to concern flickering across his face.
"Mr. Klaus," he said carefully, lowering his voice, "are you certain?"
Klaus tilted his head. "Yes," he replied easily. "Why?"
Maynard hesitated. The courtyard noises—the children's laughter, the distant chatter—seemed to fade slightly around them.
"It is quite unprecedented," the priest said at last. "You understand what I mean."
His eyes lingered again on the mother and daughter, more deliberately this time. The woman lowered her head at once, fingers tightening at her sides. The girl followed her example, though her eyes flicked up briefly, uncertain.
Klaus noticed everything.
"I know," he said calmly. "But it's convenient for me."
The words were plain, almost dismissive—and that, more than anything, confirmed his resolve.
Maynard studied him for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. The tension left his shoulders.
"If you are certain in your decision," the priest said, "then who am I to stand in your way?" A faint, rueful smile touched his lips. "Truthfully, I wish more people extended them such regard. Not only you… and Mr. Shane."
At the mention of the word 'them', Klaus's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened briefly. He knew the priest was talking about slaves, and that even the priest, who's a servant of the god, couldn't change the perception of the society towards them.
Maynard stepped aside and gestured toward the open doors.
"Please," he said. "Come inside."
Klaus inclined his head once and moved forward. The woman followed immediately, guiding the girl with a light touch at her back.
As they crossed the threshold, the girl glanced up at Klaus—only for a moment—before looking forward again, excitement held tightly beneath discipline.
The doors closed behind them, and the church welcomed them in.
The interior of the church was smaller than it looked from the outside—intimate rather than cramped. A handful of long wooden benches lined the nave, split cleanly by a narrow aisle worn smooth by years of footsteps. At the front stood a modest altar table bearing a thick, leather-bound book and several half-melted candles. Above it all, a circular mosaic window glowed softly, sunlight spilling through colored glass to paint the stone floor in drifting hues of gold and blue.
Klaus took it in with a casual glance, hands tucked into his coat pockets, posture relaxed enough to suggest boredom. His eyes, however, moved with quiet precision, noting angles, exits, and the way sound carried oddly well in the space.
Priest Maynard stepped forward and raised one hand.
"Puppeteer's Hand," he murmured.
Golden threads unfurled from his fingers, thin as spider silk yet gleaming with restrained power. They attached themselves to the altar table with a soft chime. With a gentle tug of his wrist, the heavy table slid smoothly across the floor, stopping exactly where he guided it.
With practiced motions, he produced five crystals—each a different color: ruby, aquamarine, jade, amethyst, and clear quartz. He placed them at measured points around the altar, forming a loose pentagon.
Walking the perimeter, he sprinkled golden powder from a small vial. The dust shimmered as it fell, tracing a perfect circle that connected the five stones. The air inside the ring felt… denser.
"Ladies," Maynard said gently, "please step forward and stand at the center."
The woman hesitated only a second before obeying. She guided her daughter into the circle, their hands clasped tightly together. The girl's excitement showed in the way she bounced once on her heels—then quickly stilled herself, glancing back at Klaus to make sure she hadn't overstepped.
Klaus gave her a faint nod. Approval, but restrained.
Maynard took his place before them, sunlight cascading through the mosaic behind him, bathing his figure in a radiant curtain.
"Shall we begin?"
Both nodded.
"First," Maynard said, voice lowering, "a vow. A divine oath."
The woman turned to Klaus, uncertainty flickering across her face. Klaus met her gaze briefly and inclined his head.
She swallowed, then spoke—voice trembling but resolute.
"Before the Almighty Tharion, I swear my loyalty, my labor, and my life to the Shaw Family."
The girl opened her mouth eagerly, ready to repeat every word her mother has spoken—
"Hold," Klaus said.
The single word cut cleanly through the air.
The woman froze. Color drained from her face as doubt rushed in. Had she spoken wrongly? Had she offended him?
Klaus didn't look at her. His gaze was fixed on Maynard.
"It's not Shaw," he said calmly. "It's de Vedre."
Maynard's eyes widened—only briefly—before years of discipline smoothed his expression.
"I see," the priest said after a pause. "My apologies."
He turned back to the woman. "Lady, would you please repeat your vow?"
She did, voice steadier this time, substituting the name as instructed. The girl followed suit, copying her mother word for word, her small fist clenched in determination.
When it was done, Maynard exhaled and looked to Klaus.
"What name do you prefer, Mr. Klaus?"
Klaus tilted his head, thoughtful. "I don't have one in mind," he said. "Why don't you ask them?"
The girl's eyes lit up. She tugged gently at her mother's sleeve, then spoke softly, careful but hopeful.
"Can… can you name us after flowers?"
Maynard's expression softened. "Of course."
He straightened, posture formal, and began chanting in a low, resonant voice. The crystals responded immediately, glowing brighter—each color pulsing in time with his words. The golden circle flared, humming with sacred power.
Then he declared:
"By the authority granted under the Almighty God, Tharion—
I, Priest Maynard Filton, bestow upon you the god's blessing.
From this moment onward, you shall be known as Daisy de Vedre… and Lily de Vedre."