Chapter 9: The Prefect Blade.
“Is this your first sword?”
Vaelira asked, her violet eyes scanning Lucien with a clinical sharpness that made him stand straighter.
He hesitated, then nodded.
“Yeah. First time buying one. First time actually holding one, too… unless you count the decorative ones in the hall.”
Her expression remained unreadable.
“And who is training you?”
Lucien grimaced.
“No one. I’m… self-taught. Sort of. I know practically nothing about swords or swordplay in general.”
There was a pause.
Then a sigh.
Not theatrical, not mocking, just disappointed in a quiet, efficient sort of way.
“Follow me.”
She was already turning away, her long coat swaying behind her like a cape.
Lucien blinked and scrambled after her.
They walked through the main section of the shop, past racks of swords, axes, halberds, even a dusty glaive or two, before reaching a narrower hallway that opened into a back training room.
It was clearly meant for testing weapons before purchase: straw mannequins lined the walls in rows, target dummies leaned against a far corner, and crates were stacked haphazardly near the center, each filled with blades of varying lengths and conditions.
The air smelled of oil, iron, and wood shavings.
It was cold in here, the stone floor uneven and scratched by countless feet and countless strikes.
Vaelira moved to one of the crates and reached in, pulling out a standard arming sword.
She weighed it with one hand and passed it to Lucien.
“Swing.”
Lucien blinked.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” she repeated, arms crossed.
He stepped toward a straw dummy and gave it a solid horizontal swing.
The blade thunked into it with a lopsided, awkward hit that pushed the straw back without cutting cleanly.
Vaelira clicked her tongue.
“Too heavy in the tip for you. You’re compensating by leaning your shoulders. Try again.”
She handed him another, shorter this time.
A messer, perhaps.
Another swing.
This time the blade went too far, overbalanced, nearly taking Lucien with it.
“You lead with your shoulder, not your hips,” she said.
“You’re thinking about hitting the target instead of where your weight is going to land after. Again.”
Another sword.
A longsword, surprisingly heavy in the hilt.
Lucien took a stance, if it could be called that, and slashed down.
“Better,” Vaelira said, circling him like a predator with a clipboard.
“But your off-hand is limp. If this were a two-hander, you’d be eating steel by now.”
The process continued, blade after blade.
She gave short, precise instructions, calling out his footing, his posture, how his grip was too tight or too loose.
Lucien listened, absorbing her words, failing gracefully, getting incrementally better.
The whole time, she barely moved her hands, yet it felt like she was always guiding him, without ever needing to raise her voice.
As Lucien tried a thinner side-sword next, the shopkeeper peeked into the room, arms crossed and a small grin on his face.
“Another first-timer, Lady Vaelira?”
He asked, clearly amused.
Vaelira didn’t look at him.
“Trying.”
“Didn’t expect you back so soon. I swear, if I had a coin for every time you broke one of my practice swords, I would have retired already.”
“You would just use it as an excuse to restock,” she replied dryly, still watching Lucien.
The shopkeeper chuckled and leaned against the doorframe.
“She’s our most brutal customer,” he said to Lucien with mock reverence.
“Knows her steel better than some of the smiths down in the capital. If she says a blade suits you, boy, then trust it. You’ll never hear the end of it otherwise.”
Lucien gave him a shaky thumbs-up between panting breaths and another swing.
“You’re too stiff,” Vaelira said.
“Relax your back. A sword isn’t a club, and you’re not digging a hole.”
He adjusted.
Tried again.
“Better. Still terrible. But better.”
There was no malice in her words.
If anything, there was something… measured.
Like she was keeping score of him, not just as a swordsman, but as a person.
Eventually, she stopped handing him swords.
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she observed the slight shifts in his balance, the way his arm quivered after each hit, the blisters beginning to form.
Then, without a word, she turned and walked out of the training room.
Lucien, confused but compliant, followed.
At the front counter, the shopkeeper had a broadsword laid out, heavy, polished, and very much a blade made for someone who already knew what they were doing.
“He’ll need a saber,” Vaelira said firmly, brushing past it.
The shopkeeper paused, gave her a look, then nodded.
“Yeah, yeah. Beginner’s blade, light draw, good balance.”
He headed into the back again.
“Got just the thing.”
He returned with a simple saber.
No frills, no flourishes.
Just honest steel and a solid grip.
It wasn’t beautiful, but it looked like it belonged in a real fight, not above a fireplace.
Lucien took it in hand.
Gave it a swing.
It felt… right.
He turned to the counter and laid out the silver.
The shopkeeper nodded, took the coin, and handed him the sheath.
As Lucien strapped the saber to his belt, Vaelira stepped back, arms crossed once again, her sharp gaze appraising him from head to toe.
She gave a small nod.
“That will do.”
Lucien opened his mouth to say something, anything, but before he could speak, a soft pattering sound echoed above them.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Then a louder tap-tap-tap against the wooden awning outside.
He looked up.
“Rain?” he muttered.
It began to pour.
And just like that, he found himself standing beside the girl his sister once called the ‘Queen of Thorns,’ with a new sword on his belt, soaked boots, and not the faintest clue what to say next.
The rain came down in earnest now, drumming against the roof in an insistent rhythm, each droplet tapping out a beat of postponement.
The shopkeeper, who had retreated behind the counter to fiddle with something in a kettle, glanced back at them.
“You two might want to stay in till that storm lets up. It’ll pass, but not before soaking anyone who dares challenge it.”
He gave a chuckle, already preparing two mismatched porcelain cups.
“Tea’s on the house. Can’t have Lady Vaelira walking out looking like a drowned cat. Or you either, Sir...?”
“Lucien,” he replied, a bit too quickly.
“Sir Lucien, then.”
Vaelira offered a polite, faint nod.
“Thank you. That’s very kind.”
Lucien followed suit, though his nod was more of a head bob.
“Y-Yeah, thanks.”
The two of them took seats on the stools beside the counter, a touch of awkward silence falling between them as the sound of rain filled the shop.
Steam from the kettle began to rise in lazy coils, and the scent of something herbal began to fill the air.
Lucien glanced sideways at Vaelira, gathering courage like a man stepping off a cliff.
“So, uh… why did you recommend the saber?”
Vaelira turned to him, one eyebrow slightly raised, as though surprised he’d actually asked.
Then she sighed, folded one leg neatly over the other, and launched into a lecture so fluid it felt rehearsed, except it wasn’t.
“You lean too much on your back foot,” she said, tone clinical.
“You don’t commit fully to your strikes. Your follow-through is weak, and you compensate by relying on your arms instead of your core.”
Lucien blinked.
“Oh.”
“A saber is lighter,” she continued.
“It allows for quick cuts, responsive footwork, and encourages proper flow. Your grip, while too tight, is naturally angled more toward a slashing motion than a thrust. If I gave you a broadsword, you would wrench your wrist within a week.”
She accepted the cup of tea the shopkeeper handed her and took a slow sip, her gaze not leaving Lucien.
“There’s also the matter of reach. Your reach isn’t terrible, but your reaction speed is. A saber is forgiving. It allows you to retreat and reposition without punishing your lack of anticipation.”
Lucien blinked again.
“Oh.”
“And,” she added with a slightly heavier breath, “saber fencing allows for a more instinctual learning curve. Once your body understands the blade’s weight and arc, it’ll start correcting your posture. But that only works if you use the right weapon for your form.”
She set her cup down lightly.
“Of course, none of this matters to most nobles,” she went on, voice taking on a dry, almost tired edge.
“They want broadswords. Or claymores. Or sabers with ridiculous golden hilts and etched runes they can’t read. They want a weapon that looks good mounted on the wall. Not one that teaches them anything.”
Lucien leaned in a little.
“So… there’s a stigma?”
“Enormous,” she said flatly.
“Sabers are seen as a ‘commoner’s weapon.’ Fast, practical, and not nearly dramatic enough for noble tastes. Which is idiotic. A sword is a tool. Nothing more. You don’t blame a hammer for not being a wrench.”
She glanced at him again.
“There’s no harm in learning different sword styles as you grow. You should, eventually. But you always start with the one that suits your instincts. Because instinct will save you long before technique will.”
Lucien sat quietly, absorbing all of it.
He sipped the tea, feeling warm and completely out of his depth.
‘Was she this talkative in the game?’
He thought, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
The answer was no.
In the visual novel, Vaelira had been cold, curt, and snarky.
She rarely spoke more than a few lines at a time.
She was the 'tsundere ice queen' trope, complete with a resting death-glare and a caustic tongue.
But the girl beside him now?
She’d just given him a ten-minute breakdown of sword forms, posture issues, and societal bias in weapon culture.
Like a walking, purple-haired encyclopedia with aristocratic poise and the soul of a drill sergeant.
His sister always had said Vaelira was her favorite character.
Not because of how she acted in the game, but because she thought there was more to her under the surface.
That the game had barely scratched the truth.
‘Maybe she was right’, Lucien thought, watching as Vaelira calmly lifted her cup to her lips again, completely unaware of the way she had just shaken his entire worldview without even trying.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
But inside, it felt like something else had started.
Not a storm, but the first drops of something… unexpected.
***
