The afternoon welcoming feast was a symphony of pretense.
Albert, seated on a high-backed chair beside Alena, neatly carved his overly dry pheasant, nodded at his father's tales of the almost-successful grape harvest, and responded to Alena's polite inquiries about Götthain's climate with equally polite, empty answers.
He felt a weariness distinct from his training with Gregor. This was a mental fatigue, a passive battle where his weapons were smiles, nods, and sentences stripped of all meaning save for the acknowledgment of status.
Alena, across from him, was a master of this art. Her gaze was always precise, her curtsey perfect, her laughter—infrequent and brief—perfectly pitched to the conversation's tone. She was like a beautiful, breathing painting: pleasant to behold, yet utterly untouchable.
After the protracted luncheon, Baron Friedrich, with a fine sheen of sweat at his temples (a sign of his social exertion), proposed, "Albert, perhaps you could show Lady Alena the gardens. Though it is winter, the pine stands and stonework are still worth seeing. And the midday sun is reasonably warm."
It was not a question. It was an order wrapped in courtesy.
"Of course, Father," Albert stood, then turned to Alena. "Lady Alena, if it would please you?"
Alena gave a slight nod, her expression neutral. "It would be my pleasure, My lord."
They exited through a side door, accompanied by Alena's personal maid, a middle-aged woman named Greta with a face like a tombstone, and the Götterbaum family's faithful guard, Hans, who maintained a distance of ten paces. The biting fresh air was an immediate relief from the room stuffy with conversation and expectation.
The "castle" gardens of Götthain were more accurately a landscaped courtyard. There were flagstone paths, several benches with faded paint, and the bare, gnarled skeletons of climbing vines that looked like skeletal hands. In the center, a small stone fountain—featuring a weathered sprite—stood frozen silent, its water captured in a transparent sculpture of ice.
They walked slowly, parallel but not touching. The crunch of their boots on gravel was the only sound for the first several minutes.
Albert decided to break the frost. He was no longer the passive, desperate Dilan, waiting for the world to crush him. He was Albert, seeking to control his battlefield, however small.
"What would you care to see, Lady Alena?" he asked, deliberately keeping his tone flat. "We have several bird species that winter here. Or perhaps the view of the valley yonder, though it is somewhat misty."
Alena shot him a glancing look, her light brown eyes scanning his face as quickly as a sparrow pecking seed. "Whatever sight My lord deems worthy."
A safe answer. Too safe. Albert felt a flicker of irritation. He was talking to a well-trained wall.
"Do you always answer like that?" he asked suddenly, unable to restrain himself. "With sentences that give no information, cause no offense, and leave no trace?"
Alena stopped walking. She turned fully to him, and for the first time, that perfect expression cracked, revealing a glimmer of genuine surprise beneath.
How utterly discomfiting to see a girl his age behaving like this…
Greta, the maid, gave a soft sniff. Hans behind them straightened his posture.
"Does my manner of answering not satisfy you, My lord?" she replied, her voice still soft, but a small thorn now hidden within.
"It's not about satisfaction," Albert said, resuming his walk, forcing her to follow. "It's about… efficiency. In military tactics, ambiguous communication is a disaster. In conversation, it makes everything profoundly tedious."
He heard her hurried steps catching up. "This is not a battlefield, My lord. This is an engagement. The rules are different."
"The rules," Albert countered, stopping before the frozen fountain. He stared at the half-eroded stone face of the sprite. "Were set by people who don't have to live with the consequences. Our fathers. They made a promise, perhaps in a haze of victory-drunk camaraderie, and then carried on with their lives. And we," he finally looked at her, "we are the ones who must stand here, talking of birds and views, as if the decision that will bind our entire lives is a normal topic of discussion."
The silence that fell this time was different. Heavier, charged. Even Greta and Hans seemed to be holding their breath.
Alena stared at him, her eyes wide. Her pale cheeks gained a faint flush, perhaps from the winter wind, perhaps from something else. Her small, usually perfectly arranged lips parted slightly.
She looked… disarmed. Like someone who'd just discovered the wall they'd meticulously maintained was transparent to the person on the other side.
"Lord Albert," she whispered, her voice lower, losing its cool tone. "You are… remarkably direct."
"I have little patience for courtesies or polished phrases. So, forgive me if I grow weary of this verbal dance."
He took a deep breath, meeting her gaze directly. A breach had been opened. Time for a direct assault, or a truce.
"This is not an attack on you," he clarified, more gently. "It is an observation. And an offer."
"An offer?" Alena repeated, still seeming off-balance.
"Yes." Albert stepped a little closer, enough to make Greta shift uneasily, stopped by a subtle shake of Alena's head. He lowered his voice, for their ears only. "We are both trapped in this arrangement. But if you… if you do not want it at all, if this is a burden you did not ask for and do not desire, then say so. Now. Here. And I will find a way. A way to nullify it, or at the very least, delay it without damaging your family's honor."
His words hung in the air, crystallizing between them like the ice on the fountain.
Alena just stared at him. The surprise in her eyes was no longer mere surprise, but a profound astonishment, mixed with something else—something akin to incredulous amusement. Then, something strange happened.
She laughed. Not the polite, clipped little laugh she'd offered at the dining table. This was a burst of clear, ringing, utterly unexpected sound that shattered the winter garden's quiet like a cracked bell. She laughed with a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking, her eyes crinkling until they watered.
Albert was baffled. This was not a reaction he had anticipated. He'd prepared for tears, restrained anger, or even cold gratitude. Not this.
"Sorry, sorry," Alena hissed between her laughter, trying to regain composure. She dabbed the corner of her eye with the cuff of her glove. "Oh, Lord Albert… you… you are truly…"
She took a breath, her laughter subsiding into a genuine, wobbly smile. Then, with a movement so spontaneous Albert had no time to react, she raised her hand and lightly patted his cheek.
The touch of her silken glove was cool against his skin.
"Of all the things I was trained to face," Alena said, her voice still trembling with residual mirth, "of all the scenarios—a proud fiancé, a dull one, a cruel one, an indifferent one—not once did my tutors prepare me for… a fiancé who offers an escape route."
Albert could feel the blood rushing to his face, making the cheek she'd touched feel hot. He was flustered. "I was… serious."
"I know you were serious," Alena said, her smile now softer, more human. It was the smile of a girl, not a noble doll. "That's what makes it so funny. And so… strangely touching."
She withdrew her hand, looking at him with a completely new expression—open, deeply curious. "Albert vin Götterbaum. Do you know, from the time I could read and write, from my earliest memory, what my most important lesson was?"
Albert shook his head, unable to speak.
"It was: 'You will be the wife of Albert vin Götterbaum. Everything you do, learn, and are, must be directed toward that purpose. To become the perfect future wife for him.'" She imitated a firm, flat voice, likely that of her father or an instructor.
"History? To understand the context of my future husband's lands. Etiquette? To honor his station. Weaving, embroidery, household management? To run his home. Even basic sword and riding lessons? So I would not be a burden in danger, and could accompany my husband on hunts. Everything, everything, was about you. A name and title whose face I did not even know until today."
She turned, walking slowly around the frozen fountain, her skirts whispering over the gravel. "So, when you stand there, with that overly serious face, and earnestly offer me—who has been prepared her entire life solely for you—an 'escape route'… it is like someone waking me from a very long, peculiar dream, and then offering me a map out of it, when I didn't even know there was a world outside the dream."
Albert stood rooted, her words like stones in his throat. He understood.
Oh, he understood perfectly well. It was the same feeling he'd had when his memories returned: being trapped in a pre-written narrative, a role plotted out before he even existed.
"So you… do not want it? The escape?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
Alena stopped, looking at him. The soft winter sunlight caught her red hair, making it look like live embers. "I do not know," she answered honestly. "All I know is how to be 'the wife of Albert vin Götterbaum'. The question of wanting or not wanting… that was a luxury never taught to me. Until now."
She stepped closer again, nearer than before. "But you, Lord Albert. You offered it. That means you considered the possibility. That perhaps you do not want it. Why?"
The challenge had suddenly reversed. Now he was the one under interrogation. In those light brown eyes, he saw sharp intelligence, a long-pent thirst for understanding.
He couldn't tell the full truth. About Dilan, about the Ukrainian battlefield, about reincarnation. But he could tell another truth.
"Because," Albert began, choosing his words with care, "I believe people should have a choice. That a decision binding a person's life should be made by that person, or at least assented to by them. Not inherited like land or a title."
"And… because I, too, know what it feels like to be prepared for a destiny without ever being asked if I wanted it."
Alena looked at him for a long moment. The winter wind blew, stirring a few loose strands of her hair. "You are different," she murmured, more to herself. "Quite different from what they said, or what I imagined."
"What did they say of me?" Albert asked, curious.
"That you were quiet, scholarly for your age, somewhat odd, and perhaps too serious." A small smile returned to her lips. "They omitted the part about being a sentimental rebel."
Sentimental? A rebel? Albert nearly choked. No one had ever called him that.
"So," Alena continued, returning to a lighter tone, though her eyes remained serious. "What do we do now? With your 'offer'?"
Albert sighed, glancing at Greta and Hans who were deliberately looking elsewhere, granting them the illusion of privacy. "I suppose… we continue the dance. For now. But perhaps… we can dance to a tune of our own choosing, on occasion."
"A tune of our own choosing," Alena repeated, as if tasting the words. "I like that. But I must warn you, Lord Albert, my dancing lessons were very traditional. I may step on your feet."
"My feet are hardened enough from training," Albert retorted, and for the first time since she'd arrived, a genuine smile—small, but real—touched his lips. "And please, just Albert is fine. All those titles are tiresome in a quiet garden."
Alena blinked, then gave a small nod. "Very well… Albert. And you may call me Alena. In a quiet garden."
There was silence again, but this time it was not cold or tense. It was a silence full of discovery, an unexpected truce, perhaps even the beginning of a genuine alliance.
"So, Albert," Alena began anew, her voice brighter. "Aside from reading military tactics and offering freedom to unwilling fiancées, what else do you do in 'boring' Götthain?"
***
They spent the remainder of the afternoon in the garden, then took a slow walk along the short curtain wall.
Their conversation, while still cautious in parts, had transformed. It was no longer an exchange of formalities.
Albert spoke of his sword training with Sir Gregor, of his visit to Steinbach village and the blacksmith Borin, of his interest in history and strategy. He did not mention nightmares or past lives, but he let his maturity and unique perspective show.
Alena, in return, spoke of the Lancasters' history as a middling Central Continent family now risen to prominence in the West. Of Castle Lanser, larger and colder on its mountainside. Of her father, Earl Richard, once a great warrior now often morose and ailing, burying himself in administration and medicine for his old wounds.
She spoke of the pressure of being the sole heir, of power-hungry cousins watching her like wolves, of the endless lessons.
"Sometimes," she admitted in a low voice as they sat on a bench overlooking the valley, "I feel like a banner. A symbol to be handed to the next victor. My own existence feels… conditional."
Albert nodded, understanding completely.
They looked at each other, and in that look was a deep recognition. They were two people set apart, not by poverty or lack, but by the burden of expectations placed upon their young shoulders.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in oranges and purples, Greta finally approached and cleared her throat. "Lady Alena, the temperature will drop sharply soon. And the dinner hour approaches."
They walked back to the castle. The atmosphere between them was different. Physical distance remained, but there was a new, unspoken familiarity. They were no longer strangers.
***
Dinner that evening was different from the luncheon.
Albert still sat beside Alena, but this time, when Baron Friedrich launched into talk of the diminishing prospects of their iron mines, Albert didn't just listen.
"From a manuscript I read," Albert interjected politely after his father finished, "some southern regions are attempting a 're-refining' technique for low-grade iron. They re-smelt scrap and forge waste, adding a small amount of a particular charcoal. The result is not as strong as pure iron, but better than scrap, and more efficient."
Friedrich was dumbstruck, his soup spoon halted mid-air. "Where did you read that?"
"In an old manuscript in the library, Father. 'Notes of the Southern Mountain Smiths'. It might be worth Borin trying."
The Baron nodded, slowly, his eyes alight with satisfaction and wonder. "That is… a fine idea. I shall mention it."
Alena, who had been observing quietly, then chimed in softly. "At Lanser, we have the opposite problem. Our ore is high quality, but the mines are deep and prone to collapse. The miners require immense amounts of timber for shoring, which is denuding the mountain slopes." She turned to Friedrich. "Are there any sustainable forestry techniques practiced in Götthain, Lord Baron? My father would be most interested in such an exchange of knowledge."
Now it was his mother—Lady Elara—who looked stunned. This young lady, whom she'd expected to be silent and blushing, possessed a sharp administrative understanding.
The conversation flowed. It was no longer about clichéd weather and health, but about real problems, a simple yet potentially valuable exchange of ideas.
Albert and Alena, without realizing it, were operating as a team. Albert provided technical and historical knowledge, Alena provided perspective from a larger territory and managerial issues. They complemented and supported each other's points.
Friedrich and Elara exchanged a look, and in it was profound relief, even hidden delight. This was better than they'd hoped. Far better.
Albert, in the middle of explaining the differences in timber for shoring, caught a small smile on Alena's lips. He returned it with a subtle nod.
It felt strange. This wasn't pretense. This was… partnership. A cooperation born of mutual understanding of each other's burdens.
By the time dessert—baked apples with cinnamon—was served, the conversation had grown relaxed. Alena even asked Albert about the winter birds he'd mentioned earlier, and Albert answered with enthusiasm, explaining migration patterns and feeding habits.
As the evening ended and they all retired, Albert found himself walking down the corridor alongside Alena toward the guest chambers.
"Thank you for this afternoon, Albert," Alena said at her door. "And for… the garden conversation."
"Thank you for not laughing too long," Albert replied, and Alena smiled.
"I promise, next time I shall control myself." Her eyes sparkled. "Sleep well… my betrothed."
She then slipped into her room, leaving Albert standing in the torch-lit corridor.
That word—betrothed—sounded different now. No longer like a sentence or an empty title. It sounded like… a choice. An identity they could shape together.
He turned and walked to his own room. His mind was noisy, but not with anxiety or regret.
He thought of recycled iron, of forest management, of the way Alena's eyebrow quirked when she heard something interesting, of her clear laugh breaking the frost.
He lay in bed, staring at the dark wooden ceiling. The smell of gunpowder and the cold of a trench felt very distant tonight. Instead, he remembered the crisp garden air, the sunlight on fire-red hair, and the taste of meaningful conversation.
Perhaps, he thought as drowsiness began to pull at him, this was not such a bad thing. Perhaps, in a world full of tax threats, wars, and blind duty, having an ally—someone who understood the burden, someone intelligent, someone who could both laugh and discuss mine shoring—was not an ending.
Perhaps it was a beginning.
A quiet hope that spoke not of mere survival, but of the possibility of building something.