Half a month had flown by since Lorin arrived at this territory, yet in all that time, he’d shown not a shred of what a lord should be. Truth be told, even back in the Royal Capital as the Second Prince, he’d never quite fit the role.
From day one, he’d dumped every duty onto Grist—the former lord—content to be a hands-off master. Yet Grist still reported to him daily, a ritual Lorin found utterly tedious. Grist probably thought this was some test of his past governance. In reality, Lorin couldn’t care less—and had no clue how to rule anyway.
Now, he sat by a small lake, shaded by trees, casting his line into the water. This was his daily routine. As he waited, he grew increasingly grateful Xueyi hadn’t followed him here. Stuck in this idle limbo? No place for a girl still growing up.
Just as drowsiness crept in, a tiny figure came sprinting toward him. Tripping near the shore, she tumbled toward the lake. Lorin lunged, grabbing her arm.
The child gasped, staring at the rippling water, then giggled. Her innocent face made Lorin ruffle her hair. "I’ve told you—watch where you run."
She just tilted her head, uncomprehending. Two flustered maids rushed over, relief washing over them when they saw her safe. "Forgive us, Your Highness! Our young mistress ran off again."
This was Grist’s youngest daughter, Mina. Still learning to speak, she managed only words and short phrases. Like most children, she’d been fascinated by the stranger in their midst, peeking at Lorin from hiding spots until they’d grown familiar these past weeks. Grist, whose elder daughter was already married, doted on this little one.
"It’s fine," Lorin waved them off. This wasn’t the first time. A quiet quid pro quo: Grist handled the territory’s affairs; Lorin babysat his daughter.
As Mina babbled "Yaya!" at the fishing rod, Lorin mused that his own child might act just like this someday. *Whose child, though...?*
Before the thought fully formed, Mina’s small hand slapped his cheek.
Lorin winced, rubbing the spot. Kids didn’t know their own strength. But Mina just beamed, thrusting a tiny sachet toward him. It carried a faint floral scent.
"For me?"
"Yaya!"
He examined it. He’d seen girls carry these—sweetening their scent, sometimes warding off mosquitoes with dried herbs.
"The mistress made it for her recently," one maid explained. "She has a new one now, so she wanted you to have this."
*Ah. So she’s just ditching her old one on me.* Lorin pinched Mina’s cheek. She ignored him, fixated on the bobbing float. "No matter how much you yell, fish won’t jump onto the hook."
He rarely caught anything anyway. Fishing was just a way to pass time. And whenever Mina appeared? Not a single bite.
By dusk, Lorin walked back hand-in-hand with Mina, the maids trailing behind. *If my mission here weren’t unfinished,* he thought wryly, *I’d think I’d already retired.*
Just as they reached the manor, Grist rushed out, face tight with urgency. "Your Highness! I was about to search for you. A letter arrived—from the Royal Capital. His Majesty... he’s gravely ill."
Lorin frowned. Baneka was aging, yes, but robust. He’d seen him just before leaving—no sign of sickness.
He broke the seal, expecting Baneka’s or Romon’s handwriting. Instead, the page was buried under a sea of wax seals and signatures. Noble crests. Every mark represented a major house; every name, its current head.
*This much fuss?* It wasn’t every noble in the capital—but close enough. The letter’s gist was clear: Baneka lay dying. Romon, the heir, had grown erratic. They needed Lorin back. *Now.* Someone stable to hold the throne.
"They were both fine when I left," Lorin muttered. One falling ill was plausible. Both? Suspicious. Especially with the uneasy peace hovering over the Terwya Empire these past years.
*You said this nation would survive,* he silently asked the Bookkeeper. He’d asked once before, about the original story’s fate.
*Yes.*
The confirmation only deepened his unease. He’d come here by imperial order. Now nobles demanded his return. The conflict felt... dangerous.
"Another letter came with it, Your Highness." Grist handed him a second envelope.
*Who else writes to me here?* Lorin opened it. Even Grist noticed his expression harden.
"Trouble, Your Highness?" Grist ventured.
"Yes." Lorin’s voice turned flat. "I must return to the Royal Capital."
"And the territory?"
"Manage it as usual."
The tension in Lorin’s tone silenced further questions. Grist could only nod.
The nobles’ plea had made him hesitate. But this second letter—from the Gret Family, Xueyi’s father—left no choice.
Naba wrote of Baneka’s illness and Romon’s instability. Then the true blow: Xueyi’s brother, Liraya, was imprisoned. And Xueyi herself had vanished days ago.
