Chapter 15: What Comes After Training
The sun hung lazily near the edge of the estate, casting warm light over fluttering linens and newly hung laundry.
In the courtyard, a trio of housemaids gathered around a basket full of clothes, the scent of soap still lingering in the air.
"Have you seen Lord Lucien today?" whispered Mira, the youngest of the group, her eyes wide with poorly restrained curiosity.
"He looked like a ghost that forgot how to haunt. Pale as milk and wobbling like a newborn deer!"
"Oh, I saw," said Hana, dramatically fanning herself with a damp washcloth.
"He practically crawled into the manor. And did you catch the state of Lady Vaelira’s laundry?! Completely drenched in sweat!"
"Scandalous!"
Mira gasped, clasping her cheeks.
"They’ve only known each other for a day and are already sharing… such intense exertion."
"I bet it was some private training," Hana added, lowering her voice to a husky whisper.
"The kind they don’t teach in academies, if you catch my drift."
"I heard nobles have all kinds of rituals," Mira whispered, eyes darting.
"Like… shared combat bonding. Or mutual mana attunement while shirtless."
"Shirtless attunement?"
Gasped Hana, visibly excited.
"Is that why they were both so sweaty?"
"They say those kinds of training methods require ‘full spiritual exposure.’”
Mira nodded solemnly, as if reciting scripture.
Before the conversation could devolve into more creative fiction, a fourth maid, Elira, stomped over, arms crossed and expression unimpressed.
"Oh for stars’ sake," Elira said flatly.
"They were just running. In circles. Around the orchard. For an hour. I watched the whole thing."
The air in the courtyard deflated instantly.
"What? Just running?"
Hana blinked.
"That’s it?"
"Yes. Like, actual jogging. Fully clothed. No mysterious rituals. Just sweat, swearing, and the young lord looking like he was about to meet the gods every five minutes."
"But... why would they just run?"
Mira asked, dismayed.
"That’s not romantic at all," Hana added, scowling.
"What does running even do?"
Elira shrugged.
"Beats me. Builds stamina? Or breaks spirits? Honestly, judging from Lord Lucien's face, maybe both."
***
"What does running even do!!!?"
Lucien lay sprawled across his bed like a corpse on a battlefield.
His limbs felt like they were filled with sand, his breath still coming in shallow wheezes despite resting for what felt like an eternity.
He stared blankly at the ceiling, then slowly tilted his head toward the far corner of the room.
"...Death? That you?"
He rasped.
There was, of course, nothing in the corner but a coat rack.
But in his current state of delirium, it had taken on a vaguely skeletal appearance, and Lucien wasn’t ruling anything out anymore.
‘What the hell did all that running accomplish?’
He mentally listed the outcomes of today's "training":
Lungs: on strike.
Legs: detached from the mortal realm.
Vision: still flickering with holy light.
Pride: annihilated.
Soul: possibly halfway to reincarnating again.
Lucien groaned and pulled a pillow over his face.
‘My body in the old world was garbage, but at least that version of me didn’t see angel wings every time he stood up too fast. Gods, even if my legs hurt, I didn’t feel like I was about to transcend…’
The only thing moving was his brain, which now swirled with the realization that whatever came next, swords, aura training, or mana-forging, would probably be ten times worse.
And yet, despite his many complaints, somewhere deep down, beneath the soreness and bruised ego, there was a strange sense of satisfaction.
A spark of something.
Regret?
No.
Fear?
Probably.
Determination?
...Maybe.
Lucien groaned louder and rolled over.
"Stupid noble ladies with perfect legs and cruel smiles," he muttered into his pillow.
"Why do I have to impress that one?"
***
The moonlight filtered gently through the tall, arched windows of the guest chamber.
A soft breeze rustled the curtains, casting shadows that danced quietly across the room’s modest furnishings.
Unlike the opulence she was accustomed to in the Aetherveil estate, the chamber was quaint, rustic, even, but warm.
Lived-in.
Vaelira sat at the desk, a candle flickering beside her as she dipped her pen into ink, the soft scratching of nib on paper breaking the silence.
Her sword lay propped in the corner, untouched since arrival. Her leather tunic now hung on a hook near the bed, replaced by a pale nightgown.
She opened a small, leather-bound book, her diary, and turned to a fresh page.
[The moon tonight is pale.
It reminds me of Lucien’s face after training. I thought for a moment he might collapse and sink into the orchard dirt and become part of it.
Perhaps he nearly did. Still, he managed to keep pace with me longer than I expected. Longer than most.
For someone with such a frail frame, he refuses to give in.
I wonder if coming here was a mistake.
Would they have taken me seriously if I’d refused? Likely not. But I could’ve positioned myself differently, sent a letter instead of arriving in person.
Delegated.
Delayed.
Deceived.
All the usual ways I know how to maneuver people without placing myself directly in their path.
And yet… I didn’t.
I didn’t, because a part of me wanted to be here.
Needed to see it for myself.
The estate is, quaint.
That’s the only word that fits. Its halls are aging and its structure weary, but there is pride here still.
Old bones refusing to give way to rot.
The staff are peculiar.
Loose-tongued. Undisciplined. Endearing.
They gossip like crows around a harvest, though I don’t think they mean harm by it. I’ve seen worse in courts.
The orchards, however…
They are beautiful. Tired, but beautiful. I can see why Lucien wants to save them.
There’s a strange nobility to it all, a crumbling estate dreaming of new roots.
And then there’s Lucien himself.
Weak of body.
That’s a fact, not an insult.
His form is unrefined, his footwork terrible, and his grip on the blade would make any instructor weep. But he did not complain.
Not once.
He asked why, yes, but not to protest.
To understand.
That alone is rare.
I would not blame him if he spent the whole of tomorrow bedridden. I suspect he will. Still, I’m curious if he’ll try to stand anyway.
I feel… disarmed around him.
Not by his words or actions. Just… him.
He has this infuriating calmness that draws the edge out of me. As if I could lower my guard and not fear for what comes after.
That is dangerous.
I’ll need to keep an eye on that. And on him.
He says this venture is foolish. I agree. And yet, I’m here. Perhaps I am more of a fool than I thought.]
She paused, staring at the final sentence.
Her lips twitched, almost smiling.
[I will grant him this, Lucien Crowley may not be a warrior, not yet.
But sometimes, the most dangerous blade isn’t the sharpest. It’s the one that refuses to break.]
She set her pen down, blotting the ink gently before closing the diary.
The moonlight kissed her face as she stood and moved to the window, her eyes drifting out toward the slumbering orchard below.
Somewhere in that worn old house, Lucien was likely cursing her name between groans of pain and muscle cramps.
She chuckled softly to herself.
“…Stubborn idiot,” she muttered, before drawing the curtains closed and retiring for the night.
***
The faint scent of old parchment and cooling ink lingered in the room, blending with the bitterness of the untouched tea on Sir Richardson’s desk.
Stacks of letters lay scattered before him, opened and sorted into two distinct piles, one depressingly taller than the other.
He leaned back in his creaking chair, eyes bloodshot, and rubbed his temples with both hands.
The candlelight flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the weary lines of his face.
“…Six declines today. Two more said they’ll consider… which is a polite way of saying no,” he muttered bitterly.
His gaze landed on the smaller pile, the few that had agreed to offer even limited assistance in the orchard’s revival or expressed vague interest in future trade.
He thumbed through them one by one.
“Blessings of the harvest, they say. And yet not a single coin forward unless they see a miracle first,” he grumbled.
His fingers hovered over a letter from House Delcrosse, once a close ally in better days.
Now reduced to vague formalities and regretful rejections, couched in layers of diplomacy and dismissiveness.
He dropped the letter onto the pile with a soft thunk, running a tired hand through his graying hair.
“This estate once fed three cities. Now we’re treated like beggars with orchard fantasies.”
The silence thickened, pressing around him, until the door suddenly slammed open with the force of a drunken storm.
“Oi, Rich!” Terrin called as he strode in without knocking.
“You got any of those fancy orchard maps in here or did you eat them out of stress again?”
Sir Richardson flinched so hard he nearly tipped his tea over.
“Saints above, Terrin!” he barked, clutching his chest.
“Do you ever knock?!”
“If I knocked every time I needed something, we’d be three decades behind on repairs,” Terrin replied with a shrug, already poking at the letters on the desk. “You look like death’s less charming cousin. What are you stewing in here for?”
Richardson gave him a flat look, then gestured at the twin mountains of correspondence.
“Just reading through the replies to our trade inquiries. Most of them are either polite refusals or thinly veiled insults. We’re bleeding reputation.”
Terrin raised an eyebrow, whistling low.
“Well, not all bad, is it?”
He plucked a sealed letter from the modest “positive” pile, squinting at the wax emblem.
“Hey, this one’s from the Everwind Trade Association. Those fancy coin-counters that handle half the valley’s goods. Did they bite?”
Richardson sighed, nodding slowly.
“They did. Offered to act as primary merchants for the harvests, if and when we have something to sell. Even mentioned a small advance, but…”
He trailed off.
Terrin grinned.
“But nothing. That’s damn good news. Why are you sulking, then?”
“There are… details,” Richardson muttered vaguely.
“Certain terms. Certain risks. Things I’m not at liberty to discuss yet.”
Terrin snorted.
“I’m just a gardener, aye, but I’m not brain-dead. I’ve seen politics rot more fruit than any blight I’ve fought.”
Richardson chuckled under his breath.
They shared a brief, tired laugh.
The first one Richardson had managed all evening.
Terrin stretched, wincing slightly.
“By the way, Lucien’s currently decomposing somewhere in his bed. Poor lad looked like someone buried him and forgot to finish the job. That Vaelira’s got lungs, I’ll give her that.”
“Was he at least upright by the end?”
Richardson asked, amused.
“Oh, no. I think I saw him negotiating with the gods near the orchard fence.”
Richardson leaned back and exhaled a long, slow breath.
“He’ll be sore tomorrow.”
“He’s already sore in five dimensions, I reckon.”
There was a pause, comfortable, this time.
Richardson reached over to the small pot on the side table and held it up.
“Tea?”
Terrin grinned.
“Only if you’ve got enough for me to drown in.”
***
