Sif awoke with a start—but not from a nightmare. The room was filled with pale morning light filtering through the high windows. For the first time in over six months, his body did not ache with cold, and his sleep had not been haunted by shadows or steel. He lay still for a moment, adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling of peace, then slowly sat up.
It was still early, the house quiet.
He swung his legs off the side of the bed, stretching, and noticed something folded neatly on the nearby chair. His old coat and clothes were gone—replaced with a fresh, long overcoat of deep charcoal gray, heavier and coarser than the last, but far warmer. A note had not been left, but he had no doubt who was responsible.
"Of course," he muttered with a faint smile. "Lady Vivian likely burned the old one."
Donning the new coat and his ever-faithful hat, he stepped outside, drawn by a quiet desire to clear his head. After months of confinement and tense roads, the open air of the Ashford estate felt like stepping into a different world.
He wandered for the better part of half an hour—past frost-glazed hedgerows and dormant rose bushes, across the orchard path and through the manicured lawns still dusted with winter's breath. The morning wind was brisk, but clean. Birds chirped faintly above, and a soft crunch of his boots against frozen earth was the only sound.
Eventually, he found himself seated on a stone bench beneath a snow-flecked arbor. From there, he watched the pale sun rise through the white-crowned trees, its light spilling across the vast estate like honey over marble.
And for a moment, he allowed himself stillness.
But time pressed on, as it always did. The house awaited.
Upon entering the manor again, Sif found Lady Vivian already seated at the breakfast table, poised and unreadable as ever. Beside her stood the elderly butler—Smith—his posture as rigid as a sword.
"You're early," she said without looking up from her tea. "Impressive."
Sif bowed his head slightly and took the seat across from her. A fine breakfast was laid out: warm bread, spiced preserves, soft-boiled eggs, and strong black tea.
Lady Vivian gestured subtly as she sipped.
"Today," she said, "you'll begin your education in noble etiquette. You've managed to pass unnoticed as a soldier. But if you're to stand under the Ashford name—even as a guest—you'll need to carry yourself accordingly."
Sif blinked, startled. "Forgive me, my lady… but why?"
Her smile was crisp and deliberate.
"Because I refuse to let you embarrass this household the moment you step near a noble gathering."
She turned to Smith. "Begin."
What followed was the slow torture of polite instruction.
For half an hour, Smith lectured him with all the severity of a drill sergeant. How to lift a teacup. How to use each fork. The subtle difference between a bow and a nod. How to seat a lady. How to rise when addressed. Where to place one's hands when standing. How to excuse oneself without disgrace. Which spoons served soup, which were for dessert. Which glass was for wine. Which was never to be touched before the host did.
Sif endured it all with thinning patience. Vivian, on the other hand, watched with open amusement, a faint smile gracing her lips the entire time.
When Smith finally paused for breath, she leaned forward.
"So… where will you go after your week here ends?"
Sif, still massaging the bridge of his nose from a headache that etiquette alone seemed to summon, replied:
"I'm attending the former queen's birthday in Skyrouth."
Vivian nearly choked on her tea.
"In that coat? And with your current posture? You'll be lucky if they let you through the outer gate, let alone inside."
She waved a hand sharply. "Smith, you're dismissed."
The butler bowed, looking faintly pleased by Sif's bewildered expression, and left the room.
Vivian stood, setting aside her napkin.
"No more games. If you're to attend that event, you'll do so properly. You'll walk like someone who belongs. Speak like someone worth listening to. And—by the heavens—you will not embarrass the Ashford name."
Sif stared, unsure whether to protest or laugh.
Instead, he spent the rest of the day under her tutelage. Vivian was relentless—correcting his every mistake with a pointed word or raised brow. She made him repeat greetings and phrases a dozen times until his voice carried the right tone. She walked him through table positions, noble ranks, and the subtle art of bowing without appearing servile.
By sundown, Sif slumped in one of the drawing room chairs, eyes glazed.
"My head is full of titles and teacups," he muttered. "If you throw a fork at me now, I'll probably curtsy."
Vivian, still graceful and composed, raised her glass slightly.
"Progress."
Over the next week, Sif's days at the Ashford estate passed in a blur of porcelain and protocol. Each morning, Lady Vivian convened him in the sunlit breakfast room, where he learned to lift his teacup with poise and bow with just the right angle of the head. Afternoons were spent pacing the marble gallery as she coached him in polite conversation—how to offer condolences, how to praise a hostess, how to conceal discomfort behind polite smiles.
With each lesson, Vivian's haughty reserve softened. She began to linger after Smith had dismissed them, offering Sif a rare, approving nod when he remembered which fork to use, or a small, almost wistful smile when he spoke his first flawless compliment. In the quiet of the library, she would watch him at the desk, pen in hand, copying out the family genealogy so he might learn the lines of nobility.
When the appointed day arrived, a tense hush fell over the estate. Sif stood in the courtyard beside his newly issued steed, a gray mare of sturdy build, while Smith adjusted the saddle. Vivian emerged on the terrace above, her dark gown billowing in the morning breeze. Her eyes were unusually bright—anxiety and something else flickering beneath those pale lashes.
"Sif," she called, her voice trembling just enough to betray her composure. She descended the steps and held out Ronar's sword, its blade gleaming in the soft light. "He would have wanted you to carry it ."
For a heartbeat, Sif hesitated—his hand reaching out, then drawing back. Without warning, Vivian stepped forward and wrapped him in a brief, tight embrace. It was a gesture of grief and hope all at once, and the sudden warmth in her arms left the assembled servants blinking in astonishment.
Pushing back with a gentle touch, she offered a small, rueful bow. "Forgive me," she whispered. "been my guest—and, in some inexplicable way, like a son to me."
Sif's throat tightened. "Thank you, my lady, for everything."
She smiled and motioned to a saddlebag slung on his horse's flank. "Take this—clothes, provisions, a few comforts of home."
Smith approached and presented the mare's reins. "Your horse, Master Sif. The journey to Skyhaven's gates awaits."
Vivian's gaze hardened with gentle firmness. "Come to me in the capital, or I will never forgive you."
Sif bowed deeply. "I will see you first upon arrival, my lady."
With that promise, he swung into the saddle. His mare's hooves clattered on the cobblestones as he spurred her forward, leaving the white walls of Skyhaven behind. Beyond the timbered palisades lay the duchy of Orvalia—rolling hills now veiled in an unusual, ghostly mist that clung to the ground like spectral fingers.
Sif rode into that silver gloom, Ronar's sword at his side and Lady Vivian's hope in his heart, uncertain what awaited him on the mist-shrouded roads ahead