A Gift

Inside the camp tent, Vera sat up from her cot, quickly straightened herself out, and stood up.

“Hurry up, Rosie. We're going over together.” She tilted her head toward Rosie.

“Whenever people from the Norman royal family show up, it's never good news,” Rosie said as she swiftly put on her brigandine armor.

The surface of the brigandine armor had dried, and the bloodstains were mostly wiped clean, leaving only a few stubborn dark brown traces around the seams.

She slipped into the armor, tightened the side straps, and reached out to touch the small puncture hole where the rapier had pierced her chest, clearly feeling the dent in the inner steel plate.

“I don't want to go. Just tell them I'm not feeling well.”

Rosie didn't want anything to do with any members of the royal family.

Having watched so many historical dramas and read so many novels in her past life, she knew all too well how troublesome it was to deal with people connected to power.

Vera walked over to stand right in front of her, meeting her gaze levelly. “It doesn't hurt to broaden your horizons. Don't worry, you have me.”

Her tone sounded casual, yet it radiated confidence.

“The Dawnguard might not be a massive organization, but we're no push-overs either.”

Rosie fell silent for a moment. Since Vera had put it that way...

And to be honest, she really was a bit curious.

What did royal family members look like, anyway?

“Alright then.”

As Rosie spoke, she picked up the broken sword from the foot of her bed, glanced at it, and set it back down.

“Let's go have a look.”

The two of them pulled back the curtain flap and stepped out of the tent.

A cold gust of wind hit their faces.

The sun was obscured by a thin layer of clouds, casting the dull gray-white daylight common in winter.

The snow in the camp had turned a dirty gray beneath trampled boots, crisscrossed with wheel ruts and footprints.

Lucius stood waiting a few steps outside the tent.

He wasn't wearing a helmet, and the metal gorget at his collar reflected the dull gray sky, accentuating the sharp angles of his face.

He held a sword in his hands.

It was shorter than a knight's arming sword, yet longer than an ordinary one-handed sword.

Overall, it measured around 1.3 to 1.4 meters in length, with a slightly extended hilt that allowed for both single-handed and double-handed grips.

Spotting them coming out, Lucius stepped forward to meet them.

He first nodded in greeting to Vera, then turned to Rosie, holding the sword horizontally to present it to her.

“This was the first weapon my family bestowed upon me after I became a Norman Knight. I thought you might find a use for it.”

Vera unceremoniously reached out and took the sword from Lucius's hands. Holding the scabbard in one hand and the hilt in the other, she drew out a section of the blade with a sharp clack.

The teal-green blade gleamed with a cold sheen under the daylight.

Its spine was perfectly straight and the edge line smooth. The blade, about three fingers wide, bore no superfluous decorations, its edge flashing with an ultra-fine line of white light.

“This sword looks pretty good.”

Vera pushed the exposed blade back into the sheath, adding in a teasing tone,

“Though isn't a single sword a bit stingy for saving your life?”

Lucius explained with deadpan seriousness, “This sword was forged from meteoric iron by a dwarven master. While it may not be a divine artifact, it is far sharper and sturdier than ordinary weapons. Furthermore, its length is ideal for Miss Rosie.”

“A meteoric iron sword? That's quite a treasure. You're really generous,” Vera remarked.

“A life saved deserves a generous reward,” Lucius said.

“You sure know how to act.” Vera flipped the sword in her hands and handed it to Rosie.

Rosie accepted the sword from her.

The instant it entered her grip, her wrist sank slightly—the sword was much heavier than she had anticipated.

The scabbard's surface bore no decorations or crests, but it was clearly meticulously maintained.

She drew the blade, gauging the grip's thickness and balance before giving her wrist a subtle flick.

A shadow of the sword sliced through the air, leaving behind a teal-green arc of light.

“A fine sword!”

After her single-handed sword snapped, Rosie hadn't had time to find a replacement and had originally planned to swipe one from the military camp. Looks like that wouldn't be necessary now.

She sheathed the meteoric iron sword with satisfaction and thanked Lucius. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. I am glad you find it useful.”

Lucius gave a small nod and continued, “Please follow me, ladies. His Highness the Third Prince and Lord Nikus are already waiting for you.”

Vera nodded, then glanced sideways at Rosie. “Let's go, Rosie.”

Lucius said nothing more and turned to lead the way.

The three walked down the paths between rows of tents toward the center of the camp.

A few minutes later, a large tent appeared ahead. At its peak fluttered a small banner embroidered with the emblem of the Norman Knights, snapping in the cold wind.

A fully armed guard stood on either side of the entrance, holding heavy halberds upright.

Seeing Lucius approach, the guard on the left turned his head slightly and announced inside in a moderate voice, “Your Highness! Knight Lucius has arrived.”

“Let them in.”

A voice resonated from inside the tent, full of vigor.

Lucius lifted the entrance flap and stepped aside.

Vera strode straight inside, with Rosie following right behind her.

The interior of the tent was far warmer than outside. Thick logs burned brightly in a brazier, casting an orange-red glow that illuminated the entire space.

A young man sat in the main seat.

Around twenty-five or twenty-six years old, he wore a well-tailored dark blue coat with a silver brooch pinned to his collar.

His features weren't overly sharp, but his jawline was clean-cut. His gaze swept quickly over the two as they entered, bearing a habitual air of scrutiny and assessment.

Nikus sat on a chair to the side.

His helmet rested on the table, revealing a face marked by clear exhaustion.

He sat upright, yet his entire presence emanated an indescribable bitterness.

Opposite Nikus sat a middle-aged noble dressed in a dark brown coat.

Standing behind that noble was a man with a scarred face.

The instant Rosie's gaze brushed over that figure, she froze.

Hawk the “Jackal.”

The gang boss of the Outer District in the Royal City of Norman—a casino owner, loan shark, and quite possibly a human trafficker on the side.

Her very first enemy after transmigrating into this world.

What on earth was this guy doing here?