Gro pinched his face hard.
Only when the pain hit did his drowsy brain realize that seeing Ileil dressed like this wasn’t a dream.
“Hey. Good morning, kid.”
Gro’s gaze unconsciously lingered a second longer on her thigh garters, suddenly feeling his throat a bit dry. He hurriedly averted his eyes, clearing his throat:
“Although I really don’t want to meddle… but what on earth were you thinking dressing like this?”
Ileil shook her too-short skirt hem, the metal daggers clinking lightly against the garters: “That’s what I should ask you. Putting me in a room full of women’s clothes—what’s your intention?”
“Full of women’s clothes?” Gro scratched his head; he recalled that last night when he brought Ileil to the manor, he indeed hadn’t emphasized that to the servants. Gro’s gaze circled her once, his eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline: “Should I be glad you didn’t tear down the curtains to make a cloak?”
“Aren’t you the one who said—to have me play your adopted daughter?” Ileil’s face darkened; she said coldly: “Dressed like this, are you satisfied? No loss of face for your ‘Black Edge’?”
“Haha. You know, Ileil. I’ve always been very satisfied with you. Whether it was the youth who stirred countless noble young ladies’ hearts to inquire about you from me, or now this exquisitely cute, doll-like beautiful girl—both are my top generals.”
As Gro said this, his gaze returned to the short swords on Ileil’s thigh garters: “Just saying—could you put away your two old buddies a bit? The princess is just twenty steps away.”
Ileil lowered her head slightly; she said indifferently: “Then hurry and find me a normal set of clothes. I don’t think I can handle emergencies without weapons.”
“Whatever, stinky kid.” Gro knew Ileil’s stubborn temper; he knew no matter how much he said, Ileil wouldn’t listen. Gro turned around, shifting his gaze back to the princess practicing sword in the early morning:
“Heard the princess had a little conflict with you yesterday? Mind telling me the details?”
Ileil leaned against the corridor pillar beside Gro, following him to cast her gaze toward Prinshitt, saying flatly: “She suspects I’m a witch, but that saint stopped the princess’s excessive behavior.”
“Is that so?” Gro nodded thoughtfully. “Seems this princess is unexpectedly quite sharp.”
…
Ileil originally thought Prinshitt, who got up early to practice sword, should be someone not to be underestimated. But after just a brief glance, she could determine the princess was a beginner not long started.
Prinshitt’s swordsmanship carried a novice’s awkwardness. Her wrists weren’t flexible enough; each swing tensed her forearm muscles too much, making the sword momentum slightly stiff. The basic thrust was standard, but retracting always half a beat slow, as if pondering the move each time, with no muscle memory formed.
Ileil half-squinted her eyes. The princess’s swordsmanship was immature, but each move was done rigidly by the book, clearly under formal guidance. Just lacking real combat honing, making her forms overly rigid.
“Seems that old thing Dorias did teach her.” Gro stroked his chin in evaluation. “Just this Highness’s proficiency… doesn’t seem ideal.”
The princess’s footwork was steady, but changing direction always required an extra half-step. By the third run of a simple sword routine, her forehead seeped fine sweat, breathing quickened.
“Just this level?” Ileil snorted coldly; the princess’s level seemed like child’s play to current Ileil.
Gro’s lips curved slightly upward: “Don’t rush to mock her, kid. From her look… she’s probably a newbie not long started?”
Before he finished, Prinshitt suddenly turned and slashed, but lost balance, staggering back several steps before not falling. That embarrassed sight made Gro’s smile even stronger—for him, opportunities to enjoy such figures’ mishaps were rare.
Ileil shook her head. This level in the mercenary group probably couldn’t pass recruit assessment. But noticing the princess’s sweat-soaked back fabric, and the red marks ground on her palms, she slightly retracted some disdain in her heart.
Ileil looked at Prinshitt’s stubborn and focused expression, recalling her hatred for witches last night—though unwilling to admit, Ileil vaguely saw her own shadow in the princess.
Prinshitt raised her sword again. This time she slowed, lips moving slightly, seeming to silently recite her mentor’s teachings. Sunlight through leaf gaps cast fine specks on her golden lashes; sweat dripped along her chin onto the hilt.
—Ileil saw the unwillingness in Prinshitt’s eyes.
……
Just like that, Ileil and Gro watched the princess practice sword for over half an hour. The time was barely past six, even most manor servants just waking.
The reason Ileil stayed beside Gro was because Gro deliberately told her not to leave, to wait with him to talk something with the princess. During this, besides briefly discussing the princess’s swordsmanship, Gro and Ileil said nothing else.
Even if Gro tried starting conversation several times, wanting a rare chat with Ileil, she ignored them all. The two were relatively silent until Prinshitt ended her practice.
After Prinshitt stopped her moves, several servants seemingly dedicated to the princess came forward to hand her towels and store her wooden sword. But she had no intention to rest; she signaled the servants to leave, turning her gaze to the two who had watched for a while.
“Good morning. Mr. Gro, and… Miss Ileil.”
Prinshitt took a deep breath, walking straight toward them. Her gaze paused a moment on Ileil’s modified dress, brows slightly furrowed.
Ileil met Prinshitt’s surprised gaze, showing no reaction. But for some reason, Ileil always felt Prinshitt was embarrassed for her.
Prinshitt straightened her back, using her sweat-covered hand to tuck stray golden hair behind her ear, her voice carrying deliberately maintained dignity: “What brings you to the garden so early?”
Gro slightly bowed in salute, speaking respectfully: “Your Highness’s morning practice poise is truly captivating. My unworthy adopted daughter knows a thing or two about swordsmanship, so I had her come learn too.”
“Flattery is unnecessary.” Prinshitt interrupted, her red pupils staring fixedly at Ileil. “Surveilling me is fine—but I detest being stared at unblinkingly by your so-called mysterious ‘adopted daughter,’ dressed so shamelessly.”
“Uh… shameless?” Gro inwardly retorted.
Ileil’s expression instantly cooled. Gro, seeing the taut duo, also started sweating profusely. He feigned surprise, spreading his hands to resolve this baseless conflict: “Where does Your Highness get that from? Ileil is a victim of that fire.”
“Victim?” Prinshitt sneered, striding to her attendant, snatching the wooden sword, pointing straight at Ileil:
“I heard last night Miss Ileil say she’s a mercenary in your group? But Miss Ileil’s bizarre and comical attire really makes it hard for me to believe.”
The wooden sword drew a sharp arc in the morning light, the wind it stirred ruffling Ileil’s silver hair.
“Don’t mind sparring a few moves with me? If you’re not lying—Miss Ileil.”