Klein stood at the entrance of the manor, with a half-finished potion vial still tucked away at his waist.
The glass edge of the bottle pressed against him, the liquid inside sloshing with a faint gurgling sound. He pressed down on it to ensure the stopper hadn't loosened, then pulled his coat down further to hide the conspicuous neck of the vial.
He hadn't actually thought about it much.
A Knightess from the Imperial Capital, someone capable of cutting back sea monsters on the coastline, would likely be the type of person—well, whose arms were thicker than his waist?
Or at least a fierce character who looked as if they were the greatest in the world.
After all, shouldn't someone who could hold a defense line alone look like that?
Klein had even prepared himself mentally, imagining a female warrior a head taller than him jumping off the carriage and then sizing him up, her "Empire-arranged husband," as if he were livestock.
He didn't harbor any particular expectations for this sudden marriage.
It was merely an order from the Empire; neither side had a choice.
The carriage door opened.
A hand emerged first.
The fingers were slender with distinct joints, and a small section of skin exposed at the wrist was so pale it was almost dazzling.
As sunlight hit that wrist, faint blue veins could be seen beneath the skin.
Klein blinked.
Then came the hem of a skirt.
It was white, embroidered with gold thread, layers of fabric piling up at the edge of the carriage step. It flashed in the midday sun, making him instinctively squint.
When the person fully descended from the carriage and stood before him, Klein felt a slight ache in his eyes from the brightness.
No, it wasn't just his eyes.
His brain also seemed to short-circuit for a moment.
Golden hair.
Golden eyes.
Her features were so exquisite they looked like a divine statue drawn by a court painter following the most perfect proportions over several years of hard work.
Klein stared at her for two seconds, and the first thought that popped into his head was—can she really swing a greatsword?
The second thought was—were the painters in the Imperial Capital blind?
The portrait in the dossier had been as illegible as chicken scratch. At the time, he thought the artist was being lazy or had simply found an apprentice to throw something together.
Now it seemed the artist might not have been lazy.
They probably just hadn't seen her in person.
She was also looking at him.
There was no expression in those golden eyes; she just looked at him calmly, as if scrutinizing or confirming something.
Her gaze swept across his face, staying for less than a second, then moved down to his shoulders and then to his hands.
Klein felt a bit uncomfortable under that scrutinizing gaze.
He coughed once and tried to shove the potion vial at his waist into his pocket, only to find the bottle was too large and the pocket too shallow. He had to pull it out and re-insert it at a different angle.
The movement was a bit clumsy.
The stopper of the potion vial bumped against the edge of his pocket, making a soft clicking sound.
Klein acted as if nothing had happened, raising his hand to offer a greeting.
The words reached his lips, but he didn't know what to say.
"Hello" was too formal.
"Welcome" sounded too fake.
"It's been hard on you" sounded like he was consoling a subordinate.
Finally, he squeezed out a sentence: "Was the journey smooth?"
He regretted it as soon as he said it.
Ophelia looked at him and didn't speak, merely nodding slightly.
The movement was very light and small, but her response was earnest.
Klein reached out, wanting to help her off the carriage.
Before his hand could touch her, she took half a step back.
Her movement was fast, lightning-fast, like a reflex.
Klein's hand froze in mid-air.
The atmosphere suddenly became awkward.
Ophelia looked down at her own hand, then at Klein's hand suspended in the air.
Her fingers rubbed against the hem of her skirt, pinching several wrinkles into the white fabric.
After two seconds of silence, she spoke: "I apologize."
Her voice was calm, devoid of any obvious emotion, as if she were simply stating a fact.
"I am not used to..." She paused, her gaze shifting toward the manor's walls, "...direct physical contact with others."
Klein withdrew his hand and shoved it into his pocket.
The potion vial in his pocket pressed against him; the glass bottle was cold, pressing against his palm through the fabric. He shifted his posture, trying to make himself look as natural as possible: "It's fine."
He wanted to say something else, like "I understand" or "take your time," but the words were swallowed back down.
What was the point of saying that?
The other person didn't actually want to marry him.
Ophelia stepped down from the carriage step herself.
The hem of her skirt was a bit long, so she lifted it slightly, revealing her boots.
The boots were black, the leather was old and worn, with scuffs on the surface and a faint scratch on the heel as if scraped by a sharp weapon.
They didn't match her brand-new, priceless imperial dress at all.
Klein glanced at the boots, then at her face.
Her expression was still calm, as if nothing had happened just now.
She stood on the ground, and as the hem of her skirt fell back down, it covered the boots. But the impression left by those boots was already etched into Klein's mind.
The coachman moved a box down from the carriage and placed it on the ground.
The box wasn't large and didn't look heavy. Its surface was covered in a layer of dust, and the corners were worn, clearly having been used for many years.
"Is this all?" Klein asked.
He looked at the solitary box, then at the carriage.
The carriage was empty; there was nothing else.
An imperial hero married off from the Imperial Capital only had one box of luggage?
"Yes," Ophelia said.
Her gaze fell on the box for a second, then moved away.
Klein looked at the box, then at Ophelia.
Her expression was calm, unnaturally so.
"Then let's go... home first."
He paused when he said those last two words.
They rolled around in his mouth with a hint of bitterness.
Ophelia nodded.
Klein leaned over to pick up the box.
As soon as his fingers touched the handle, he froze.
The box was much heavier than he had imagined.
It wasn't the weight of a box full of clothes, but a heavy, solid weight that pressed into his hand.
He had to use some strength to lift it. The box tugged at his hand as if it were filled with stones.
Klein glanced at the box, then at Ophelia.
Her expression didn't change.
He swallowed his confusion, lifted the box, and turned to walk toward the manor.
After a couple of steps, he realized there were no footsteps behind him.
He looked back.
Ophelia was standing where she was, unmoving.
Her gaze was fixed on the manor walls. Her eyes lingered for a few seconds, sweeping over the stone bricks covered in vines, then moved to the stone pillars at the entrance.
The pillars were draped in vines, green leaves hanging down and swaying in the wind with a rustling sound.
She looked at the vines with a somewhat dazed expression, as if she were thinking of something.
"What is it?" Klein asked.
Ophelia withdrew her gaze and looked at him.
"Nothing," she said, stepping forward to catch up.
Her posture while walking was very straight—her back was ramrod straight, her shoulders level, and her pace steady. Every step was almost exactly the same distance. The hem of her skirt swayed by her feet, making a rustling sound.
Walking in front, Klein listened to those rhythmic footsteps and felt that something wasn't quite right.
These footsteps—how should he put it—didn't sound like a bride walking; they sounded more like a march.
He glanced sideways.
Ophelia's hands hung at her sides, her fingers slightly spread as if ready to grab something at any moment.
She wasn't holding her skirt or striking a pose; it was a stance from which she could draw a weapon at any second.
He looked down, once again glancing at her hands.
The fingers were slender, but there were thick calluses on the pads of her fingers, casting a yellowish glow in the sunlight. There was a scar at the base of her thumb, curved like a crescent moon, embedded in her skin.
It was obvious that these hands had likely held a sword for a very, very long time.
So long that the calluses could no longer be worn away.
Klein withdrew his gaze and continued forward.
The manor wasn't large; the distance from the entrance to the main building was only a few dozen meters.
Trees were planted on both sides of the path, their foliage thick enough to block most of the sunlight. Shadows fell on the ground, casting dappled patterns on the stone road.
"It's usually very quiet here," Klein said, attempting to break the silence. "Occasionally, a merchant caravan passes by, but not often. Most of the time, it's just me and two servants, but they live in town and only come over when needed."
"I see."
"The town isn't far from here, about half an hour by horse. There's a market in town every Wednesday. There isn't a huge selection, but they have everything for daily use. If you want to buy anything, you can make a list, and I'll have someone get it."
"Understood."
Klein said a few more things, but the other person's responses were all "I see" or a simple nod.
He swallowed the rest of his prepared remarks and shut his mouth.
Forget it.
He didn't know what to say anyway.
They reached the main building.
Klein pushed the door open, the hinges letting out a creak, and he stepped aside to let Ophelia enter first.
She stood at the doorway and looked inside. Her gaze swept through the hall, lingering on the fireplace for a second before moving to the bookshelves.
Then she crossed the threshold.
The hall wasn't spacious, and there wasn't much furniture.
Ashes from last night still remained in the fireplace, not yet cleared away. The bookshelves were filled with books and various jars and bottles. Liquids of different colors sloshed in the glass vials—some were clear and transparent, others thick and cloudy, and a few even gave off an eerie glow in the sunlight.
A few pieces of parchment were scattered on the table, bearing sketches of alchemical arrays. The lines were messy, and there were several spots where the ink had blurred, looking as if they had just been drawn not long ago.
Klein placed the box by the stairs. When it hit the floor, it made a heavy thud, louder than he had expected.
He turned around and saw Ophelia staring at the parchment on the table.
Her gaze stayed on those alchemical arrays for a few seconds, sweeping over the complex symbols and lines. There was a hint of curiosity in her eyes, which she quickly concealed.
"Those are alchemical arrays," Klein explained, walking over to gather the papers. "I'm researching new potion formulas. It's a bit of a mess, I apologize."
He folded the parchment and stuffed it into a drawer, then straightened the scattered quills and ink bottles on the table.
Ophelia's gaze moved from the parchment to the bookshelf.
She walked over, her eyes sweeping across the bottles, looking at them one by one as if confirming something.
"Are they poisonous?" she asked.
Klein was stunned for a moment. "Huh?"
"These potions." Ophelia pointed at the bookshelf. "Are they poisonous?"
Her tone was very calm, as natural as if she were asking "How's the weather today?"
Klein blinked and realized. "Uh... a few of them are poisonous, but they're all marked. See, the red labels are poisonous, the green ones are for healing, the blue ones are auxiliary types, like for refreshing one's mind or pain relief. The yellow ones are—"
"I won't touch them," Ophelia interrupted. "I was just asking."
Her fingers rubbed against the hem of her skirt, her fingertips touching the fabric before letting go.
Klein nodded.
The atmosphere went quiet again.
He touched the potion vial in his pocket; the glass bottle had been warmed by his body temperature and was no longer as cold as before. He cleared his throat. "Your room is on the second floor; I've had it prepared. The sheets and blankets are new, the window faces south, and the lighting is quite good. If you need anything, you can tell me at any time."
He paused, then added another sentence: "My room is on the third floor. I usually spend a lot of time in the laboratory, so I won't disturb you."
Ophelia turned around and looked at him.
Those golden eyes stared at him with a direct gaze, neither dodging nor testing him, just looking straight at him.
Klein felt a bit uncomfortable under that gaze and instinctively looked away.
"Do we..." she started, then stopped.
"Yes?"
"Do we sleep in the same room?"
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