Andrew didn't like castles.
That was the first thought that hit him the moment he stepped into the corridor.
Not because of the size, or the luxury, or the way sunlight spilled through tall windows like this place was trying to impress the sky itself.
He didn't like them because castles were made for people who didn't have to earn anything.
They were built to remind everyone else where they belonged.
And Andrew had spent his whole life learning how to survive in places that punished you for forgetting your place.
His bare footsteps sank into a carpet so thick it swallowed sound. He hated that too.
In the military school, you heard every step. You felt the ground. You knew where you stood.
Here, even the floor tried to make him softer.
Edric walked beside him, calm and controlled, hands folded behind his back like he was part of the architecture.
Servants passed them in the hall—men in neat uniforms with lowered eyes, moving quickly and quietly.
"My lord," one murmured, bowing.
"My lord," another echoed.
Andrew nodded without stopping, but the words crawled under his skin.
My lord.
A title meant to carry authority.
But the way they said it careful, delicate made it feel like the title was a cage wrapped in velvet.
He kept walking.
A turn.
Another corridor.
And then the hallway opened into a balcony overlooking the lower levels of the estate.
Andrew stopped.
Below, the sound of steel rang out.
Training.
A wide stone courtyard packed with women in combat gear tight sleeves, armored plates, braided hair pulled back for war. They moved in clean lines, blades flashing, boots striking the ground with rhythmic impact.
Commands were shouted.
Sparring matches broke and reformed.
Swords met swords with a crack that vibrated in Andrew's bones.
It was familiar.
Too familiar.
His hand twitched, instinct screaming for a rifle that wasn't there.
For a weapon that belonged to him.
For something real.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
It wasn't just training.
It was purpose.
Every movement down there carried meaning.
Every strike said: I'm strong. I'm ready. I matter.
And at the edges of the courtyard men stood waiting with water, cloth wraps, herbs.
Not weak. Not useless.
But assigned.
Support pieces.
The ones who kept the fighters moving.
Andrew stared until his jaw tightened.
This world didn't reverse gender roles like a story.
It reversed them like a law.
Like a verdict.
Edric watched him without interrupting, but eventually spoke in his smooth, steady voice.
"That is the household training wing."
Andrew didn't look away. "They train every day?"
"Most days," Edric confirmed. "The Valecourt women must remain ready."
Must.
Andrew's lips pressed into a thin line.
"And men?" he asked, voice quiet. "Do men train too?"
There it was.
Edric hesitated—just a fraction.
"Not… traditionally, my lord."
Andrew's eyes stayed on the courtyard. "Why not."
Edric chose his words like someone walking across ice. "It is not considered… necessary."
Andrew exhaled once, slow and controlled.
Not considered necessary.
Because men weren't expected to fight.
Not expected to protect themselves.
Not expected to be anything except kept.
Andrew's stomach twisted.
He hated the world for it.
Not because it was unfair life was unfair everywhere.
But because it was comfortable about it.
This place didn't even pretend to be ashamed.
His mind flashed back to the hallway in his old school. Concrete walls. Cold lights. Supervisors watching for weakness like hawks.
There, he'd learned that survival meant being hard.
Here, survival meant being decorative.
Andrew's fingers curled against the railing until his knuckles turned pale.
"No," he muttered, so low it was almost just breath.
Edric blinked. "My lord?"
Andrew didn't answer.
Because what he wanted to say was ugly.
What he wanted to say was:
I didn't cross universes just to become somebody's ornament.
He pushed himself away from the railing and walked on. His steps were steady, but his thoughts weren't.
He could feel resentment building under his skin like heat.
A grudge against the moon.
Against the sky.
Against the world that swallowed him and spat him into silk.
And more than anything
Against the fact that everyone here looked at him like he was supposed to accept it.
They turned down another corridor, passing portraits that made his throat tighten.
Women in armor, painted like legends.
Men beside them, dressed like decoration.
Every painting was the same message.
This is who you are.
Stay in your place.
Andrew's mouth curled faintly.
A cold, humorless expression.
Yeah?
Try me.
Edric slowed near a door and turned toward him.
"This is your study, my lord. Lord Andren's personal room. It has been preserved exactly as it was."
Preserved.
Like a shrine.
Like he'd been dead already.
Edric opened the door and stepped aside.
Andrew entered.
The room smelled of old parchment, polished wood, and ink that had been allowed to settle untouched for too long. Bookshelves lined every wall, filled with thick volumes and thin journals. A desk sat in the center, clean and carefully arranged, as if someone dusted it every day out of stubborn loyalty.
On the desk were papers.
Letters.
Sealed envelopes stacked neatly like a tower.
Andrew approached slowly, eyes scanning the surface like he was looking for a trap wire.
Then he saw the title page.
Marriage Proposals
House Valecourt
He stared at it.
Then he laughed once.
The sound was quiet and sharp.
Not amused.
Offended.
"So that's what I am," he murmured. "A prize."
Edric remained by the doorway, expression controlled. "They began arriving after your injury, my lord."
After the stabbing.
After the coma.
After the "fatal wound."
While he was silent, while his body lay unmoving, people had lined up like vultures around a fresh corpse.
Not to mourn.
To bargain.
Andrew picked up the first letter.
Crimson wax seal. An unfamiliar crest. Elegant handwriting inside.
To Lady Valecourt,
It is with great honor that House Merrow offers our daughter's hand in union with Lord Andren Valecourt
Andrew didn't finish.
His fingers tightened.
For a second, he considered tearing it.
But that would be emotional.
Messy.
Visible.
Instead, he did something far colder.
He walked to the waste bin beside the desk.
And dropped the letter into it.
The paper fluttered like a dead leaf.
Edric stiffened slightly. "My lord"
Andrew grabbed the second letter.
Didn't read it.
Didn't care what it said.
Into the bin.
The third.
Into the bin.
Fourth.
Fifth.
The stack got smaller with every motion, the sound of parchment hitting the bottom building into a steady rhythm.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Each letter was a reminder that this world wanted to decide his future for him.
That this body this title was currency.
That the man he replaced had been treated like an object long before Andrew ever woke up.
Andrew's expression stayed blank as he kept going.
He wasn't throwing paper.
He was throwing away expectations.
Thump.
He remembered the corridor in his old school.
Supervisors telling him to be strong.
To endure.
To obey.
Thump.
He remembered the bruised moon.
The way the sky had dragged him sideways.
Thump.
He remembered waking up dressed in silk with makeup on his face while servants called him "my lord" like he was fragile glass.
Thump.
When the last letter dropped into the bin, Andrew stood there in silence, breathing evenly.
The trash was full.
So was he.
Edric remained still, unsure whether to speak.
Andrew finally looked down at his hands.
Slender.
Soft.
Unscarred.
A body that hadn't trained in two years.
A body that had been kept.
Andrew's mouth hardened.
"No," he said again. Louder this time.
Edric lifted his head slightly. "My lord…?"
Andrew turned and met Edric's gaze directly.
"I'm not staying weak," he said flatly.
Edric blinked. "My lord?"
Andrew stepped back toward the desk. His eyes moved across the room again, searching.
Books. Journals. Ink.
A wooden box, iron clasped, resting near the edge.
It looked out of place.
Plain.
Sealed.
Something that didn't belong in a room full of appearances.
Andrew reached for it.
Edric's voice snapped sharper this time.
"My lord."
Andrew froze, fingers inches away.
Edric's expression remained respectful, but his eyes carried warning.
"That box was sealed by your father after the incident."
Andrew didn't look away from the box. "What's inside."
Edric lowered his gaze. "I do not know."
Andrew stared for a long moment.
Then slowly withdrew his hand.
Fine.
Not today.
He turned toward the bookshelf instead, scanning titles until his eyes landed on one spine:
Foundations of Aura Theory
Another:
Mana Circulation and Control
Another:
Household Blade Forms: Defensive Discipline
His eyes narrowed.
Even noblemen weren't expected to fight…
But books about fighting still existed in his study.
Which meant Andren had either wanted to learn…
Or needed to.
Andrew pulled the first book free and opened it.
The pages were filled with diagrams flow lines through the body, points marked near the chest and spine, terms written in elegant script that looked like a language he only half understood.
Yet the concept struck him immediately.
Mana wasn't a gift like luck.
It was a system.
A structure.
Something you could train.
Andrew's grip tightened on the book.
If women here ruled because they were powerful…
Then power was the only language that mattered.
Andrew looked back toward the training courtyard outside.
The clang of swords echoed faintly even through stone walls.
He could almost feel the impact.
Almost.
His mouth curled again this time not humorless.
Determined.
"I don't have a rifle," he murmured. "I don't have my world."
He closed the book slowly.
"But I still have discipline."
Edric watched him carefully. "My lord… what are you planning?"
Andrew didn't answer right away.
He walked back to the desk, set the book down, and straightened his posture.
The boy who slept standing up in a hallway was still in him.
The soldier-in-training.
The survivor.
He looked at Edric.
"I'm going to train," Andrew said.
Edric's brows lifted slightly. "Training is… unusual for a lord."
Andrew's eyes hardened.
"That's fine," he replied. "I'm unusual."
Edric hesitated. "Lady Valecourt may not approve."
Andrew's jaw tightened at the mention of his mother.
The ruler who hadn't come.
The one who decided everything.
"She doesn't have to approve," Andrew said quietly.
He looked past Edric, down the corridor, toward the sounds of steel.
"I'm not asking this world to accept me," he murmured.
His voice dropped, cold as stone.
"I'm going to force it to."
Silence hung for a moment.
Edric bowed, slower than before. "As you command, my lord."
Andrew turned back to the study, eyes drifting to the waste bin overflowing with marriage proposals.
He felt no regret.
Only a faint satisfaction.
Let them come with their letters.
Let them come with their alliances.
If they wanted Lord Andren Valecourt so badly
They were going to learn something.
He wasn't the quiet boy they left sleeping.
And he wasn't going to be anyone's prize.