While Julius was being dragged around by Hans for his crash course in servitude, Alice Draken was in a very different kind of trouble.
She was seated stiffly in one of the private parlors of the Draken estate, facing a man known by many names.
The Sword Saint.
The Emperor's Hidden Blade.
The Guardian of the North.
The Demon Slayer.
Titles that made seasoned knights flinch and generals straighten their backs.
But for Alice, he was just… Father.
Unfortunately, that didn't make things easier.
At the moment, she was being talked to—though calling it a "scolding" didn't quite feel right. It wasn't loud, and there were no raised voices. But the atmosphere was heavy, dense with disappointment and unspoken weight. His tone was calm, measured. That alone made it worse.
"You really did go too far this time, you know that right?"
You could feel anger in his voice and that anger was directly pointed towards Alice.
"Yes, Father."
That's all she could say.
"Broken ribs, fractures, dislocated shoulder…"
His voice remained eerily calm, but each word landed like a blade against her spine.
"Was it necessary?"
Alice's fingers gripped the edge of her dress tightly, knuckles whitening.
The Duke North is talking about all the candidates that duel against Aleck —Alice.
In the first place, The duel wasn't in the part of being selection process of being her servent.
It was something Alice cone up her own and somehow she managed to get her father permission under pretex 'Nothing serious wil happen.'
…And now he was staring at the aftermath.
Reports from several small noble noble families across Solhaven Empire had reached him—each one with the same complaint.
"Their precious heirs had been humiliated, battered, and tossed aside like practice dummies."
"Lord Kessler's son won't be able to lift a sword for another three months. The Viscount of Rhine sent a formal protest letter. And the Baron of Eastmere demanded compensation for 'unwarranted violence.'"
Alice bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. But she didn't speak.
"You promised me it would be just a harmless mock duel," her father continued, folding the paper reports one by one and placing them on the table like funeral notices. "Yet here I am, reading fracture reports instead of servant evaluations."
"I didn't mean to injure them that badly," Alice said quietly, her eyes fixed on the intricate patterns of the carpet beneath her boots.
"But you did."
The words weren't sharp, but they landed with the weight of final judgment. There was no anger in his tone—just a calm certainty that made them hit harder than any raised voice ever could.
"And what," he continued, voice steady, "was your reason for such reckless behavior?"
Alice drew in a breath and met his gaze, the tension in her shoulders taut as a drawn bowstring.
"I believed the position of our household's servant should rightfully go to someone from the North," she said, clearly and without hesitation.
The Duke said nothing at first, his eyes narrowing just slightly.
Alice pressed on, trying to explain the conviction behind her actions.
"A personal attendant isn't just a servant—they act as our hands, our ears. They're someone who sees the world with us. Trusting that role to someone unfamiliar with the North, with no ties to this land, felt… wrong."
She hesitated, then added, "The idea of an outsider being that close, without understanding our ways—it kept me up at night."
"And you thought the best solution was to beat the others half to death?" the Duke asked, arching an eyebrow.
"…I didn't expect them to break so easily."
He sighed through his nose, clearly unimpressed.
"Are you saying my decision—to open the position to all qualified candidates—was a mistake?"
The room fell quiet again. Alice could feel the weight of his gaze bearing down on her.
But even as her knees threatened to tremble, she stood tall.
"…Yes," she said softly but firmly. "I dare to think so."
There was a long pause.
Then, unexpectedly, her father leaned back and let out a breath—not of anger, but something closer to resignation. The oppressive pressure in the room eased, just slightly.
"Why is my daughter so stubborn?" he muttered, almost to himself. "It's troubling."
Alice blinked in surprise.
Looking up, she saw not the stern Duke of the North or the Empire's Sword Saint—but her father. He was rubbing the bridge of his nose, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and amusement.
"You've inherited my strength," he said, voice quieter now. "But I sometimes wish you hadn't inherited my temper."
Alice's expression softened.
"I apologize," she said, bowing her head.
"I'm not asking you to grovel," he replied. "But next time, if you disagree with me, try using words before weapons. Just once."
"…I'll try," she mumbled.
He gave a low chuckle, the tension finally breaking.
"Good. Now," he said, eyeing her with renewed curiosity, "I heard that this Julius Evans managed to defeat you… and is now your personal servant?"
Alice's brow twitched slightly at the mention of that name. That annoying guy.
"…Yes, Father. I challenged him… and lost."
She hated saying it out loud. Her pride took another hit just repeating those words. But she didn't flinch. She was a Draken, after all.
The Duke's eyes narrowed, a rare sign of surprise crossing his face.
"Julius Evans," he murmured thoughtfully. "The youngest son of Baron Evans?"
He leaned back slightly, the gears in his mind clearly turning.
That kind of ability—enough to defeat Alice—wasn't something a small baron household could conceal easily. Especially one like the Evans family, known more for old loyalty than recent accomplishments.
"To best you in a fair duel… That requires real skill. Or real luck."
Alice remained silent. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of blaming it on luck.
"…Do you think he was hiding his abilities all this time?" the Duke asked, almost to himself. "Even from his father?"
"What?" Alice blinked.
"Nothing," the Duke said quickly, waving it off. "Just a thought. It's rare to find talent that sharp from a place so quiet."
His tone wasn't dismissive. If anything, he sounded intrigued—like he had stumbled across a hidden card in someone else's deck.
Then, as he often did, he turned the matter back on her.
"So. What do you plan to do now?"
Alice's gaze didn't waver. Her pride was wounded, yes—but she wasn't the type to sulk. She was already thinking three steps ahead.
"I'll keep him close," she said. "Learn his patterns. Understand his strength."
"And then?"
"…Then I'll surpass him."
A slow grin tugged at the corner of the Duke's lips.
"That's my daughter."
He stood, the shadows of his reputation falling behind him like a cloak.
"I look forward to seeing that rematch."
As he walked toward the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder.
But before he stepped out, he paused—just long enough for Alice to sense it coming.
"Oh—and Alice?"
She blinked. "Yes?"
"How are your bridal lessons going?"
She froze for half a second. It wasn't the question she'd expected.
"…Of course. I'm working hard to be a worthy bride for the Crown Prince," she answered, her tone composed, her expression carefully neutral.
The Duke nodded slowly, satisfied with her answer.
"Good. Our family's bond with the royal house is no light matter. This engagement will define more than just your future—it will reflect the strength of the North. Don't slack in your training, but don't neglect those lessons either."
Alice gave a curt nod. "Don't worry. I always keep it in mind."
Her voice was steady, but something behind her eyes flickered—an unspoken resistance. Her father either didn't notice… or chose not to comment.
"Excellent," he said. "And one more thing."
He turned back toward her, the light from the window catching the edge of his cloak.
"Let's move on to practical experience soon."
"Practical experience?"
"You'll be of age soon. You should hunt at least once before that."
Alice's eyes lit up, the words cutting through her earlier discomfort like sunlight through fog.
Hunting.
Not the kind noble ladies did with falcons and polite applause—but the real kind. Northern kind. The kind where blood mixed with snow, and you didn't return unless you earned it.
Her father wasn't just talking about a pastime. He was talking about duty. A rite of passage. A reminder of what it meant to be born in the North.
"Hunting teaches more than swordplay. It teaches instinct. Survival. Judgment. You're ready."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"When I was your age, I hunted wyverns with nothing but steel and nerve. You don't have to match that—but you do need to prove your readiness."
The fire in Alice's chest ignited. The weight of bridal lessons, etiquette classes, and even her troublesome new attendant faded into the background.
"I understand," she said, standing tall. "I'll heed your command."
The Duke gave a small nod, one that said more than words could.
As he left the room, the door shut softly behind him, but the conversation stayed with her.
Alice turned toward the window, watching the snow settle over the distant treeline.
Today, she would tend to her sword herself.
Not for etiquette.
Not for the court.
But for the hunt.