A hush filled the room, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth.
Louis stood by the bedside, gazing at the frail young woman before him. Her skin was paler than that of any Imperial, with a cold undertone that spoke of the North. Her short silver-white hair was slightly tousled, framing deep blue eyes that gave her a mysterious aura.
Though slender, the contours beneath her taut skin hinted at hidden strength—like a leopard poised to strike. Even in her weakened state, her gaze was neither submissive nor arrogant, but quietly wary.
Louis asked gently, "What is your name?"
Stillness answered him.
"Where are you from?" he tried again.
She offered no reply.
"Where are you going?"
The firelight danced across her serene, impassive face. She heard his words, yet said nothing.
Louis' kind aunt, who lingered by the bedside, exhaled softly and patted the girl's hand. Her voice trembled with concern. "Poor child, don't be afraid. We're all good people here. The Lord saved you—he wouldn't hurt you."
Inside, the girl—Sif—raced through her thoughts. If she invented a name or background, the lie would be exposed. If she dodged questions, they'd grow suspicious. The only safe route was silence: disbelief in her memory, feigning ignorance of her past.
She remained mute, silent as the snow outside.
To Sif's surprise, Louis accepted her silence with grace. He looked at her thoughtfully, then finally spoke, "It seems you've lost your memory."
Caught off guard, Sif lowered her eyes. She neither confirmed nor denied; she simply allowed him to believe it.
Studying her, Louis observed her stark white hair and said casually, "Until you remember, you'll stay here."
He paused, a faint smile dancing at his lips. "Your hair… we'll just call you 'Little White.'"
Sif's heart clenched. Little White? A name given like a pet's! How dare this Southern barbarian diminish her royal blood—royalty of the Cold Moon Tribe! Her knuckles whitened, rage surging, but she forced herself to remain still, her inner resolve unbroken. She refused to show any anger.
After a moment, Louis asked softly, "Can you read?"
Instinctively, Sif nodded. Immediately, she regretted revealing that secret. In the Cold Moon Tribe, only nobles learned the Southern script. Her father had made sure of that—even though he despised Southerners, he ensured she learned their ways. Now, that education—intended for defense—might betray her.
She eyed Louis, searching for signs he'd noticed. But his face remained calm. He merely nodded, then said, "Then you can be my secretary."
Her eyebrows twitched. "Secretary?"
"It means someone who records things and handles assorted tasks," he explained kindly. "Nothing difficult, and nothing dangerous."
Instead of trembling at her fate, Sif allowed herself to weigh the offer. A secretary's life was far better than imprisonment, interrogation, or execution. And with no other options before her—she was a vulnerable, nameless survivor—this was the safest choice. No submission, she told herself—just strategy.
She nodded once, gently. It was agreement born of necessity.
Louis smiled faintly. "Rest now—you've just regained consciousness. We can talk more once you've fully recovered."
He left the room.
Sif watched his departure, tension coiling in her fingers. His demeanor carried no malice—but nor was it kindly. What was he thinking? She could not decide, dared not guess. But one thing she knew with certainty: survive first. Revenge could wait—for now, she would play along.
Elsewhere, Louis strode toward the artisan workshop, humming quietly to himself. Appointing Sif as secretary had been a shrewd move; her identity was unknown to others, but he had already accessed it through intelligence channels. In the hierarchy of the Red Tide Territory, status meant nothing if not claimed. Under his rule, she was unclaimed—and thus, useful.
He found Silco buried beneath a pile of paperwork. The artisan shook his head. "Your Grace, you brought in a pen-pusher?"
Louis laughed. "Not just any pen-pusher—she writes well, and she's reliable."
Silco grunted in approval. He'd been drowning in administrative burdens. A secretary might be the answer.
Louis then surveyed the construction site outside. Work had begun in earnest—semi-underground collective dwellings were rising like strange mushrooms across the wasteland. Knights had private rooms, soldiers shared in pairs, citizens in threes, slaves in sixes, and even married couples could apply for independent quarters.
The achievement was nothing short of a miracle given the harsh Northern terrain. At least now, when winter descended, no one would freeze in the snow. Under Louis's governance, a barren territory became a community.
But settlement was only the first step. Now, half the artisans and laborers were reassigned to build the true centerpiece: the Lord's castle.
Back at the bedside, Sif drifted in and out of sleep. Her mind reeled. She was a princess, trained all her life for leadership—and here, she was someone's secretary. A secretary with no memories, no name, no home.
But there was opportunity in this near-erasure.
She needed time to plan. Time to learn more about this Louis—the man who'd saved her yet treated her as a pet. Time to test him: Was he naive, benevolent, manipulative, dangerous?
And time to prepare.
She flexed her fingers, forcing her mind to focus. First, survive. Then learn. Then act.
Her thoughts floated toward her tribe, her father, her people—and how she would return. Not broken. Not beseeching. But commanding.
For now, she would be silent, obedient. But within her burned resolve.
She closed her pale-blue eyes. Sleep welcomed her.
The next morning, she awakened to the soft rustle of parchment and the steady scratch of a quill.
A warm glow of morning light filtered through the window. And across the desk, a figure waited—poised, composed, purposeful.
So began Little White's next chapter.
Survival in the Red Tide Territory. Service as a secretary. And a secret strategy against a man she could not yet judge.
But on that morning, the plan she held in her heart began to shape itself—one familiar word guiding her: revenge.
Chapter End.
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