How Willabelle met her companions is not detailed in the novel. They were a group made up of adventurers from the southern kingdom who had journeyed north in search of greater prosperity, or individuals who had come to the Empire for personal reasons. Unfortunately, aside from Willabelle and her son, most of them would either die during their adventures, return home, or part ways eventually.
However, one of them was Carlsen, who stood next to Magnus, the main character of the novel, and was his best friend. He was originally meant to be the bearer of the divine technique that I now possess. But truth be told, it was better this way. Had he inherited the power, he would've failed to control it, become corrupted, and ultimately ended up as one of the villains.
But never mind that for now. Let's return to the more pressing matter: what was I supposed to do with these people? I had planned to take Willabelle with me, but I hadn't thought about what to do with her companions. Should I bring them back to my county as well? Most of them were skilled in one way or another. And more importantly, they were people Willabelle trusted and cared about.
Wouldn't she be happier if they came with us?
I suppose all I can do is offer them an invitation. And now, let's return to the part where I try to win Willabelle over.
In the dim firelight, the silhouettes of Willabelle's companions began to come into focus. Each of them came from a different past; some from the crumbling cities of the south, others from the ruined guilds of the west. Some were so guarded that their histories remained veiled in shadow.
Among them were fallen knights, exiled mages, fugitive assassins, and mercenaries trying to scrub their past clean under new names. And now, in this temporary mountain camp, these people, bound only by their connection to Willabelle, were casting wary glances at me. I couldn't blame them. I didn't know the ties they shared. I was merely part of more worldly calculations.
Willabelle sat down close to me and handed me some kind of drink while looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
"It helps with the fatigue. Please drink."
I accepted the cup. The dark liquid inside was hot and sharp-scented, with notes of licorice root, cinnamon, and perhaps a hint of smoked pine resin... I hesitated for a moment but drank. It was strong. It burned my throat on the way down, but a pleasant warmth spread through my chest. This was a sign of her trust. She wouldn't poison me. Then again, she could still be testing me.
Human relationships were more complicated than battles. Earning the trust of a woman like Willabelle required far more wit and patience than swinging a sword.
The silence around the fire stretched. Finally, one of the companions spoke; a young, lean, dark-skinned archer.
"Eliza, who is this man?"
That they called her by a false name didn't mean they distrusted me. Willabelle had simply never told them her real one.
It was a mark of the careful wall she'd built. Eliza... that was how she was known among them. A sanctuary of a name, woven like a curtain to shield against ghosts of the past, old enemies, and perhaps, most of all, to protect her son. She hadn't hidden her identity because she didn't trust them, but to keep them safe maybe.
The archer's voice was more curious than hostile. But there was also a subtle protectiveness behind it. They were loyal to Eliza (to Willabelle). And I should've been glad for it. Because loyalty to one could, in time, be loyalty to another. If I could earn it.
Willabelle took a sip from her cup and then turned her head slightly to glance at him.
"This is the Lord of the County of Argenholt," she said. "He's saved my life twice."
Her words were short and direct. They weren't defensive, nor explanatory. She wasn't saying trust this man, only accept him as he is. That clarity was enough to give them pause.
Everyone around the fire tensed when they realised I was a nobleman, but they said nothing. I think they respected and trusted Willabelle and her choices.
The archer narrowed his eyes. His unease was still visible, but he didn't openly challenge me. As he stared into the fire, he spoke again.
"Twice? How did that happen?"
The question wasn't directed at me, yet the curiosity in the air was palpable. The silence became as sharp as the snapping of pine logs. Willabelle didn't answer right away. She looked at me first, then drank again before recounting the events.
First, how I saved her from a few amateur thugs at a tavern. Then, how I rescued her from six highly trained assassins.
At that moment, even the crackling of the fire seemed to fall silent, replaced by the subtle sound of people inhaling. Each person around the flames conjured his or her own image of the story Willabelle described. A lord, risking his life against killers to protect a woman. It had all been told so simply, it almost sounded... ordinary.
But subtle shifts began to show on the faces around the fire. Tight jaws loosened. Eyes that had glinted with suspicion now held the faintest spark of something else; not trust, perhaps, but the door to its possibility cracked open. People want to believe in stories. Especially when the one telling them sits quietly and confidently, and the subject of the tale is already becoming a hero in their eyes.
The archer said nothing more. He looked away from me and back down into his drink. It wasn't defiance; it was uncertain acceptance.
Then Alya's voice floated into the night, mingling with the fire's soft crackles. With a teasing tone, she launched into an old tale, something about a mission in a swamp, a frog the size of a hippopotamus, and Willabelle getting her boots stuck in the mud. The others burst into laughter. The more exaggerated the stories, the more genuine the bonds seemed.
The laughter softened the air around the camp. But Willabelle... her smile wasn't as free as the others'. Between the bursts of mirth, I could catch glimpses of thoughtfulness in her expression. Her eyes kept drifting toward me. Then back to her cup. As though she were making a decision, only to second-guess it again.
I stayed quiet. Sometimes the unspoken words leave the deepest impression.
Laughter and hushed conversations carried on, but suddenly Willabelle stood. The hem of her cloak shifted lightly. Her gaze turned to me, silent and intent. She said nothing, just turned and walked toward the edge of the camp, past the rocks.
It was a summons. Not an invitation, not a verdict. Just a space carved out for explanation.
A while later, I rose as well. No one stopped me. I was no longer a stranger, but not quite one of them, either.
Willabelle stood on the edge of a moonlit rock, staring into the distance. The night was cold, but the cloak draped over her shoulders stayed still, as if even the wind didn't dare challenge her.
I approached but didn't speak. She had to begin.
At last, her voice broke the silence, soft and resolute.
"Lord Leonardo, there's something I wish to speak to you about."
As her voice melted into the night, I could feel that she was weighing not just her words, but her decisions. Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon, but her shoulders tensed as if preparing to bear the weight of what came next.
"I won't waste your time with needless preambles. So, I'll get straight to the point. I'm a wanted criminal. And the last people you killed... they were bounty hunters sent after me. If you're wondering what crime I committed and why-"
At that point, I cut her off. She still hadn't looked at me once.
"There's no need. When you truly trust me, you'll tell me your real name, along with your story."
Her eyes widened in surprise, then softened into a small smile as she recalled that one of the bounty hunters had shouted her real name.
It wasn't a laugh. It was the tired curve of someone who'd long stopped expecting grace. And yet, my words had clearly implied that we had time ahead of us. Time enough for stories to unfold. Her shoulders, held firm until then, finally dropped. Not like a warrior, but like a woman shedding her armor for the first time.
"Was that all you wanted to say?" I asked.
Willabelle lowered her head slightly. For a moment, the wind tossed strands of her hair across her face. In the moonlight, her skin glowed pale, her shadow stretching behind her. Though her eyes still avoided mine, it was no longer out of fear. It was an effort to compose herself.
"No," she whispered. "That wasn't it."
There was a brief pause. The hoot of night birds, the distant howl of a wolf, and the fading sounds of the campfire created a silence that felt natural. From here on, words mattered less than intention.
"I'll be honest. We're in terrible shape. There are times we don't even have enough food to eat. My son has never once complained, but I can no longer bear to see him go hungry."
She took a deep breath, clasped her hands behind her back, and looked me in the eye.
"I'm asking for your help, my lord. You are good man. You are trustworthy. I'm sorry to even ask, but I have no other choice... In return, my team and I will serve you. We may not look like much, but we're more capable than we seem."
A silence settled once more. Her eyes were still on mine, but she wasn't truly looking. She was waiting. This was pride restrained just short of pleading. A wound hidden behind dignity.
And I had to answer; not as a lord, but as a man.
I stepped toward her. Then, one step more. Then I gently reached out and took his soft hand in mine.
"I'll gladly take you and your group in."