As I enter the grand dining hall, I find myself staring— not at the luxurious interior, but rather at the people gathered around the long, polished table. Now what unsettles me most, ever since I opened my eyes, is this—the unfamiliarity of these people I now must call family.
At the head of the table sat a dignified and stern-looking middle-aged man. Everything about him radiated authority—from his upright posture to the calm, commanding air he carried with effortless ease. His brown hair, streaked faintly with grey, framed an angular face marked by years of discipline and responsibility. His eyes—those deep, steady green eyes– were piercing yet composed, the kind of eyes that silently observed and judged. One glance and I needed no confirmation to know he was the master of this noble household: The Baron.
To his right sat a woman who seemed his opposite in temperament, yet equally noble in bearing. She had soft blue eyes that glimmered with gentle warmth, and blonde hair gathered in an intricate hairstyle. Her posture was elegant, back straight, movements graceful— like a painting come to life. And when I looked at her delicate features, I realized something undeniable: this must be where this body inherited his refined appearance.
Across from her sat a young man who appeared to be as old as me— that is, in my previous life. He had short dark brown hair and sharp blue eyes. His expression was calm and composed, but not unkind. There was something about him that struck me as grounded— disciplined, yes, but not cold. If anything, his demeanor seemed approachable in a quiet, observant way.
Next to him sat a boy who looked no older than 13 or 14. His green eyes sparkled with mischief and his tousled blonde hair looked like it had been combed with a hand rather than a brush, and this, made me a little more confident about my own hairstyle.
To my relief, none of them staring at me at I took my seat. Despite that, I still felt like an intruder who had stumbled into the wrong place— or worse, like an unprepared interviewee late to a formal meeting.
Every nerve in my body tensed as I walked toward my seat, my palms lightly sweating, heart uncomfortably loud in my chest.
As I sat down, I clenched my fists in my lap and tried not to cringe. The words I was about to speak made me a little embarrassed, but I knew I had to say them:
"Greetings, Father, Mother." The words came out strained,a little awkward. I could only hope they didn't notice. Seriously, I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say how strange it feels to call two complete strangers my parents—especially when I'm a fully grown adult myself. But noble etiquette or not, failing to greet one's parents would surely be seen as disrespectful.
"Morning, Sebastian. I hope you are recovering well, dear?" asked the Baroness with a hint of concern. "I can't tell you how relieved we were to know your fever finally receded last night. You poor thing! How hard these two weeks must've been for you. Do you know, how terrified I was when the physician said your illness was very critical this time! Later, you must come to church with me to thank God for your recovery."
Once the Baroness began speaking, her words flowed without pause, like a dam breaking open. Yet as she continued, I quietly absorbed the information. Apparently, I— or rather, this body—had been seriously ill for two weeks not just a day as I had presumed. My recovery was recent and unexpected. And most importantly, I now knew the name of this body— Sebastian.
This outpouring of maternal worry was overwhelming, but also quite useful.
Playing along the role, I smiled weakly and replied, "Yes,Mother."
She gave a small, relieved smile at my response, then reached for her teacup, pausing just long enough to glance toward the Baron.
"Your father has something he'd like to ask you, dear," she said gently, her voice taking on a more serious note.
"Sebastian," the Baron said, his voice firm and deliberate, "have you thought about what I asked?" He gave me no time to respond before continuing, "I know you have just recovered, but it's already been a month, and the Friervern Duchy is pressing for a reply."
The Friervern Duchy? I kept my face neutral, but my mind scrambled. What decision was I supposed to make? What had he asked before I came to inhabit this body?
In a soft, hesitant voice, I replied, "I'm sorry, Father, but… could you give me just one more week to consider?" I let my tone waver slightly, adding a touch of fragility and remorse. Sympathy might be my only lifeline right now. Right now I just need to avoid giving an answer.
There was a pause.
"...Alright," he said at last.
And just like that, the conversation ended.
The rest of the breakfast passed in relative silence, broken only by the occasional clink of cutlery against fine china.
And though the food looked nothing less than a Michelin-level grand meal– each dish a piece of art– it barely registered in my mind. I felt no appetite with all the questions spiraling in my head.
And above all, one question continued to burn in my mind:
What the hell am I supposed to decide by the end of this week?