[Fjornholm—Thorenvald Estate]
Since I was in a fantasy world and the ridiculously rich son of a count, I thought I had seen it all. The Thorenvald estate was loaded, sure, but Fjornholm? That was supposed to be a whole other level of prestige.
I imagined:
Cold but majestic. Mountains stretching like they were auditioning for a fantasy postcard. Forests so thick they probably housed enough wolves to start a wolves band. And the castle—no, the fortress—standing rich and proud.
Reality? Not even close.
Right now, I was standing at the front gate, snow pouring from the sky like God decided to dump the entire winter storage unit on this one estate. My boots were already soaked, my coat wasn’t nearly as warm as I’d hoped, and my nose was turning a shade of red that would make Rudolph jealous.
And the best part?No welcome committee.
Not a single army of stiff-backed knights, stern-faced advisors, and servants bowing so low their spines would snap like breadsticks. Instead, I stood there alone, holding a brown suitcase like some lost tourist, staring at the massive iron gates of Fjornholm.
Closed.Locked.Not even a friendly "Welcome, my lord!" sign.
I trembled—part cold, part pure rage—and finally snapped.
"ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!" My voice echoed across the snowy courtyard like some dramatic opera solo. "WHY THE HELL ARE THE GATES SHUT?! WHAT AM I, A TRAVELING SALESMAN TRYING TO SELL COOKWARE?!"
My breath came out in angry puffs, misting the frozen air. "HELLO? HEIR OF THE HOUSE OF THORENVALD HERE!"
Nothing.
A gust of wind slapped my face with icy flakes, almost as if the estate itself was mocking me.
And then—
"Aaaagghhh, my lord!"
I turned to see a man with the kind of belly that looked like it had its own gravitational field, barreling out of a side door like a panicked walrus. His boots barely touched the snow before—PUFF!
Down he went. Face-first. Full snow-angel position.
For a moment, there was silence, just his muffled groan buried in a snowdrift. Then, with the grace of a drunken seal, he scrambled up, gasping for air and dignity, and waddled toward me like his life depended on it.
Before I could open my mouth, he flung the heavy gate open, then collapsed to his knees right in the snow, bowing so low his forehead probably got frostbite.
"M-my lord! Forgive me!" His voice cracked like a teenage bard at his first performance. "I did not realize you would arrive so soon! I was told you’d come in a week, and—and—"
"Enough," I cut him off, though not without a twitch at the corner of my lips.
I wanted to scold him, show my new authority, and maybe throw in a cold, aristocratic glare. But honestly, the way he was trembling, hands pressed to the snow like he was praying to the frost gods, I almost felt bad.
"Stand up before you become a popsicle," I said. "And let’s head inside before I freeze to death out here."
"Yes, my lord!" He bobbed his head so hard I thought it might come off.
And finally, finally, I stepped inside the estate. The heavy doors creaked open, and the moment my boots touched the marble floor—
"WELCOME TO FJORNHOLM, SIRE!!"
The shout nearly gave me a heart attack.
In front of me stood a lineup of... what, a dozen people? Barely six maids, five knights, and two chefs who looked like they’d rather be back in the kitchen than bowing to a stranger. And they bowed so low I thought someone had dropped a gold coin.
Then the Belly Man (I was starting to think of him as Lord Belly) waddled forward, chest puffed out like he was leading a parade.
"Welcome, Young Lord," he said with the gravitas of a priest about to bless a kingdom. "We are honored to have you take charge of Fjornholm."
...Take charge?
Take charge?!
Buddy, I came here to drink beer, nap like a retired cat, and maybe tan a little if the sun ever showed up. Which it clearly didn’t, because Fjornholm seemed to have only one season: snow and more snow.
But did I say that? Of course not. I wasn’t stupid enough to admit I had the ambition of a couch potato.
So I smiled. And gave them my best professional conman smile.
"Thank you for the warm welcome," I said smoothly. "But before we discuss... anything... I’d like to get warm. Unless you want your new lord to turn into a very sophisticated snowman."
Lord Belly blanched and waved his arms like a frantic penguin. "Of course, my lord! Right this way!"
***
[Living Room—Later]
The fire crackled in the hearth as I stretched my legs, bare feet basking in the cozy heat. Finally—peace. Finally—Firebathing without moving an inch, like a retired cat.
The maids quietly placed tea on the table.
"Nope," I waved them off dramatically. "Don’t even think about tea. Get me a beer."
The belly man—Lord Belly—stammered. "Um... m-my lord... we... we don’t have any beer."
I froze. My brain short-circuited.
"W-what? You... don’t... have a beer?!"
He nodded like a guilty puppy.
I felt as if a black hole had opened beneath me. My legs felt like jello. My master plan—sunbathing and beer-chugging in the frozen North—was crumbling faster than cheap gingerbread.
No beer. In the North. In my territory.
I tried to keep calm. Breathe, Leif. This is Northern aristocracy. Handle it with dignity.
But I failed.
I trembled, voice quivering with horror. "But... beer is the essential part of life, especially for people who live in freezing lands! How... how do they survive without it?!"
The Lord belly gulped. "N-not only beer, my lord... we are... also short on food... and wood."
I froze mid-air, as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over me. "Food... and wood too?!"
He nodded. "Yes, my lord... the only firewood left... is under your feet. And for food... only bread and soup remain."
I dropped my jaw. My legs nearly left the fire and kicked me in the face.
"Doesn’t Father send enough food and wood?" I said, trembling and pointing an accusatory finger. "Why... why are we short of everything?!"
Then the gears in my overworked salaryman brain clicked. My finger shot out like a sword. "Aha! You corrupt man! You’re hoarding everything in your estate, making the poor people of Fjornholm suffer, right?! Admit it, Lord Belly!"
The Lord belly turned pale, wobbling like a jelly on stilts. "I-I don’t—my lord, I am not Lord Belly! I... I am Baron Sigurd Hjelmvik!"
I scoffed, letting my inner diva shine. "Yeah... sure... Sigurd Hazzelnut. Very noble, very intimidating."
He nearly cried, voice cracking like wet paper. "H-Hjelmvik, my lord! And I swear I’m not corrupt!"
I narrowed my eyes, squinting like a suspicious hen inspecting a worm. "And why, should I believe you, Hazzelnut?"
He trembled so violently I thought he might perform an unintentional snow angel right there in the hall. "I swear! I am honest! It... it was the wild wolves! They attacked the supply caravans! Beer, food, even wood—all devoured, stolen, or destroyed by the wolves!"
I blinked, dumbfounded. "...Wolves?"
"Yes! My lord! The beasts are cunning, vicious, and destroy everything in their path—including beer!"
I whipped my head toward the nearest maid, eyes wide, drama fully engaged. "Is he telling the truth?"
The maid bowed nervously, hands wringing the hem of her apron. "Yes, my lord... it is true."
I squinted at him. "But... no wolves attacked when I arrived here."
Baron Sigurd—ugh, still thinking Hazzelnut—stammered, "It’s because you arrived early morning, my lord. The wild wolves... they attack after the afternoon."
I blinked. "...So... the wolves have a schedule?"
He nodded frantically. "Yes, my lord."
I tapped my cheeks with both hands, deep in thought. "Hmm... then the goods could be delivered at night or... early morning, right?"
His face paled. "T-the snow becomes dangerous during those hours, my lord..."
I stared at him. My brain short-circuited. My hands flew to my face. "Why is everything trouble?"
I let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the northern apocalypse pressing down on my shoulders.
I guess I have no choice.
I stood up, hands on hips, chin raised, and let my inner drama queen roar:
"BRING THE FUCKING SWORD. I... AM... GONNA... END... EVERY. SINGLE. WOLF. OUT. THERE!"
Because—if you’re Leif Thorenvald, second male lead, and self-proclaimed gay hero of Fjornholm, wolves attacking your beer and bread are a declaration of war.
I clenched my fists, eyes blazing with ridiculous intensity.
And with that, I stomped toward the door—because when someone attacks your peace... your beer... you fight.