13. Seria's First Birthday
Two months had slipped by before I knew it. The northern autumn brushed past like a whisper, and the harsh winter had returned in full force.
"Phew, nice and toasty."
"Feels great, doesn't it, son?"
Dad and I had just emerged from the open-air bath in the backyard. White steam rose in lazy curls above our heads. Nothing beat a hot spring in winter. I'd dug it myself, and damn, I'd done a good job.
We strolled down the corridor with towels draped around our necks. Seria was probably in the women's bath right now, getting pampered by the maids.
"Dad."
"Hm?"
"Do you know when Seria's birthday is?"
It was a sudden thought. A month ago, it had been my birthday—the day everyone in the Lord's Castle showered me with celebrations. Seria had stood before me that day, fidgeting awkwardly.
"S-sorry, Young Master. I didn't know it was your birthday..."
She'd kept bowing her head, apologizing for not having a gift ready. But when I cut her a slice of cake, the way she went "Mmm~!" with her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk was just too adorable. No gift needed—that eating show was more than enough.
Anyway, come to think of it, I had no idea when Seria's birthday was.
"Hmm." Dad stopped walking and stroked his chin beard. "I never asked directly, but I doubt she knows herself."
"Ah... yeah, probably."
I'd heard Seria's story from Dad on the first day she arrived. An orphan who didn't even know her birthplace. No memory of her parents' faces, of course. She'd been mistreated by a couple she suspected were relatives until they kicked her out at age seven. Wandering aimlessly through the north's blizzard, she ended up in our territory.
A kid like that wouldn't remember her own birthday.
"Then Dad, do you remember the day Seria came to our house?"
I recalled it being around this time of year.
"Of course! I even marked it on the calendar with red ink!"
"Ooh! Then how about this, Dad?" I tugged at his sleeve, eyes sparkling. "We make the day she came to our house her birthday! It's the day she became family, after all!"
"Ooh...!" Dad's eyes went wide. "That's a brilliant idea! Seria will love it! As expected from my genius son!"
Dad was already grinning ear to ear, imagining her joy.
"Ahem. I'd better tell the head chef. Money's no object—have him make the finest cake for Seria!"
"Dad, you know Seria loves sweets, right? Tell him to load it up with chocolate chips. And lots of whipped cream too."
"You got it! Don't worry—I'll oversee it personally."
The date Dad gave me was exactly one week away. Time was tight.
Hmm, so what to do about this.
I'd mulled it over all night. I wanted to give Seria a gift. But what could a six-year-old offer? The easy way would be to ask Dad for allowance and buy her accessories, like the blue ribbon from the last festival. She'd treasured it, wearing it every day—even during training.
It wasn't a bad idea... but...
For some reason, I just don't want to go that route.
I wanted to give her something made by my hands, not bought with money. Because Seria was incredibly precious to me.
Then it hit me.
A wooden sword.
The one she used now was off-the-shelf—too big and heavy for her hands. What if I made her one that fit perfectly, one-of-a-kind in the world?
"Perfect."
Operation name: Seria Birthday Project. Decided.
First, I recruited the maids.
"Shh. It's a secret. We're making the day she came here her birthday. We'll throw a party, so act like you don't know. Got it?"
"Oh my goodness! Young Master, you're so romantic!"
"Don't worry! My lips are sealed!"
The aunts were in tears of emotion. Then I added one more thing.
"I'm making her a gift now, so keep it from Seria. If she asks where I am, just say you don't know. Okay?"
"Leave it to us!"
With solid allies secured, I bolted to the hill behind the castle and magically cut a sturdy branch from a white ash tree with good grain.
"Alright, let's do this."
I placed my palm on the wood's surface. Normally, making a wooden sword involved compressing the fibers between the grain to fill voids and maximize density for durability and strength.
I'd do it with mana. Mana compression, for short.
Vmmm.
Blue light poured from my hand, enveloping the wood. It vibrated faintly as moisture evaporated, replaced by high-density mana.
Tougher! Stringier!
Moments later, the crumbly wood had turned a deep black-brown. Hefting it, the weight was all different—heavy and solid, ringing like metal when tapped.
"Whew, done."
Satisfying. Now, just shape it to fit Seria's hand perfectly.
But the real challenge started here.
I had to carve it while dodging Seria's eyes. We'd been glued together for meals, studies, play—always.
So I carved in secret, snatching moments while evading her.
Scrape, scrape.
Current spot: under the study desk. Crouched low, chisel in hand.
Then—
Creeeak.
"Young Master? Are you in here?"
Agh, I'd only just started! How does she always know? She must have a Young Master radar.
I jolted, hiding the sword behind my back.
"Uh, y-yeah! I'm here!"
"What are you doing under the desk?"
Seria peered down, her red eyes glinting suspiciously.
"Uh, p-pen! Dropped my pen! Haha, there it is!"
I waved the pre-planted quill, grinning awkwardly. Cold sweat poured down.
She stared a beat, then nodded.
"It's dusty. Come out."
"Y-yeah, coming."
Whew. Felt ten years older.
Next day: bush in the garden corner.
Scrape, scrape.
Hands numb from cold, but safe here, I thought, shaping the hilt.
Naive.
Rustle.
"Young Master."
"Eek?!"
The bushes parted, Seria's face popping out.
"What are you doing in there? Hide-and-seek?"
"N-no! Meditation! Yeah, becoming one with nature!"
"Why meditate in a bush... in this cold..."
"It's magic training! Don't interrupt!"
"...Understood."
Seria tilted her head and backed off. Heart pounding.
This was scarier than horror movies.
For a week, I pulled off 007-level stealth ops. Blisters on my fingers, plastered with bandages, I carved on.
Wrapped the hilt in leather cord for grip. Etched [Seria] on the blade in my clumsy hand.
And finally.
"Kya, even I have to admit it's good."
Complete. I held up my hand-carved wooden sword. Look at that gleam. Thirteen near-misses flashed in my mind.
"Whew. One more time and I'd die of a heart attack."
But for Seria's first birthday. Worth it.
I stashed it deep under my bed, grinning proudly. Tomorrow: the big party.
Meanwhile, Seria was thinking:
Lately, Young Master has been weird. No, "weird" doesn't cut it. He's avoiding me. Blatantly.
"Young Master, breakfast. Time to wash up."
I entered his room with the washbasin as usual, but the bed was empty. Sheets rumpled, no warmth left.
"...Young Master?"
Not in the bathroom or terrace. Already up? He usually squirmed under the covers till I woke him.
Uneasy, I stepped into the hall. Spotted the head maid.
"Auntie, seen Young Master?"
"Oh, Seria. Hmm? No, haven't."
She shrugged. But I saw her lips twitch.
She knew something, hiding it from me.
"Really? Breakfast is almost ready..."
"Hehe, he'll manage. Don't worry."
She hummed off to the laundry. Weird. Normally: "Hiding again! Let's find him!"
I searched the castle—library, drawing room, even pantry. No sign.
Then, rustling from the garden bushes.
"Young Master!"
Rushed over, but his reaction was ice-cold.
"Eek?! Wh-why are you here!"
"What are you doing? You'll catch cold."
"Meditation! Becoming one with nature! Go away!"
He waved without looking, hunching over something.
"...Understood."
I retreated. Chest aching.
What did I do wrong?
I pondered. Last week, I found his hidden chocolate and confiscated it? Too much nagging? Or...
Am I boring him now?
Fear hit. I'm an orphan. No parents' faces, bounced between relatives eating scraps. Kicked out midwinter as useless.
Then Young Master reached out. Warm room, good food, "family." Dreamlike—I always feared waking.
Now the nightmare felt real.
"Sigh..."
I sat on a garden bench, fiddling with my wooden sword. The worn one he'd first given me. His smiling face: "Be my knight."
"Young Master is a genius."
Awakened magic at six. Outsmarts adults. Maybe he doesn't need someone like me anymore. Just a dumb maid who knows some swordplay.
Does he need a real knight now?
Like Sir Mason—titled, mannered, cool.
Am I dragging him down?
Thoughts spiraled into negativity, a swamp sucking me under.
Dinner. Table air thick, suffocating. He barely ate, glancing at me.
Hates eating with me.
Throat clogged. Favorite cream stew tasteless.
Then he flicked a sausage onto my plate.
"..."
Normally: "Yay! Thanks!" But today...
Eat and leave? Last supper? Pity handout?
His face: sorry, troubled. Confirmed. I'm a burden. Wants to break it off but can't say it.
I bowed my head. Eyes burned.
Can't cry. Makes it worse for him.
Forced a smile, picked up the sausage—but couldn't swallow.
"Sorry. Not hungry..."
Fled the dining hall. Heard "Huh? Seria?" but didn't turn.
In my room, face-planted on the bed. Buried in pillow, tears burst.
"Hic, sob..."
Thought I was used to abandonment. Why does this hurt so much? Maybe better starving in the cold.
Knowing warmth, then losing it—unbearably pathetic.
Pulled the blue ribbon from my pocket. Festival gift from him. His voice echoed: "family."
"Liar."
Clutched it to my chest. Would he ask for it back? Or tell me to keep it?
Night deepened, sleep evaded. Wind howled outside. Dreaded morning.
He'd call me: "Thanks for everything. Time to go."
Should I beg?
Not to kick me out. Eat scraps, sleep in stable—just let me stay.
Or train harder, become useful.
"Young Master..."
Pulled covers over, curled up shaking. Not from cold.
Fear of being alone again.
That night, I lay awake. Just clutching the ribbon, bracing for farewell.