The hearth in the servants’ lounge burned low but steady, casting a golden glow across the faces of the gathered staff.
A modest supper had come and gone, and now only warm tea, worn cushions, and juicier conversation remained.
Helga, one of the longest-serving maids and amongst its undisputed matriarchs, reclined in her creaking wooden chair like a war general off-duty.
With arms crossed under her ample chest and a raised brow, she started as she always did—with something everyone was already thinking.
“Well, I heard the Everwinds are sniffing around the estate’s apple harvest business again.”
A collective groan and a few muttered “not this again”s rolled around the room.
“I’m telling you,” Helga insisted, pointing a thick finger skyward.
“It’s not just trade routes. They don’t just poke their noses in unless they smell profit. Mark my words, by next year we will all be working in a cider press.”
“But wouldn’t it be a good thing if the Everwind Trading Association got involved?”
Elka, the young laundry girl, blinked.
“They make everything fancier.”
“Fancier,” Brynn scoffed, “and five times the price. You want to drink gold-infused apple juice?”
Before Helga could reply, the topic naturally drifted—as all good gossip does.
“What I want to know,” said Brynn, “is how in the stars we’re all still alive after that intruder mess.”
Everyone quieted a bit.
The memory of the night when the estate was under attack still lingered in the walls.
“Having Sir Richardson and Terrin here,” Helga said solemnly, “was nothing short of a blessing. We’d be singing over graves if not for those two.”
A few murmurs of agreement passed, followed quickly by a more mischievous tone.
“And Lady Thalia?”
Elka wiggled her brows.
“Did you see her during the fight? Moved like a wind spell. Better than Master Lucien.”
That earned several snickers.
“He looked like he lost three tavern brawls in a row,” Brynn laughed.
“Face all bruised up, shirt torn, hair like a madman.”
“Poor lad did try,” someone offered.
“Try? Thalia took out more than him barefoot and in a nightgown”
“And didn’t Vaelira burn a hole through the main hall trying to catch one?”
“Oh yes,” Helga cackled.
“Scorched the rug, nearly gave the guards a heart attack.”
“And yet,” Brynn said thoughtfully, “Lucien knocked out three. All on his own.”
A pause.
“True,” another voice chimed in.
“He’s not a trained fighter. Not like Vaelira. Not like Richardson. Not even Terrin, and he’s been retired longer than some of us have been alive.”
“Well, maybe he’d have stood a better chance if he hadn’t scared off every trainer who tried to teach him,” Helga said, rolling her eyes.
“I remember the last one—left crying. Said he’d rather wrestle wild hogs.”
“Still,” Elka added gently, “for someone with no training… he didn’t run. He fought. And he’s alive. We all are. That has to count for something.”
Nods circled the room.
Even Helga looked mildly approving.
“And don’t forget,” said a scullery boy popping his head in, “Richardson snuck him out before dawn the next morning. Bet they went to get some magical relics. Or secret weapons. Or—”
“—a self-writing spellbook,” someone added.
“—a sentient teacup!”
“—or maybe a mana-charged undercoat!”
“Alright, alright,” Helga waved them down.
“Whatever it was, Lady Vaelira wasn’t happy. She saw them off herself, arms crossed tighter than a banker’s coin purse.”
“She waited the whole day,” Brynn said quietly. “Didn’t even eat breakfast till they came back.”
The mood dipped a little.
There was a silence as everyone realized, in their own small way, that things had shifted.
“And soon they’re both leaving,” Helga muttered.
“Off to the Academy.”
The fire popped softly.
“Feels strange, doesn’t it?”
Said Elka.
“To miss the one we all used to avoid?”
There was a chuckle, low and soft.
“We reap what we sow,” Helga said wisely.
“But stars be thanked, he’s alright.”
“Aye,” someone else whispered.
“We’re all grateful for that.”
The hearth flickered.
The laughter returned.
And for a while, the warmth in the room had nothing to do with the fire.
***
The courtyard was quiet, save for the whistle of steel slicing the air and the crunch of boots across the worn training grounds.
Lucien leaned against a column under the shade of the stone archway, arms crossed—not in defiance, but to keep his sore ribs from flaring up.
He’d snuck out of his room again, careful not to draw too much attention.
Watching Vaelira train had become something of a ritual when sleep refused to come.
She was already in motion, her figure circling a worn straw dummy like a predator stalking prey.
The broadsword in her hands wasn’t elegant like the saber Lucien had been forced to train with.
It was wide, heavy, and brutally practical.
Yet in her grip, it moved like silk spun from stormwinds—each slash, thrust, and pivot a calculated note in a symphony of motion.
It wasn’t just swordplay.
It was endurance.
Flow.
Control.
“Careful,” Vaelira called without looking his way, her voice easy despite the sweat slicking her brow.
“You’ll stare a hole through me at this rate.”
Lucien gave a lazy shrug, wincing slightly at the movement.
“Just wondering when you started sparring with the wind itself.”
She smirked, twisting into a backstep and bringing the broadsword down in a heavy arc that split the dummy’s chest.
“Better a storm than a decorative paperweight.”
“I’ll have you know,” Lucien said, raising a brow, “I was very nearly competent with my ‘paperweight’.”
“That’s generous,” she replied, adjusting her stance and striking again—faster, sharper.
“I remember you once asked once why I had you run laps.”
Lucien tilted his head.
“I think it was more along the lines of asking why you wanted me to die before breakfast?”
Vaelira chuckled under her breath.
“You joke, but it’s important. You can know a thousand ways to dance with a blade. But if you’re gasping for air after five swings, you’re not a fighter. You’re just a slab of meat begging to be sliced up.”
He watched her pivot and deliver a series of tight cuts, her boots scraping softly against the packed ground.
Even when she was alone with nothing but the dummy for company, she fought like the next blow might be her last.
“Swordplay is endurance,” she said.
“The one who tires first, slips first. The one who breaks rhythm opens the door to defeat. Even a poorly trained fighter can win if they last longer.”
Lucien’s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze thoughtful.
“So it’s not about brilliance.”
“It’s about survival,” she replied.
“Then brilliance.”
She slowed, letting the broadsword fall to her side as she turned to face him fully.
Her expression softened—not quite warm, but clear of its usual sharpness.
“But,” she added, “don’t think this means you can skip proper technique when you’re better.”
“Stars forbid.”
Lucien said in mock dramatics.
“I’m serious. All the stamina in the world won’t help you if you grip your sword like you’re trying to shake hands with a trout.”
Lucien snorted.
“That’s a vivid image.”
“I will try to keep it in mind.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the weight of her words lingering in the warm afternoon air.
The wind stirred faintly, rustling the trees beyond the training yard.
“You know,” Lucien said, after a pause, “I used to think swordsmanship was all polish and poise. Flashy spins and dramatic parries.”
Vaelira sheathed her blade.
“It can be. Once you’ve earned it.”
He nodded, slow and quiet.
“I think I’m starting to understand.”
She gave him a sideways glance as she walked over.
“Good. Means I won’t have to beat it into you later.”
“Not sure that would help my current recovery,” he said dryly, gesturing vaguely to his still-healing side.
“Which is why you’re watching and not training,” she said, voice gentle under the jest.
“One wound at a time, Lucien.”
They turned together, making their way back into the manor.
The setting sun cast long shadows across the stones, and Lucien couldn’t help but feel like something had shifted—not just in his understanding of combat, but in the distance between them.
Respect, after all, didn’t always come dressed in ceremony.
Sometimes, it came in the form of sweat, steel, and a shared silence.
***
The manor’s library was dimly lit, the warm glow of a few oil lamps casting golden halos over the modest collection of books.
Compared to the Alliance-funded behemoth in town, it looked more like a glorified reading nook than a proper library.
But for Lucien and Vaelira, it was enough—a quiet corner of the world that belonged to no one but them.
Lucien sat slouched in a high-backed chair, one hand resting on the armrest, the other lazily flipping through a thin book about historic duels.
Vaelira sat across from him with her legs tucked to the side on a cushioned divan, thumbing through a worn tome with a sword embossed on its leather spine.
Outside, the manor had gone still.
Inside, the crackle of a candle’s flame and the rustle of pages were the only things brave enough to disturb the quiet.
“So,” Vaelira said without looking up, “how did you get the spoon off?”
Lucien glanced at her, then at the now-normal hand resting on his lap.
“It just… fell off. Like Ms. Celeste said it would. I was talking to Sir Richardson on our way back and plink—spoon on the floor.”
“Just like that?”
She asked.
“Just like that.”
Lucien said as he re-enact the motion of the falling spoon with his finger.
Vaelira raised an eyebrow, lips tugging into a half-smile.
“Magic is complicated.”
“You keep saying that,” Lucien said, stretching his legs out.
“But you’re always reading about it.”
She shot him a look.
“Those are practical applications. Like, how to channel elemental pulses through a blade or amplify your senses in close quarters. Useful things.”
Lucien chuckled.
“So you’re reading magic books to hit things harder.”
“To hit them smarter,” she corrected, setting her book down and sitting up a little straighter.
“Besides, my family’s bloodline has always had an affinity for shadow magic. It’s not like I can ignore it.”
Lucien blinked.
“Shadow magic?”
For a second she contemplated on how to explain it.
She then reached for a loose sheet of parchment from the side table and held it in front of one of the nearby candles.
The firelight danced against the paper, casting soft shadows onto the table.
“What are you—?”
“Shhh,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
Lucien watched, puzzled, as the candle’s flame flickered and the shadows beneath the paper began to twist—subtly at first.
The shifting silhouettes weren’t random.
They were… moving.
Coordinating.
He leaned in closer, narrowing his eyes as the shadows thickened and slithered like ink in water.
Then, slowly, the shadows crept up the edges of the paper—thin tendrils stretching like fingers, curling around the corners of the parchment.
Vaelira’s brow twitched.
A sheen of sweat glistened at her temple.
With a strained breath, the shadows pulled.
Lucien stared, wide-eyed, as the edges of the paper lifted and folded inward with jerky, puppet-like motion.
The shadows crinkled it once, then again—clumsily but with clear intent—until the paper stood in a crude triangle.
Vaelira exhaled sharply, opening her eyes and leaning back as the shadows dissipated like smoke.
The paper fluttered down to the table, bent and rumpled, but undeniably folded.
Lucien looked from the paper to her, catching the tired but proud glint in her eyes.
“Well?” she asked, catching her breath.
“Impressed?”
“You… just made shadows fold a piece of paper.”
She gave a smug grin.
“Not bad for a sword-for-brains, huh?”
Lucien blinked slowly, still staring at the now-innocent triangle of parchment.
“Okay, that’s… actually kind of terrifying.”
Vaelira chuckled, slumping back into the cushions.
“It’s not exactly practical in a fight—not yet. Takes too much focus. But give me time.”
He smirked and shook his head.
“Right. Remind me never to leave a candle unattended around you.”
“You’d better not leave yourself unattended either,” she said with a smirk, “or I might fold you next.”
They shared a quiet laugh, the candlelight flickering warmly between them.
Lucien’s smile lingered even after the laughter faded.
His gaze drifted down to the table where the misshapen paper triangle sat like a quiet testament to Vaelira’s power.
Slowly, almost absently, he reached over and picked up a blank sheet of his own.
Vaelira glanced at him, one eyebrow arched.
“What are you doing?”
Lucien held the parchment between his fingers, turning it over once before looking up at her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
“I’m going to give it a shot.”
Vaelira blinked.
“Wait, seriously?”
He nodded.
“Yeah. Why not?”
She straightened, curiosity now replacing amusement.
“Alright, then. Go ahead.”
Lucien took in a breath, leaned forward.
***
Author’s Note:
Hello Hello ( ^_^)／
I just want to take a moment to say thank you.
Honestly, when I first started writing this story, I never imagined anyone would actually read it. (TーT)b
I thought maybe I would just be shouting into the void, telling a tale that only I would care about.
But here you are, reading my words, following these characters through their trials and triumphs, and it’s genuinely mind-blowing. o(TヘTo)
Your support means more to me than I can put into words.
Every comment and message has been a small spark, keeping my passion for this story alive. (Ｔ▽Ｔ)
Knowing that people are actually invested in Lucien’s journey is a feeling I never expected, and it’s one I’ll always cherish.
I’m excited to let you know that the academy arc is just around the corner! I can’t wait to dive into these new chapters, full of challenges, discoveries, and growth, and I hope you’ll stick around for it. ヽ(O_O )ﾉ
Thank you for being here, for giving this story a chance, and for letting me share this world with you.
I promise I’ll do my best to make it worth your time. ( •̀ᴗ•́ )و ̑
Keep going, you definitely have something here.
Yayy. Im staying, man. Do your best. Im reading it till the end.