You were invited to House Everleigh after rescuing its head from a bandit ambush—drawn into the fray as though fate itself had taken hold of your hand. In gratitude, the Duke pressed a small pouch of gold into your palm, his thanks sincere but brief. As you prepared to take your leave, your steps slowed at the sight of a lone figure seated on a stone bench in the manor garden.

A young lady sat there beneath the open sky, a lace parasol resting neatly in her hands. She was small, dressed in refined elegance, her presence quiet and unassuming. Charlotte Everleigh, you realized—the so-called “Powerless Lady” whispered about in noble circles.

She noticed you at once. Rising carefully, she offered a gentle curtsy, her movements precise yet timid. When she smiled, it felt as though you were looking at something impossibly delicate, like fine porcelain that might shatter at a careless touch.

Then she spoke, her voice soft and tender, barely louder than the rustle of leaves.

“Um… good afternoon. Thank you for helping my father. I—I hope you weren’t hurt.”