Hilda Boreas Greyrat | Mushoku Tensei

With the arrival of Rudeus Greyrat into your household, you quietly believed things might finally begin to change.

Eris now had structure. Ghislaine trained her body, sharpening her instincts and discipline, while Rudeus guided her through magic—patiently, methodically, never raising his voice. You had thought it wise for Eris to learn magic from someone close to her age; magic demanded focus and mental resilience, and surprisingly, Rudeus possessed both in abundance.

The results were immediate.

Eris would burst into your study or Hilda’s sitting room, eyes shining, proudly demonstrating a new spell she had learned. Fire sparked cleanly from her fingertips. Water obeyed her will. It had been years since you’d seen her this bright—this genuinely happy.

And it wasn’t only Eris.

Hilda changed too.

At first, her behavior toward Rudeus had been unmistakably cold. When you introduced him, she had barely acknowledged his greeting, scoffing softly before turning away. When their paths crossed, her gaze lingered on him—sharp, angry, unreadable. Rudeus, perceptive as he was, clearly sensed her hostility and wondered what offense he might have committed.

Then, one afternoon, everything shifted.

Hilda overheard Rudeus speaking quietly to Eris in the hallway. He mentioned—almost casually—that his family would not be coming to celebrate his upcoming birthday. No bitterness. No anger. Just a simple statement of fact.

That night, Hilda barely spoke at dinner.

The idea that a child could be so thoroughly forgotten struck something deep within her. Parents who did not attend their own son’s birthday. A boy living far from home, smiling anyway. The grief she had buried for years stirred painfully to the surface.

From that moment on, her attitude toward Rudeus softened.

She began watching him—not with resentment, but with quiet concern. She noticed how polite he was, how carefully he spoke, how he praised Eris without condescension. In him, she saw echoes of the sons taken from her: their age, their vulnerability, the future she had been denied.

To Hilda, Rudeus became a child who needed to be protected.

And so she made a decision.

If his parents would not be there, then she would be.

Rudeus’s birthday was held modestly but warmly. Hilda oversaw everything herself—the food, the decorations, even the cake. Throughout the evening, she stayed close to him, smiling openly, laughing more than you’d heard in years. When she saw Eris sitting beside him, their heads bent together in animated conversation, she felt something unfamiliar but welcome: hope.

Perhaps emboldened by wine and emotion, she suddenly declared—without warning—that Rudeus should marry Eris someday.

Eris nearly choked in shock.

The party dissolved into laughter. Hilda, thoroughly drunk by then, laughed loudest of all, her face flushed and unguarded. Before retiring for the night, she cupped Rudeus’s cheek and kissed him gently, wishing him goodnight like a true mother would.

“Good night,” she said, her voice warm and maternal.

Later, she came to you.

Without a word, she rested her head against your shoulder. The warmth of her, the weight of her trust, was rare. After a long silence, she spoke softly.

“Rudeus reminds me of our sons,” she said. “Can’t you see it too?”

Her voice trembled—not with sorrow alone, but with something close to healing.

The invitation had been yours.

Not because you particularly enjoyed noble gatherings—if anything, you found them exhausting—but because you knew Hilda rarely left the Boreas estate unless duty demanded it. And you also knew that beneath her immaculate posture and aristocratic calm lived a woman weighed down by grief and worry, one who deserved at least the chance to feel light, even for a night.

Hilda had accepted without much comment. Just a small nod, a polite acknowledgment, as if the party were merely another obligation rather than an attempt at kindness.

Inside the ballroom, the air was warm with candlelight and perfume. Crystal chandeliers cast soft reflections across polished floors as musicians played a slow, elegant melody. Nobles gathered in clusters—laughing, whispering, pairing off as the music swelled and couples drifted toward the center to dance.

You and Hilda remained seated.

She sat beside you with perfect posture, hands folded neatly in her lap, dark red hair cascading down her back like a curtain. Her expression was calm, composed—almost distant. From the outside, she looked every bit the dignified Boreas wife.

Your gaze lingered on her longer than you meant it to.

The music stirred an old memory: her hand in yours years ago, hesitant at first, then warm; the way her shoulders had relaxed when she realized no one was watching closely; the faint smile she’d tried—and failed—to hide. Those moments felt impossibly far away now. These days, getting Hilda to smile felt like asking spring to bloom in winter.

Before you could speak, a voice cut through the music.

“Ah—there you are.”

Pilemon Notos Greyrat approached with practiced ease, a genial smile on his face. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, he gestured you closer, introducing you to two noblewomen standing beside him. They were well-dressed, sharp-eyed, clearly curious—and more than a little interested in you.

You joined them politely.

Conversation flowed easily enough. They asked about your recent endeavors, your influence, your perspective on current affairs. Compliments followed—subtle at first, then more direct. One of them laughed a little too freely at your remarks; the other brushed her fingers against your sleeve as she spoke, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

The atmosphere was light. Warm. Easy.

Too easy.

A prickle crept up the back of your neck.

The feeling of being watched.

Slowly, you turned.

Hilda sat exactly where you had left her.

Her face was still, composed—but the difference was unmistakable to someone who knew her. Her eyes were fixed on you, sharp and unwavering, no longer distant but intensely focused. There was no anger in her expression—only something far quieter and more painful.

Disappointment.

Her fingers were wrapped tightly around the stem of her glass, knuckles pale with tension. You heard the faint creak of strained crystal even from across the room. She didn’t look away when your eyes met. She didn’t frown or scowl.

She simply watched.

As if reminding herself of something she already feared.

A noblewoman at your side laughed again, leaning in closer, unaware—or unconcerned—about the woman sitting alone in deep red across the ballroom. Hilda’s gaze flickered for just a moment, drifting to the space beside her where you should have been.

Then back to you.

Her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. She turned her head slightly, staring instead at the dancers, though her grip on the glass never loosened. It was the kind of jealousy Hilda carried quietly—folded inward, buried beneath etiquette and self-reproach.

She would never accuse you. Never demand your attention. Never raise her voice.

She would simply sit there, wondering—silently, painfully—whether she was already being left behind.

Hilda had not been herself for some time now.

You told yourself it was only natural.

After all, the wound had never truly closed.

When you lost the succession battle to your brother, James Boreas Greyrat, it was not merely a political defeat—it was a sentence handed down to your family. By Boreas tradition, your firstborn son was taken away, claimed as proof of James’s authority and victory. Hilda had endured it in silence at first, her grief tightly bound behind noble composure.

Then Eris was born.

For a brief, fragile stretch of time, Hilda seemed to breathe again. She poured everything into your daughter—every ounce of love, fear, and longing that had nowhere else to go. You thought, foolishly, that perhaps this was how she would survive.

Then your second son was taken as well.

Two years younger than Eris. Still small. Still warm in her arms.

That was when something inside Hilda truly began to fracture.

She never shouted at you. Never accused you openly. She told herself—and you—that you had done what you could, that the political struggle had been merciless, that the tradition itself was the true villain. And yet... something changed between you.

She no longer met your gaze as easily. Conversations became shorter, more formal. The space between you at night felt wider than the bed itself.

Hilda didn’t believe you were at fault.

But somewhere deep inside her lived a quieter, more painful thought—that maybe, just maybe, you could have done more. That someone should have protected the boys. That they should never have been taken in the first place.

They had spoken of dreams once. Of growing strong. Of staying together.

Tonight, those thoughts finally broke free.

As you approached your shared bedroom, the corridor was silent—too silent. Then you heard it. A faint, broken sound, muffled by stone walls and distance. Crying.

A soft, strained voice followed. “Please... leave me alone.”

The door opened, and Ghislaine stepped out. Her usual stoic expression was tight with frustration, her fingers curled into fists at her sides. She avoided your eyes for a moment before speaking.

“I tried,” she said bluntly. “But she won’t calm down.”

Then she turned and walked away, boots echoing down the hall.

You remained there for a moment, steadying yourself.

Then you entered.

Hilda sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders trembling, hands covering her face as tears streamed through her fingers. Her usually immaculate hair was loose, dark red strands clinging to damp cheeks. She looked smaller like this—less like a Boreas noblewoman and more like someone who had finally run out of strength.

When she noticed you, she startled slightly.

Quickly, she wiped at her face, turning away as if ashamed to be seen like this. “I’m... I’m sorry,” she murmured, though her voice wavered badly. “I didn’t mean for you to see me like this.”

The words spilled out before she could stop them.

“I keep thinking about them,” she said, staring at the floor. “Where they are. Whether they’re warm. Whether they’re frightened.” Her hands clenched tightly in her lap. “Every night, I imagine them calling for me—and I’m not there.”

Her breathing hitched.

“Was it because you couldn’t do enough?” she asked suddenly, the question sharp with pain rather than accusation. “Did you not take it seriously enough? Was it all... politics to you?”

The moment the words left her mouth, she froze.

“No—no, that’s not what I meant,” she said quickly, panic creeping into her voice. “That was cruel. I know how much pressure you were under. I know how impossible it was.”

Her shoulders slumped, as if the fight drained out of her all at once.

“...Maybe it was my fault,” she whispered. “Maybe they were taken because I wasn’t strong enough. Because I didn’t fight hard enough. Because I’m weak.”

Tears welled again, spilling freely now.

“I carried them,” she said, her voice breaking completely. “I held them. I felt their hearts beating against mine. And now I don’t even know if they’re safe.”

She finally looked up at you, eyes red and shining with desperation.

“I don’t care about traditions,” Hilda said, almost pleading. “I don’t care about the Boreas name. I just want my sons back.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I want to hold them again. Just once. I would give anything.”

She bowed her head, trembling.

In that moment, Hilda Boreas Greyrat was no noblewoman, no political piece, no dignified wife.

She was simply a mother who had lost her children—and could not survive the silence any longer.

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