Her consciousness drifted between chaos and clarity, like sinking into the depths of the sea and then slowly rising to the surface.
Sif slowly opened her eyes. Her blurred vision gradually cleared.
What greeted her was an unfamiliar wooden ceiling, and the faint scent of smoke lingered in the air.
Her body was wrapped in warm bedding, and her skin could feel the comfort of a steady temperature.
Instinctively cautious, she scanned her surroundings.
It was a wooden cabin, the walls and beams simple but clean. A few plain wooden tables and chairs were scattered about, and a fire crackled warmly in the fireplace.
Fortunately, there were no chains restraining her, nor any obvious weapons nearby.
Sif attempted to move, to roll over—but her body refused to obey. She couldn't even twitch a finger.
Damn it! Her heart sank.
This body won't move at all!
Then, like a tide, the memories returned—tragic and vivid.
The destruction of the Cold Moon Tribe.
Her siblings and parents had died miserably—betrayed by those they trusted.
Her last surviving brother had sacrificed himself to cover her escape, perishing alongside their enemies.
She shut her eyes tightly. Grief surged through her chest like a crushing weight, making it hard to breathe.
But I'm still alive. I still have a chance to avenge them!
Clenching her teeth, Sif held back the tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She forced herself to calm down, to focus.
At that moment, the wooden door creaked open.
Her eyes flew open, instantly alert.
She expected soldiers, nobles, or perhaps one of the butchers who had slaughtered her kin.
But instead, a middle-aged woman entered.
She was thin, maybe in her forties, with lines of age etched on her weathered face. Dressed in simple cotton clothes, she carried a wooden tray with a bowl of porridge and a cup of warm water. Steam rose from both, carrying the mild scent of food.
Surprise flickered in the woman's eyes when she saw Sif awake.
"Oh! You're finally awake, child. You're very lucky," she said warmly.
She approached the bed and gently lifted Sif's upper body, helping her lean against a soft pillow. Then she picked up the cup of warm water and brought it close to Sif's lips.
"Here, drink a little first. Moisten your throat—you've been unconscious for several days."
Sif hesitated briefly, then parted her lips. The woman tilted the cup carefully, letting the warm water touch her mouth.
The warmth flowed down her dry throat, relieving the burning sensation. She swallowed, slowly, and her awareness sharpened.
"Don't rush. Slowly now," the woman said softly, her tone filled with sympathy. "Poor child, you must've been through so much..."
Sif's eyelashes trembled, and a shadow passed through her eyes. But she said nothing.
"If the Lord hadn't sent someone to rescue you, you might've been torn apart by wild beasts," the woman said as she gently patted Sif's back, continuing to chatter in a casual tone.
Sif's gaze dropped slightly, her fingertips tightening on the bedding.
The Lord?
A noble from the south?
Her wariness spiked.
The woman didn't notice her reaction and kept talking.
"Don't worry. Our Lord might be young, but he's an extraordinary man—kindhearted, too. He hates seeing others suffer.
You know, he even rescues injured slaves. All us refugees here have received his help."
Her words were casual, even reverent, but to Sif, they sounded like a warning bell.
She had been picked up by a noble… from the southern empire!
Since childhood, she had heard endless stories about the Iron-Blood Empire.
They were said to be cunning invaders—merciless and cold-blooded.
They lied to the weak, then crushed them. They didn't see Northerners as humans, only tools to exploit or obstacles to destroy.
Now she had fallen into their hands.
She couldn't let them know who she truly was.
Her tribe was gone. But her identity—as the last surviving princess of the Cold Moon Tribe—still held immense value.
To the southern rulers, she was a political asset, a bargaining chip.
They might offer her as tribute to the imperial court, as a plaything for some high-ranking noble.
Never.
Sif would never accept such a fate.
What could she do?
Her fingers twitched faintly beneath the blanket.
Escape?
She immediately dismissed the thought.
Her body was still paralyzed. She didn't know where she was or how far from home. If she ran now, she'd either die in the wilderness or be recaptured—worse off than before.
Pretend to be obedient?
That might work.
She could bide her time. Play the part of a helpless girl.
Observe. Learn about this place. Wait for an opening to escape.
But that would require caution. She'd need to hide her identity, hide her intentions.
And most importantly—she needed to understand this "Lord."
If he was truly kind, as the woman claimed, maybe she could use that to her advantage.
If not… then she'd prepare for the worst.
As she was lost in thought, footsteps sounded outside the cabin. A calm voice announced:
"The Lord has arrived."
Sif's body tensed immediately.
Her grip tightened on the blanket, her breath caught in her throat.
She had imagined this moment. She had mentally rehearsed how to handle it—over and over.
She expected a man with a fleshy face, greedy eyes, reeking of perfume—an arrogant southerner who would belittle her people and revel in her humiliation.
She would play along. Wait for a chance. Strike when the time was right.
But when the door opened, what stepped inside caught her completely off guard.
A young man, perhaps in his early twenties, entered.
He had black hair, neat attire, and a tall, upright frame. His clothing was neither gaudy nor shabby—just right.
He wore no heavy gold ornaments, no garish accessories. He smelled of fresh air, not cloying cologne.
He didn't carry the oppressive aura of a butcher or tyrant. His expression was calm, composed—even gentle.
His gaze landed on her—not with condescension, but with a measured, assessing look.
There was no lewdness in his eyes. In fact… there was something almost soft in them?
Sif blinked, momentarily stunned.
This is... an Iron-Blood noble?
Everything about him contradicted what she had been taught since childhood.
Weren't they all supposed to be gluttonous, arrogant monsters? Bloodthirsty overlords who sneered at Northerners?
This young man… didn't fit that mold at all.
But she quickly gathered herself. The alarm in her heart grew louder.
Don't be fooled.
This man might just be a better liar than the rest.
A polished mask could hide the same sharp, devouring teeth.
He was still a Southern noble—dangerous, ambitious.
She had to be more careful, not less.
Sif lowered her eyes, concealing the storm within them.
She observed him quietly, measuring each of his movements.
This was only the beginning.
And she had no intention of playing the helpless victim for long.
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