Ulrich stepped out of the estate doors and into the quietness of the training courtyard. For the first time in recent memory, he had forgone his morning sword drills. His muscles carried a different sort of ache today, the fault of Meera’s pestering throughout the night. After their initial sex, she had immediately asked for more, eager to spend the hours locked in a chaotic tangle of limbs. Ulrich had denied her, knowing that giving a woman of her boundless appetite everything she desired would only invite her to seize complete control.

His attempt to banish her to a guest room had failed spectacularly. Meera had clung to the bedposts, loudly complaining that the Count was treating her like a cheap tavern strumpet by discarding her the moment his desires were sated. Ulrich knew it was a hollow accusation, as Meera possessed a hide thicker than dragon scale and cared little for polite sensibilities. She simply wished to sleep beside him, wrapped in the warmth of his bed, and she wagered that a display of wounded pride would force his hand. Recognizing the stubborn gleam in her eyes, he had in the end relented.

It felt dangerously close to spoiling her at this point, yet her presence in his mind was not entirely unearned. Over the past two years, Meera had proven herself exceptionally competent and loyal to him. Ulrich could have easily compensated her with heavier coin purses, but her motivations seemed inexplicably tied to a genuine, bewildering affection for him. Even as she stubbornly entangled her legs with his throughout the night, defying every attempt he made to push her away, it was far from uncomfortable. It would be a lie to say he was immune to the warmth and charm she brought into his cold existence.

Pausing beneath the shadow of a stone archway, Ulrich pressed the heel of his hand against his brow and let out a long breath. For a fleeting moment, he allowed the impenetrable armor of Ulrich to slip, leaving only a slightly tired man beneath. "What am I even doing?" He whispered to the empty courtyard with narrowed eyes.

At its core, his ambition was driven by a need for survival. Neither the aristocratic Ulrich nor the soul of Silas, the man who had once lived in another world, harbored any desire to die. The memories of Silas still burned within his mind, demanding to know the true purpose behind his strange summoning into this reality. He needed to understand if this extraordinary second chance at life held any deeper meaning. Perhaps it was simply an opportunity to seize the brief flashes of warmth and love he had found in Meera’s arms.

Yet, the merging of his two lifetimes carried a burden of sorrow. When he thought of Ashara, a bitter ache tightened in his chest. Before Silas’s memories had awakened, the original Ulrich had felt only a dull, distant regret regarding her. But possessing his past life’s perspective and looking upon Ashara’s face once more had struck him with a deeper regret he was scarcely willing to admit.

Most pressing of all, however, were the three sisters currently residing within his walls. Airam, Hermione, and Esther were not merely strategic acquisitions for a growing army.

He had the cursed foreknowledge of the story that governed this world, and he knew exactly what the original Ulrich had done to them indirectly.

In the novel, it was very well described how Ulrich was the architect of their ruin. He was supposed to slaughter their village, casting the three sisters into a harrowing nightmare of torture and abuse that would span years. It was that unimaginable cruelty that was destined to twist their innocent souls, forging them into the terrifying, embittered witches the world would come to fear.

Bitterness, regret, and a lingering guilt had driven him the day he first took the girls in. If those emotions hadn’t anchored themselves so deeply in his chest, he would not have felt this frustration at Anna-Maria’s passing. Had she lived, she would have been a definite obstacle to his desires. She would never have allowed Ulrich to pull her daughters into the currents of his plans, nor would she have suffered them to be dragged back into the ruthless world of magic. She would have fought him at every turn, rather than offering them to him to use.

But Ulrich had pushed those calculations aside when it truly mattered. He, too, had watched his own mother die. Seeing that identical, hollow devastation mirrored in the sisters’ eyes as the life faded from Anna-Maria had an effect on him. He had knelt beside the dying woman, listening to her final, rattling breath, and had promised her to protect her daughters.

So far, he had kept that vow. The three sisters remained untouched by the encroaching darkness and cruelty they were originally destined to endure. Ulrich had moved and made sure that the tragic fate written for them in the novel never came to pass by formally adopting them, giving the best protection one could give a witch.

A noble title and protection.

Yet, the trauma of their mother’s death and the hardships of their earlier lives, still haunted the elder two, Airam and Hermione. Yet, over the past two years under his roof, the wounds had scarred over, allowing them to slowly reclaim a fragile will to live.

Esther, the youngest, remained fortunately shielded from the world’s rot, her innocence preserved by her protective sisters. Hermione was thriving; her bright demeanor and stubbornness changed to the twisted, wicked witch she was supposed to become. Then there was Airam. Though she remained emotionally withdrawn and as cold as a winter frost, a temperament that mirrored his own all too well, she wasn’t the cruel, ruthless villainess of the original tale.

Ulrich could now say with confidence that these three would not turn their magic against him, at least not out of malice or hatred. But his motives were not purely selfless; he still needed them for what was to come. He truly believed they possessed the ability and capacity to break the novel’s narrative entirely. With their combined strength, they might not even need the designated protagonist to stand as their ally. They were forces of nature in the original story, and with the resources, comfort, and protection they had been denied in that novel, they would only grow stronger.

He would lead them through the coming trials. He would protect them, not just for his own survival, but for their sakes as well.

As he once again steeled that thought within himself during the couple of minutes of self-reflection, he felt the atmosphere outside suddenly shift. A strange pull tugged at the air, causing the hairs on his arms to rise. It was a dangerous fluctuation, the distinct hum of Runes reacting to a sudden surge of mana.

His gaze snapped instantly toward the grounds, landing precisely where Anna-Maria was buried beneath the earth. There was no need to guess whose hands were weaving such magic in such a place. Hardening his expression back instinctively, Ulrich strode out with a stern expression, ready to confront Airam once again concerning her dangerous and reckless manipulation of runes.