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.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  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.”

  The light surged, then settled.

  Two translucent screens shimmered into existence above the circle, hovering politely at chest height as if aware they were being observed.

  The woman stiffened at the sudden appearance. The girl’s eyes widened, then narrowed in concentration, as though the screens might scold her if she blinked too much.

  Klaus leaned back slightly on his heels, hands slipping into his coat pockets. He skimmed the details with a professional eye. Levels were expected. Attributes were… underwhelming. Healthy, average, unremarkable. Exactly what two civilians should look like.

  Then his gaze stopped.

  Both have the same class, and a rare one.

  They are both Druids.

  His eyes narrowed—not sharply, but with interest, like a man spotting an unexpected card in a familiar deck.

  “Huh,” Klaus murmured.

  The class description followed, neat and unmistakable. Druid. A hybrid class—nature-bound mana manipulation, adaptability, support with offensive potential. Rare, but not unique. The kind of class that aged well instead of burning bright and fast.

  He tilted his head toward Maynard. “Is this normal?”

  The priest who was walking towards Klaus followed his gaze and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Klaus. Perfectly so.”

  “Normal feels like a strong word,” Klaus said mildly.

  Maynard clasped his hands behind his back. “The de Vedre name carries weight. It is not merely noble name—it is ancient. Far older than Warhog, older even than Cloverstone. Bearing the surname grants…not only recognition, but power.”

  He paused, then added with a sigh, “Honestly, I believed the name had vanished entirely after the Purge.”

  Klaus’s lips twitched. “Disappointed to be wrong?”

  “Relieved,” Maynard corrected. “The ancient name did not end with the Traitor of Hallosbel.”

  Klaus frowned.

  Maynard raised a hand immediately. “Do not misunderstand me, Mr. Klaus. I simply cannot speak his name anymore. Not after the brand was given by the king.”

  Klaus nodded slowly. Of course. Leopold de Vedre—erased not just from records, but from language itself. Reduced to a title, a warning.

  The Traitor of Hallosbel.

  “Tell me,” Klaus said, his tone almost idle, as though they were discussing the weather, “what do you know about the Purge—about what he supposedly did?”

  Maynard exhaled slowly through his nose. The sound lingered, uneasy. “I am a local of Hallosbel,” he said at last. “I know… fragments.”

  His gaze drifted toward the altar. Not in reverence—more like caution, as if stone and candle might remember too much.

  “The one branded Traitor of Hallosbel,” Maynard continued, lowering his voice, “was once a good duke. No—he was exceptional. Too exceptional for the authority he had.”

  Klaus’s eyes narrowed, though his expression remained calm.

  “His name,” the priest went on, “began to rival the king’s. People listened to him. Trusted him. That alone was dangerous.” Maynard paused, fingers tightening at his sides. “Then he made a single mistake. One that cost the de Vedre family everything.”

  “For peace,” Maynard said quietly. “He sacrificed it all.”

  Klaus frowned. “Peace?”

  The priest nodded once. “Have you heard of the Amphibians of the Great Lake Mohambe?”

  “The lizardmen?” Klaus replied. “They’re always at war with Hallosbel.”

  “Not always,” Maynard corrected. “There was a time—brief, fragile—when the southern borders knew peace.”

  Klaus’s voice sharpened. “He made peace with them.”

  “More than that,” the priest said. “Trade. Open routes. The people ate fish once reserved for nobles, and paid for with nothing more than a bottle of wine. The province prospered.”

  “And that couldn’t last,” Klaus said flatly.

  Maynard’s lips pressed thin. “No. I am not a gossip, nor a meddler—but people whispered that it wasn’t the king who was most angered by this peace.”

  “Who, then?”

  “The merchants,” Maynard replied. “More precisely—the Warhog family.”

  Understanding flickered in Klaus’s eyes.

  “They claimed,” Maynard continued carefully, “that the duke colluded with the lizardmen. That he planned to dethrone the king.” He shook his head. “I do not know the details or if it was true. But I only know what followed—the Purge.”

  His voice hardened. “Every de Vedre in the country was eliminated in a single night.”

  Maynard swallowed. “Sebas Warhog hosted a banquet—the engagement of his eldest daughter and the duke’s only son. A celebration meant to unite two houses.”

  His jaw tightened. “It became a slaughter.”

  Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating.

  “Only three survived,” Maynard said at last. “The traitor, his wife… and his daughter.”

  Klaus spoke without hesitation. “Do you know where they are now?”

  The priest shook his head. “No one does.”

  He hesitated, then looked directly at Klaus. “May I ask something in return, Mr. Klaus?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How did you survive?”

  Klaus’s lips curved faintly. “I didn’t.”

  Maynard blinked.

  “I simply didn’t receive an invitation.”

  For a long moment, the priest stared at him. Then he let out a quiet, hollow laugh. “Then… it seems fate had its own plans.”

  Klaus didn’t answer. His attention had drifted to Daisy and Lily.

  They stood shoulder to shoulder, whispering quietly while reading their screens. Lily traced the floating letters with her finger, careful not to actually touch them. Daisy leaned down slightly, murmuring explanations, her posture respectful, never turning her back fully on Klaus.

  Klaus flicked his wrist.

  A leather pouch materialized in his hand with a solid clink. He tossed it lightly to Maynard.

  Gold chimed inside.

  “For the trouble, Priest Maynard,” Klaus said. “And for your discretion.”

  Maynard caught it without surprise. “As I said before, Mr. Klaus, I am bound by sacred oath.”

  “Good,” Klaus replied. “We’ll be leaving.”

  The priest bowed his head.

  Outside, the sunlight felt warmer. Brighter. As if the world had decided to pretend nothing important had happened.

  Daisy bowed slightly. “Thank you… Klaus.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “You’re free folk now. Do whatever you like.”

  Daisy looked down at Lily, then back at him. “We have sworn an oath,” she said quietly. “We will honor it.”

  Klaus nodded, satisfied.

  He hadn’t planned to let them go anyway—but hearing it said freely mattered.

  “You can visit the market,” he added. “Buy what you need. I have an appointment.”

  He paused, then glanced back over his shoulder. “And your surname is Shaw. Not de Vedre.”

  Daisy nodded immediately.

  Lily frowned, clearly confused—then nodded anyway, trusting the adults knew what they were doing.

  Klaus tapped the air in front of him few times, deliberately, as if pressing an invisible button. “Contact me if there’s a problem,” he said casually. “I have to go.”

  Lily blinked, her brows knitting together. “How?”

  He glanced down at her, a faint, amused curve touching his lips. “Just tap the party tab on your status. You’ll see my name there. You can contact me anytime.”

  She immediately did, eyes darting back and forth as the screen shifted. Then she froze.

  “Who’s… Leopold de Vedre?” she asked softly.

  The humor drained from Klaus’s face. “My dad.”

  The word landed heavier than it sounded.

  Before the silence could thicken, Daisy cleared her throat gently. “We’ll be going then, Klaus. We’ll return home as soon as we buy what we need.”

  Klaus nodded once and turned away, heading in the opposite direction of the town center, his back straight, his steps unhurried.