Vaelira waited for a considerable amount of time for Lucien to arrive, yet as the sun climbed up and signalled the coming of noon; she decided perhaps it was time to pay him a visit herself.
She approached with a composed, almost casual grace, her dark riding cloak fluttering faintly behind her in the light breeze.
She stopped a few steps away from Lucien, her sharp gaze sweeping across the sprawling, chaotic orchard landscape.
“How goes the work?”
She asked, voice crisp, but not unkind.
Lucien scratched the back of his neck, offering a lopsided smile that was half-embarrassed, half-resigned.
“Well… we haven’t exactly started yet.”
He kicked lightly at a loose stone on the path.
“Most of it’s still just plans on paper.”
Terrin, standing nearby with his hands tucked behind his back, let out a low grunt.
Without a word, he started to shuffle away, clearly deciding that this was a conversation best left between the young lord and the lady.
His boots crunched softly against the gravel as he disappeared between the rows of gnarled apple trees.
Vaelira raised a delicate brow but said nothing about Terrin’s silent retreat.
Instead, she crossed her arms lightly, studying Lucien with a look of polite expectation.
“Then,” she said, tapping a finger against her elbow thoughtfully, “might I suggest we start by organizing the harvest? I propose a five-tier grading system.”
Lucien perked up.
“I’m listening.”
She took a step closer, her tone shifting slightly into something more formal, almost lecturing—but not in a way that was patronizing.
“Tier One would be the finest fruit. No blemishes, perfect skin, optimal size—those will fetch the highest price or serve as our showpieces. Tier Two, nearly perfect but with minor imperfections. Still sellable at a high rate. Tier Three, slightly damaged but good for processing into products like pies. Tier Four, heavily blemished or bruised—but still edible. Best used for ciders or distilled goods. Tier Five—” she paused, tilting her head, “the unsalvageable ones. Those should be harvested only for seeds, since the Aetherveil Red grows at an accelerated rate when properly cultivated.”
Lucien’s eyes lit up as she spoke, his mind already racing ahead.
“That’s a good idea. A really good idea. I was thinking about cider already for the rougher apples. Pies too, for Tier Three.”
He folded his arms across his chest, grinning wider now, feeling the excitement catch hold.
“For now, we sell the Tiers One and Two as fresh produce, right? Then, once we stabilize the harvests, we start making premium ciders and pies using the higher-grade ones to build a brand.”
Vaelira nodded approvingly, a faint, rare smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Lucien continued, energized, “And the trees that are too far gone—Mr. Terrin and I were talking—we can harvest the wood. Applewood is valuable for meat smoking and furniture. Might as well squeeze every last coin out of what’s left.”
She gave him a firm, almost proud nod.
“We seem to be on the same page, Lord Lucien.”
There was something warm in the way she said it, something that made Lucien’s grin soften into something more genuine.
“Well,” he chuckled, glancing over the wild orchard with new eyes, “good to know I’m not completely hopeless.”
Vaelira allowed herself a small, knowing smile.
“No,” she said softly. “Not hopeless. Just… untested.”
Vaelira dusted off her gloves and turned to Lucien with a composed, almost formal expression.
“I will return shortly,” she said, voice calm as ever.
“I need to change into something more appropriate… for the other half of our contract.”
Lucien gave a stiff nod, hiding the slight grimace pulling at the corner of his mouth.
As she departed, her cloak fluttering behind her, Lucien’s expression hardened.
‘Here we go.’
He thought grimly to himself, watching her disappear behind the orchard rows.
‘If the Vaelira from the game was any hint… now was when the real pain would start.’
Sword training under her would be nothing like the easygoing orchard planning.
He knew better than to expect mercy — strict didn’t even begin to cover it.
Unbeknownst to him, just a few feet away, a young maid tending to the orchard path had been half-eavesdropping.
Her ears perked up at the words “other half of the contract” and her imagination took a wild, dramatic leap.
Her eyes widened, her face turning a bright crimson as she gasped quietly.
“S-Something more appropriate? A contract??”
She almost dropped the basket of apples she was carrying as she scurried away in a panic, bolting straight toward the estate with only one goal in mind:
Find the other maids.
Tell them everything.
***
Inside the calm of her guest room, Vaelira methodically shed the layers of her formal gown, her movements smooth and practiced.
She folded the elegant cloth carefully onto the nearby chair before reaching for the simpler garments laid out on her bed.
A white undershirt.
A fitted leather tunic, dark brown and well-worn at the seams.
Sturdy black trousers and boots built for movement, not courtly appearances.
As she dressed, her eyes flickered briefly toward the broad sword resting against the wall — the same sword she had brought with her, wrapped neatly in a traveler’s cloth.
For a moment, her hand hovered over it.
Vaelira shook her head slightly, murmuring under her breath, “Not yet.”
She strapped on a smaller training sword instead — something lighter, less deadly.
Once fully dressed, she fastened a thin leather belt around her waist and adjusted the cuffs of her sleeves.
Her entire demeanor shifted: the poised noble lady was gone, replaced by a disciplined, ready-for-battle silhouette.
Without hesitation, she turned on her heel and made her way out of the room, heading toward the area Lucien had reserved for their training sessions — her footsteps silent and determined.
‘Today, the real contract would begin.’
***
Lucien stood alone near the weathered training grounds, half-heartedly swinging his wooden practice sword through the muggy afternoon air.
Each swing looked less like a warrior’s form and more like a man swatting flies he couldn’t quite see.
There was no precision, no rhythm — just the loose, lazy movements of a man stalling for time.
He was just mid-swing, sighing dramatically to himself, when—
“Ahem.”
The sound of a polite throat-clear directly behind him made Lucien flinch so violently that he nearly launched the practice sword across the grounds.
“AH!—”
He spun around, face already crimson, and found Vaelira standing there, arms folded over her chest, looking every bit like she was trying not to laugh.
Her hair was tied back into a low, practical ponytail, and the rich gown from before had been replaced with a fitted leather tunic over a white undershirt and high boots laced up to the knees.
Gone were the flowing silks and intricate jewelry — and yet somehow, stripped down to a fighter’s form, she looked no less regal.
‘How is that even fair…?’
Lucien thought, momentarily forgetting how to breathe.
‘First she looks like she’s about to attend a royal ball. Now she looks like she’s about to kill a dragon.’
“You look like you’re fighting off invisible bees,” Vaelira remarked, dry amusement in her voice.
Lucien coughed awkwardly and straightened his stance, desperately trying to salvage some dignity.
“I was, uh… warming up,” he lied unconvincingly.
“Mmhm.” She smirked, clearly not believing a word.
“Are you ready to start?”
Lucien nodded way too fast.
“Y-Yeah! Born ready!”
Vaelira lifted an eyebrow at his sudden enthusiasm but said nothing.
She started explaining the day’s plan in a calm, measured tone, but unfortunately, Lucien’s brain had decided to take an unscheduled vacation.
He couldn’t help it — he was too busy staring again.
The leather tunic hugged her form in a way that accentuated her strength without robbing her of grace.
Even dressed like a mercenary, she moved like a noblewoman — every step deliberate, every glance cutting.
‘There really is no escape… Gown, armor, potato sack—she’d still look like a goddess…’
Lucien’s inner simping grew so loud he didn’t realize he was zoning out until—
“LUCIEN!”
He jolted upright, spine stiffening like a schoolboy caught daydreaming.
“S-sorry! I’m listening now!”
He blurted.
Vaelira gave him a long-suffering look and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“We’re starting with running,” she said, slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dense toddler.
Lucien relaxed slightly.
“Oh, okay… how many laps?”
Vaelira’s lips curled into a smile that would have sent seasoned soldiers running.
“Until I say stop.”
Lucien stared at her in horror.
“That’s not a number!”
He protested.
“Exactly,” she said sweetly, already turning to jog toward the outer edge of the field.
Left with no other choice (and the burning shame of being outdone), Lucien scrambled after her.
***
Several agonizing minutes later…
The two were running in wide circles around the training ground.
Or rather — Vaelira was running and Lucien was suffering.
Sweat poured down his forehead, his breathing loud and ragged, while she kept perfect pace beside him, not even a hair out of place.
Lucien gasped between strides, trying to inject logic into this madness.
“I thought… we were training… sword fighting!”
“This is sword training,” Vaelira said with infuriating calm.
“How?!”
He wheezed.
“There’s no swords involved!”
Without missing a beat, she answered, “Because a dead man swinging a sword is still a dead man.”
Lucien groaned dramatically.
“That’s… a terrible motivational speech…”
“Good. You shouldn’t feel motivated. You should feel miserable,” She said, much like a drill sergeant.
He glared at her but lacked the oxygen to make a snappy comeback.
Another few laps and his legs finally gave out from under him.
Lucien collapsed backward onto the grass with a loud grunt, arms spread wide, chest heaving like a beached whale.
“I’m… dying…” he announced to the sky.
Vaelira leaned over him, casting a long shadow across his face.
“You’re not dying. You’re just weak.”
Lucien squinted up at her.
“Same thing…”
He muttered rebelliously.
He raised a limp hand.
“At least tell me… why we’re running… instead of sword swings…?”
Vaelira gave him a slow, almost pitying smile — the kind you reserved for idiots about to learn a hard lesson.
“If you have enough energy to ask questions,” she said sweetly, “you have enough energy to run.”
Before he could protest, she grabbed the back of his tunic like he weighed nothing and yanked him to his feet.
“No—no! Mercy!” Lucien whined.
“No mercy,” Vaelira said cheerfully.
“Now move, Crowley.”
As she shoved him forward to start another miserable lap, Lucien stumbled into motion, sending a heartfelt prayer skyward.
‘O gods… please smite me where I stand… It would be a mercy at this point…’
Behind them, hidden near the edges of the orchard, a pair of maids peeked around a corner, wide-eyed and whispering furiously.
“I told you they had something going on!”
One hissed.
“She’s working him like a farm horse! Such passion!”
“I bet it’s part of some secret training ritual! Maybe Lady Vaelira is forging him into her perfect knight!”
The other sighed dreamily.
Meanwhile, poor Lucien tripped over his own feet again, nearly face planting into the dirt as Vaelira barked at him to keep running.
***
Author’s Note:
Hello Hello ( ^_^)／
This was a fun one to write — Vaelira and Lucien’s training arc is just getting started, and it’s already a mess (in the best way). ╭( ๐_๐)╮
I really wanted to show their growing dynamic, with Lucien flailing and Vaelira being… well, Vaelira. Strict, sharp, but maybe a little proud of him too. ( •̀ᴗ•́ )و ̑̑
Thanks so much for reading!
Hope you enjoyed watching Lucien suffer — he definitely did not. More chaos (and maybe progress?) coming soon!ヽ(O_O )ﾉ
Loving the story so far. Thanks for this! Hope you have a great rest of the day
Moaaarr