Interlude

  Alda and Sir Percival didn’t have a particularly flashy first date. Truthfully, by modern standards, what they did was less a “date” and more a practical errand.

  It all started when the newly knighted man admitted an uncomfortable truth.

  “Alda… I don’t have an outfit for the banquet. Since I wasn’t expecting to participate in the dance, I don’t own clothing worthy of the occasion. Would you accompany me to choose something with the tailor, please?”

  “Of course!” Alda declared with absolute confidence. “I’m a fashion expert. I don’t just do swords—I’m also good at everything related to court life. Listen to me and you’ll look like an elegant noble in no time.”

  If Alda were Pinocchio, her nose would’ve grown dramatically.

  How many lies had she told in so little time?

  And more importantly… why did she lie so much?

  “Thank you. Let’s go, then.” For Sir Percival, all the pageantry, luxury, and manners were an entirely new world. He was innocent, and also ignorant of the habits of Etrica’s upper class.

  He’d spent his entire life as a wanderer beside his mentor, training under sun, rain, and lightning. The sudden change of scenery still caused him trouble adapting—proof of it was his total lack of elegant doublets and hose.

  “The castle’s tailor has high-quality clothes. You just have to try on one of the outfits he has there.”

  “Anything is fine,” Percival said, blushing slightly. “I’m not really a fan of expensive clothes.” His natural humility came from his common birth—and from his martial upbringing.

  As a practitioner of the Wolf Discipline, Sir Percival prioritized honor and respect over raw strength itself.

  “You’re a knight now. You have to look good to represent my brother.” Alda puffed her cheeks, then grabbed his arm with complete confidence. She was excited to pick out his clothes, to the point she completely forgot the incident from that morning.

  But Sir Percival hadn’t forgotten.

  How could he?

  He’d never touched a girl’s body before—much less her breasts…

  The warm, soft fingers of Alda brushing his bare wrist made him sweat even more. The blond didn’t want to admit it, but the king’s sister was far too pretty.

  Why isn’t she engaged yet? the knight wondered.

  Fantasizing about royalty and rubbing shoulders with dukes was the dream of any peasant boy. Wearing plate armor and defending the king’s honor in a tournament was too good to be true.

  And yet, there he was.

  Holding hands with the king’s sister.

  “Come on, let’s hurry.”

  They walked together for five minutes through the palace corridors. Percival felt the looks from servants and patrolling guards—most of them mischievous smiles.

  To the staff, seeing Lady Alda with a boy was unusual. Thanks to her charisma and radiant personality, the young woman was beloved by everyone, and they all watched over her happiness.

  No one—outside the working class—cared that Alda was the former king’s natural-born daughter. They saw her as part of the royal family, and also as a precious friend.

  “Hey, good work! Keep it up!” the dark-haired girl called out.

  “You really get along with servants and soldiers.”

  “Of course I do. They work hard for us—we should be grateful and get along with them. Girasol always says we must be respectful to everyone, from dukes to gardeners who work under the sun all day.”

  “Lady Girasol is very wise.” Sir Percival was still stunned by Alda’s attitude.

  To him, noble ladies were unreachable flowers—radiant girls who were only supposed to stand beside people of their own class. Because of that, he’d never allowed himself to hope for anything.

  He knew his place as a commoner.

  And he had no problem with it.

  But Alda was different.

  “We’re here.” The castle’s tailor shop was larger than any city business. It was a huge room—formal suits lined the right wall, and beautiful dresses lined the left, most already reserved by high nobility or courtiers operating inside the palace.

  “S-So much clothing…” Sir Percival whispered. “L-Let’s choose something simple, okay?”

  “Sure. Leave it to me—you’re talking to an expert.” Alda lied again. In truth, she planned to imitate her brother’s style and hope it worked.

  The mighty warrior didn’t have the faintest idea about cuts, folds, fabrics, or any concept related to fashion.

  In a way, the scene was tragic…

  “All right. I’m counting on your recommendation,” Sir Percival said, completely unaware of her lies, waiting for the promised outfit. Little did he know our sweet, lovable heroine was mentally panicking over which doublet to request.

  Fortunately for her, the tailor was available.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Lady Alda, do you need help with your dress?” The man in charge of royal outfits was very young—twenty-five at most—with brown hair and tan skin. He wore a fashionable yellow doublet and black hose.

  His slender build and delicate hands made him perfect for the job.

  “My dress is already ready (thanks to Ingrid). Today I’m here for an outfit for Sir Percival. He’ll attend the banquet and needs formal clothes.”

  “Oh, excellent. Is this your first banquet, Sir Percival?”

  “U-Um, yes. It’s my first time around nobility since I was knighted.” The blond bowed shyly. He hated showing how inexperienced he was at court—and unlike combat, this was something he couldn’t control.

  “Then I have something perfect for you.” The tailor rummaged through the clothing and chatted as he searched. “Tell me, boy—will you be dancing with Lady Alda?”

  He’d heard about Percival through court rumors, but this was his first time meeting the rising celebrity.

  “Y-Yes. She invited me. I wasn’t planning to participate, so we’re a bit rushed.”

  “I figured,” the tailor replied. “But don’t worry. When we’re done, no one will doubt your rank as a knight.”

  He handed Percival a blue doublet with gold ornaments on the shoulders. The most striking detail, however, was the red lion embroidered right on the chest, giving him a martial, dignified look—almost as good as Ulric’s, whose outfit would be red as the kingdom’s color.

  The hose, on the other hand, were black.

  They covered his legs entirely and—unlike most noble fashion—were slightly looser to allow freer movement.

  “Do you want a cape?” Alda examined Percival from head to toe. Without armor or sword, he looked like just another courtier.

  “Yes, actually. I was going to ask for a black one. Do you have one?”

  “Of course.” The tailor handed him a plain black cape with no heraldry or decorations.

  “Thank you.” Percival smiled, suddenly more confident. “I like capes. They give you an air of mystery—and they’re useful for hiding daggers or feints in street fights. My master used to say a cape can be as reliable as a shield, especially indoors.”

  “Y-Your master had a talent for saying terrifying things,” Alda joked. “It never would’ve occurred to me to fight without armor.”

  “Sure, the ideal is always to be armed and armored,” Percival replied. “But assassins won’t ask or wait for you to be ready. That’s why I was trained to prevent lethal attacks—and a cape is an ideal tool. It hides your weapon and your arm, and it buys you a few seconds thanks to phantom distance.”

  When he talked about combat, Sir Percival became someone else.

  More confident, less shy—and above all, knowledgeable.

  “That makes sense. Another time, you should teach me some of those street techniques. Preferably for civilian clothes.”

  “Of course. I’d be happy to teach you a few tricks.” The pair drifted into their own conversation, and the tailor, pleased with his work, decided to drop a bombshell they hadn’t considered.

  “Those fighting techniques are lovely and all… but don’t you have something more important to handle?”

  “What?” they asked in unison.

  The tailor smiled maliciously and finally revealed the harsh truth.

  “Sir Percival… you do know how to dance, right?”

  Alda and Percival froze. Neither answered. The tailor simply sighed.

  “Ah…”

  “D-Don’t worry!” Alda declared. “We’re martial artists. Dancing will be easy for combat masters like us.”

  Again—Pinocchio’s nose would’ve grown ten more centimeters.

  She had tried for years, but dancing simply never suited her.

  She tried and tried.

  But her steps were aggressive, fast, and firm—perfect for a warrior, useless for graceful femininity.

  “A-Are you sure?” Percival looked like he wanted to die.

  The banquet was the day after tomorrow, and he’d never danced in his life—not even at common festivals.

  “Of course! How hard can it be? Let’s go to the main garden and train our skills—surely we’ll master it on the first try!”

  “Good luck, Lady Alda, Sir Percival.” The tailor bowed. “I’ll have assistants deliver the outfits to your rooms. Have a wonderful afternoon.”

  “Thank you,” they replied.

  After leaving the tailor, Alda and Sir Percival headed to the main garden—the place she and her brother used in childhood to play and kill time. One of her happiest memories there was when Sora offered her a cold lemonade and shared her opinions about a popular novel.

  Alda loved those stories because of the late maid, and before sleeping she tried to read at least one chapter.

  “All right,” Alda said. “Let’s test our dancing…”

  What happened next was an insult to art, to dance itself, and to good taste.

  Alda moved like a deer on ice, and Sir Percival looked like a stone statue—rigid, stiff, nervous about physical contact.

  They tried coordinating so they wouldn’t embarrass themselves too badly—at least they wanted to look like they were dancing. But their talent lived in weapons, not dance. No matter how hard they tried for an hour, they couldn’t take a single good step.

  Percival kept stepping on his partner, and Alda moved so fast she looked like she was fleeing from him rather than approaching.

  A complete disaster.

  Displaying those “skills” at the banquet would turn them into the court’s laughingstock. And for a newcomer like Sir Percival, first impressions were everything.

  “L-Let’s take a break.” Alda’s cheeks flared red with embarrassment. “Okay… I admit it. I underestimated dancing.”

  “This is more stressful than training,” Percival groaned. “I got more tired now than during our duel.”

  “Agreed,” Alda said, smiling anyway. Struggling together with a new friend made her happy. “But… I’m having fun.”

  “Me too. It never hurts to try new things. Not everything in life is swords.” Sir Percival lay down on the grass and closed his eyes. Barely half a year ago, he’d been on Etrica’s cold roads, fighting bandits to the death.

  Now he was practicing dance steps.

  A total change—and it still bothered him inside. After all, things had gone too well for him. Any rational person would be suspicious of so much good fortune.

  Something’s going on. I can feel it. Things can’t go this well. It’s almost like King Ulric orchestrated all of this.

  And indeed, Sir Percival’s intuition wasn’t wrong.

  But with nothing to prove it, those thoughts would remain nothing more than loose ideas.

  “Hey, Alda… can I tell you something?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “I’m a knight now, and I’ve entered King Ulric’s service, but everything happened so fast. I don’t know… I feel like something’s being hidden from me. Is there a conspiracy ahead? Are they planning to use me for something strange?”

  That comment could’ve been interpreted in many ways:

  Ungrateful.

  Or even… treasonous.

  But Alda didn’t sense malice in Percival’s words—only confusion, and well-founded at that.

  Of course.

  King Ulric’s plan was to use him as a public figure to win over the people—a hero shaped by “media,” a product of a past life.

  Sir Percival was right to suspect it.

  “My brother would never do something like that,” Alda said.

  Alda, unaware of the king’s true plans, spoke a sentence that fully bought Sir Percival’s heart.

  “He cares about our happiness. If he saw potential in you, it’s because your heart is noble—and that’s what my brother looks for in his men. He can’t trust just anyone, only those who share his ideals.”

  Alda smiled again.

  She spoke with such blind trust and love for Ulric that she didn’t even consider conspiracies for a second. To her, the idea that her brother had a secret plan was as absurd as it was irrelevant.

  She trusted his judgment.

  “Yeah… I can see His Majesty is a good and generous man,” Percival said quietly. “Maybe you’re right, Alda. Maybe I’m thinking too much.”

  “Of course! My brother will be the best king!” Alda declared proudly. “And I’ll follow him without hesitation.”

  Without realizing it, Alda had crushed the very real suspicions Sir Percival had formed since his knighthood.

  Now he truly became one hundred percent loyal. The last doubts in his heart finally vanished.

  From that moment on, until the day he died, Sir Percival’s sword would belong to House León.

  And nothing would change that.

  “I’m with you. Your family gave me everything—so I’ll repay you a thousand times with loyalty.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Alda stood, ending the conversation and returning to the most urgent point. “Now let’s go. We have work to do. We’ll need help if we don’t want to humiliate ourselves at the banquet… and I already know who to ask.”

  . . .

  End of interlude