Episode 1
Ranje became an orphan in the winter of her seventh year.
“You must always be strong. I’m sorry…”
She didn’t understand the “I’m sorry” part, but Ranje decided to live bravely, just as her mother’s final wish had asked.
In truth, even if Ludia hadn’t told her to, Ranje had always been a strong child. At the very least, she was far from ordinary.
Ranje named herself.
That was because, for some reason, Ludia Baer never gave her daughter a name.
The adults around her only referred to her as “Ludia’s girl,” “that brat,” or occasionally, “Sir Zahanasian’s bastard.” So quite literally, Ranje had no name.
Because there wasn’t a single pleasant way she was addressed, seven-year-old Ranje thought she needed a name of her own.
“Oh, I didn’t know there was such a little one here. What’s your name?”
A few days after her mother died, a new maid asked her that question.
“I’m… Ranje.”
“What?”
Ordinary people rarely name even their nicknames themselves.
The maid’s surprised reaction wasn’t because she understood that, but because she was reminded of the capital, Ville Ranje. In fact, that was where Ranje took her name from.
The reason was simple.
All the finest things in the count’s estate came from “Ranje.” Her cousin’s new instrument, Erna’s books, beautiful rugs and dishes.
It wasn’t so much longing as it was lack of imagination. Ranje simply chose the finest word she knew.
At first, people mocked or ignored the name, but by the time she was twelve, they accepted it. It was shorter than “that girl” and clearer to refer to.
No one had the time or care to suggest a better name. The servants were too busy. Whether the bastard daughter of the late young count stayed on as a maid or had a strange name, it wasn’t important.
But no one had expected that name to one day pass the lips of Count Swanhild.
Ranje had spent her whole life in the attic of the annex, and the count never once mentioned her, not even in passing.
The servants figured the count had either forgotten his granddaughter or simply erased his son’s mistake from his mind.
None of the lower staff dared remind the count of Ranje’s existence.
And yet, Ranje grew up healthy despite the indifference. The servants were rough but not cruel, and Ranje lived diligently—if not contentedly, then at least as if she were.
“Where is Ludia Baer’s daughter?”
One day, out of nowhere, she received a summons. Ranje was shocked.
Why would the count, who had never even glanced at her, call for her now? She felt a mix of disbelief, nervousness, and excitement.
Borrowing the head maid’s finest dress, Ranje finally stood before the count.
“So, your name… is Ranje.”
The count began by confirming her name, then fell silent.
Ranje tried to stay composed, fidgeting with her fingers until finally, he spoke again.
“Do you know that your father is my eldest son?”
“…Yes,” she answered after some hesitation.
“Good, then this will be quick. I’m sure you’ve heard about your cousin’s accident earlier this year.”
Ranje’s biological father had died, and the position of heir had passed to his younger brother—her uncle—who had three children.
The youngest of them had recently died. He had insisted on riding an untamed horse and ended up falling and breaking his neck.
Not knowing what to say, Ranje simply nodded.
The count didn’t seem to care about her reaction.
“That boy was to enroll in the Mage Officers Academy this year. It is an honorable duty for nobles to send at least one child into the military. Your uncle also graduated from that academy.”
Though she didn’t know that this custom had roots in an old hostage system, Ranje could already guess where this was going.
“I’ll give you a chance. If you enroll this fall and complete your service, you may live the rest of your life as a descendant of Swanhild.”
Though it sounded generous, Ranje instinctively knew it wasn’t a great offer.
If being a magic officer were truly prestigious, then even eldest sons would be sent. This opportunity wouldn’t have come all the way down to a bastard maid.
Her instincts were largely correct.
Most noble families would adopt a talented commoner and send them in their stead, or they’d choose the military or naval academies instead.
If there had still been a path to success in the military, maybe. But in an era with little need for combat mages, only a few families like Swanhild still sent their children—mostly those beneath the second son.
When the youngest grandson died, the first person the count considered was Ranje’s older cousin.
But Uncle Eirik adamantly opposed it.
Unlike the count, he had experienced the hardships firsthand and refused to put his daughter through the same.
The two argued for a month.
It wasn’t until March that the count remembered he had a third granddaughter.
Ranje, except for her low birth, was an ideal candidate. Her magical talent surpassed that of her peers, and her age was perfect.
The count even briefly thought it was a waste to send her to the academy, but he had to compromise with his son. He also considered Ranje’s “flaw” disqualifying for other duties.
He didn’t even care about her answer.
But Ranje found herself leaning toward accepting the offer.
She knew her grandfather, who had never spoken to her in sixteen years, wouldn’t give her anything truly favorable.
Still, a chance was a chance, even if it hid a trap.
She had stayed silent not because she had no complaints or desires, but because there was no point in voicing them.
Ranje wanted to be acknowledged by her blood relatives.
She wanted to do something more important than washing dishes or laundry.
A maid was just a replaceable part. But fulfilling the family’s duty as a daughter of Swanhild—now that was a mission only she could take on.
For her cousins… and her sick sister.
And so, Ranje became Uncle Eirik’s adopted daughter and entered the Officers Academy in Ville Ranje that September.
After a few incidents, Ranje Swanhild graduated from the academy without issue.
Upon commissioning, she was assigned to the southern border near the hostile nation of Inel.
Most army mages were either seniors or juniors from the same school, but Ranje’s first and last partner was someone she already knew.
At least, she knew of him.
Though they had only spoken once at school, it had been a meaningful encounter to her.
“Senior Lenart!”
She hadn’t meant to blurt out his name, but she did. Her senior stiffened.
“So it really is you…”
When he first received her name as his new partner, he had hoped—irrationally—that it was someone else with the same name.
But Ranje Swanhild had appeared in the flesh, unchanged from how she looked at school.
“You know me?”
She tilted her head, curious, after initiating the greeting. Lenart didn’t know how to respond and felt his motivation drain.
‘How could she think I wouldn’t remember?’
Ranje continued cheerfully.
“I didn’t think you’d remember me.”
Lenart said nothing. Their past meeting had been—generously speaking—memorable. More honestly, it was bizarre enough to be unforgettable.
“…And yet you remember me.”
“Well, you’re the best-looking person I know.”
Her tone was casual, not malicious or flattering. It was odd. Lenart still didn’t protest.
Nor did Ranje seem to care about his reaction. She had other questions.
“But why was I assigned as your assistant?”
“Do you have a problem with it?”
“Not really… But it wasn’t what I was told when I got sent south.”
Even if rarely used now, large-scale rituals still required close coordination between the lead mage and their assistant. Most students kept the same partner from school.
Of course, some graduated without ever finding one.
After a shooting incident in their first year—one student dead, two expelled—Ranje’s class had been odd-numbered ever since. Just like in the count’s household, she had either been shunned or done the shunning. She was alone until graduation.
But Ranje felt no shame about that. Not all officers needed partners or saw combat.
In fact, she had been scheduled for additional training to serve as the southern command’s communications mage.
Her reassignment to the border had only come three days ago. And now, she was suddenly paired with her senior.
“You had a partner, right? Did you two fight?”
“He died.”
“…You don’t mean that as a metaphor, like you hated him so much he might as well be dead, do you?”
“It hasn’t been made public yet, but there was a skirmish at the border last month. The fact that they’re already sending replacements means things are looking bad.”
“Wait, does that mean…”
Ranje, who was often called shameless and rarely lost her nerve, couldn’t even finish the question.
Lenart answered her incomplete sentence with a small nod.
A dark cloud of war was gathering.
Nice. It’s an interesting setup