Estellise had almost reached the door when her master spoke.
“You are training the local boy again.”
It was not a question.
Few things from him were.
Estellise stopped with one hand on the latch.
Morning light fell through the narrow window beside the door, catching the red of her hair and the plain dark cloth she had chosen because it covered the back of her neck properly.
“Yes.”
Her master sat near the hearth with a cup of tea cooling untouched beside him.
He had been reading when she entered the room, or pretending to read.
The page had not turned since she came downstairs.
“Why?”
Estellise considered the question.
Because Deckard had asked.
Because he had nearly died.
Because he learned quickly when he stopped talking.
Because his face changed in interesting ways when corrected.
Because he was terrible at standing, worse at retreating, and somehow proud whenever he failed less than before.
Because the lake had moved for him.
Because he had seen part of the silver mark on her back and had stopped asking when she told him to stop.
None of those answers fit cleanly.
“It is fun,” she said.
Her master’s fingers stilled against the edge of the book.
“Fun.”
“Yes.”
He looked up slowly.
Estellise waited.
“You are teaching a village boy basic movement because it is fun.”
“Yes.”
“Not because he is useful?”
“Not yet.”
“Not because he is dangerous?”
“No.”
“Not because you believe he requires protection?”
Estellise paused.
That answer was less simple.
“He is clumsy.”
“That was not my question.”
“It is related.”
Her master studied her for several silent breaths.
“And what makes this clumsy boy fun?”
Estellise opened the door.
“There is something about him.”
“Estellise.”
She looked back.
“He is cute.”
Then she left.
The door closed behind her.
Inside, the room remained very still.
Her master did not move for several breaths.
The tea cooled further.
The book lay open across his knee, entirely forgotten.
His apprentice, who had once stared at a burning cart without blinking, who had called a broken arm inconvenient, who had never described a flower as pretty or a song as pleasing or a festival as interesting, had just called someone cute.
The word did not belong to her.
Not in that tone.
Not with that face.
Not so casually, as if she had said the sky was cloudy or a blade was dull.
He set the book aside.
“That,” he murmured to the empty room, “is concerning.”
Outside, Estellise walked down the quiet lane and decided she had answered properly.
Deckard was cute.
Not in the way village girls sometimes meant when they whispered about boys carrying lumber or laughing too loudly near the well.
That was not what she meant.
Deckard was cute like a trainee who refused to understand that the floor was not an enemy until the floor defeated him three times.
Cute like a boy who became pleased when told he had improved slightly.
Cute like someone who stared at his own feet after she accused them of arguing with survival, as if he expected them to confess.
It was entertaining.
It was not complicated.
Probably.
Deckard waited near the old side path with unusual discipline.
That alone made Estellise suspicious.
He stood with his weight evenly placed, shoulders loose, knees unlocked, and eyes forward.
Not perfect.
Not even close.
But better than yesterday.
He also looked like someone trying very hard not to think about anything below her shoulders.
That was less subtle.
“You are early,” she said.
“I am prepared.”
“You are usually early and unprepared.”
“I have changed.”
“Since yesterday?”
“Growth can happen quickly.”
“It usually does not.”
“Then I am exceptional.”
She looked him over once.
“You tied your boots correctly.”
He brightened.
“I did.”
“Both of them.”
“That felt worth mentioning?”
“Yesterday, one was loose.”
“Yesterday had complications.”
“Your boots were loose before the complications.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
Progress.
Estellise turned toward the old creek path.
“We train at the lake.”
Deckard fell into step beside her.
“No storage yard?”
“Too many eyes.”
“Still?”
“Yes.”
“I think the village is slowly becoming less terrified of you.”
“No.”
“Less obviously terrified?”
“Perhaps.”
They passed the repaired ward lane and the old arch, where Ren stood watch again.
The sentry glanced at them, looked as if he considered asking whether Elena knew, then seemed to decide that some answers were more dangerous than ignorance.
“Stay where the stones still shine,” he said.
Deckard lifted one hand.
“We will.”
Ren looked at Estellise.
She nodded once.
That satisfied him more than Deckard’s entire sentence.
Deckard noticed.
“That hurts.”
“What does?”
“He believed you more.”
“He should.”
“I was very sincere.”
“You are often sincere while wrong.”
“That also hurts.”
They continued down the path.
The forest accepted them as it had the day before, with silver leaves shifting above and old Angelstone markers gleaming beneath moss.
Deckard was quieter than usual, but not silent.
His attention kept flicking toward Estellise, then away, then back toward the path.
She let it continue until they reached the creek.
Then she said, “You are thinking loudly.”
He nearly tripped.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am walking.”
“While thinking loudly.”
“That is not a real thing.”
“It is when you do it.”
He looked away.
She waited.
Eventually, he sighed.
“I was thinking about yesterday.”
“Which part?”
His ears reddened.
Estellise found that interesting.
“Training,” he said quickly.
“That was not the part.”
“It was one of the parts.”
“Your answer became faster.
That means it is weaker.”
“Do you analyze everything?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“Mostly for others.”
Deckard laughed despite himself.
The sound followed them through the trees.
By the time the forest opened and the Crystal Lake appeared, the awkwardness had thinned, though it had not vanished completely.
The lake lay still beneath the pale cliffs, reflecting sky and silver leaves with impossible clarity.
Estellise looked first at the shore.
The puddle was gone.
The grass where she had slipped was dry.
Of course it was.
Deckard noticed her looking.
“Still suspicious?”
“Yes.”
“Of the lake?”
“Yes.”
He considered the water.
“I still kind of like it.”
“You like strange things.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“It remains true.”
He looked at her.
Then, wisely, looked at the lake instead.
“Training?”
“Stand.”
He stood.
Better.
Not good.
Better.
Estellise circled him once, then twice.
His stance held.
His eyes followed her shoulders rather than her hands.
When she shifted left, his weight adjusted before she spoke.
When she feinted forward, he did not lean to meet the attack.
He waited.
Interesting.
She stepped in.
Deckard retreated.
Too wide.
But not clumsy.
She moved again.
He turned.
Late, but correctly.
She pressed two fingers toward his shoulder.
He slipped aside before she touched him.
Estellise stopped.
Deckard froze.
“What?”
“You moved.”
“That was the instruction.”
“You followed it.”
His face brightened.
Then he tried to suppress it, which made it more obvious.
“I was paying attention.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like praise.”
“It is an observation.”
“Your observations are becoming nicer.”
“No.”
“They are.”
“Continue.”
For the next half hour, Deckard failed less.
That was the best description.
He still moved too much when one step would do.
He still held his breath before retreating.
He still looked personally betrayed whenever she told him he was dead.
But the pattern had changed.
Yesterday, he had tried to remember each correction separately.
Today, his body began connecting them.
Feet.
Weight.
Shoulders.
Distance.
Breath.
Mistake.
Correction.
Again.
He was learning.
And he knew it.
That made him unbearable.
“I think I am improving,” he said.
“You are.”
He blinked.
Then stared.
Estellise realized her mistake too late.
“You said it.”
“Yes.”
“Without slightly.”
“I can add it.”
“No.
Too late.
I heard the first version.”
“Then cherish it quietly.”
“I may need a moment.”
“You do not.”
“I do.”
“No.”
He smiled anyway.
Estellise stepped back and lifted her hand for another demonstration.
Then paused.
Not because of Deckard.
Because of the tree line.
“Come out,” she said.
Deckard turned.
Nothing moved.
Estellise looked toward a thick white-gray tree near the edge of the basin.
“Your shoulders are visible.”
A branch shifted.
Silence.
“Also your left boot.”
More silence.
“And your sword hilt.”
Deckard squinted.
“…Father?”
Garron emerged from behind the tree with the expression of a man who had hoped, against reason, that becoming very still might turn him into bark.
He was too broad for the trunk.
Far too broad.
One shoulder had been visible from the beginning, and the tree was narrow enough that even Deckard could not understand how he had expected success.
Garron brushed a leaf from his sleeve with dignity he had not earned.
“I was not hiding.”
Estellise looked at him.
Deckard looked at him.
The lake looked, probably.
Garron sighed.
“I was observing.”
“From behind a tree,” Deckard said.
“Trees are traditional observing places.”
“You told me not to be clever near sentries.”
“I am not a sentry.”
“That feels convenient.”
Garron’s gaze moved over him.
The humor faded.
Deckard straightened instinctively.
For a moment, only the lake moved, tiny ripples touching the shore and retreating again.
“How long?” Garron asked.
Deckard swallowed.
“A few days.”
“Since the Obscura?”
“After.”
“Because you asked her?”
“Yes.”
Garron looked to Estellise.
“She teaching you to kill?”
“No,” Estellise said.
“Good.”
“Not yet.”
Deckard looked at her.
Garron’s eyebrows rose.
Estellise corrected, “He is not ready.”
“That was not better,” Deckard said.
“It was accurate.”
Garron rubbed a hand over his face.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed once.
Not loudly.
Not happily.
But enough to break the tension.
“Saints preserve me.
I leave you alone for less than a week, and you find the lake.”
Deckard stared.
“You know this place?”
Garron looked over the water.
His expression changed again, but this time not toward anger.
Something older.
Softer.
A memory he had not expected to meet standing awake in daylight.
“Aye,” he said.
“I know it.”
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because when you tell a boy there is a hidden lake, he finds it faster.”
Deckard opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“That is unfairly reasonable.”
“It often is.”
Garron stepped closer to the shore.
The water gave one faint ripple, then stilled.
“Elena and I had our share of adventures here when we were younger.”
Deckard blinked.
“You and Mother?”
“Your mother was not born scolding people beside a cooking hearth.”
“Are you sure?”
“Fair question.”
Deckard looked at the lake with new fascination.
“What kind of adventures?”
Garron coughed into his fist, suddenly very interested in the lake instead of his son.
“Healthy adventures.
Not your corner.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains enough.”
Garron crouched and touched two fingers to an old stone half-hidden in the grass near the shore.
“This place is safer than most.
One of the safest in the crater, maybe.
Old protections linger here.”
Estellise watched him carefully.
“You know what protects it?”
Garron did not answer at once.
“No,” he said finally.
“Not truly.”
That answer mattered.
Estellise filed it away.
Garron stood and faced Deckard.
“I followed you because you have been leaving early, returning dirty, and pretending you were not tired at breakfast.”
Deckard looked betrayed.
“I thought I hid that well.”
“You did not.”
“Mother noticed?”
“Your mother notices weather changing three hills away when it involves you.”
“So yes.”
“Yes.”
Deckard winced.
Garron’s face hardened, but not with anger alone.
“I am disappointed.”
The words landed heavily.
Deckard looked down.
“You were told to stay near the village.”
“We did.”
“You were told not to chase danger.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You found a hidden lake, trained in secret, and lied poorly.”
“That last one was not dangerous.”
“It was to my patience.”
Deckard had no answer.
Garron looked at Estellise.
“You taught him well.”
She seemed almost surprised.
“His basics were poor.”
“They still are,” Deckard muttered.
“Yes,” she said.
Garron almost smiled.
“But they are less poor now,” she added.
Deckard accepted this with the solemn dignity of a man receiving an award.
Garron saw it.
The almost-smile faded.
“That is the problem.”
Deckard looked up.
Garron’s voice lowered.
“You will not stop, will you?”
Deckard knew the expected answer.
He also knew it would be a lie.
“No.”
The lake remained still.
Garron closed his eyes briefly.
“I tried to keep you away from danger by keeping danger unnamed.
That was a mistake.”
Deckard said nothing.
“Your mother will hate this.”
“Probably.”
“She may kill me.”
“Less probably.”
“No.
Probably.”
Estellise tilted her head.
“Should we prepare for that?”
Garron looked at her.
Deckard covered his mouth.
For several seconds, Garron seemed unsure whether to laugh or despair.
Then he pointed toward the path.
“Training continues at the house.”
Deckard stared.
“What?”
“My yard.
Mornings.
No market eyes.
No children hiding behind fences.
No lake.”
Garron turned back toward him.
“You train with her for movement.
You train with me for sword.
No sneaking.
No secret paths without telling us.
No heroics.
No farm tools against monsters.
No improvising unless someone sensible has died first.”
Deckard frowned.
“That last condition seems complicated.”
“It is meant to discourage you.”
“It does.”
“Good.”
Estellise folded her arms.
“Will your training be useful?”
Garron looked at her.
“My training kept me alive.”
“That was not my question.”
Deckard made a quiet sound.
Garron’s eyes narrowed.
“You have opinions.”
“Yes.”
“Good.
Keep them.”
Estellise studied him for a moment, then glanced at Deckard.
“His feet panic before he does.”
Garron nodded as if this confirmed something important.
“They always have.”
Deckard looked between them.
“My feet are not part of this conversation.”
“They are the foundation of this conversation,” Estellise said.
Garron pointed at her.
“That.
Exactly.
If the feet are wrong, the sword is only decoration.”
“Usually dangerous decoration,” Estellise added.
“To himself more than anyone else.”
“Often.”
Deckard’s mouth opened.
Neither of them looked at him.
Garron rubbed his jaw, considering.
“He overcommits?”
“Constantly.”
“Leans forward?”
“When excited.”
“Breathes wrong?”
“When corrected.”
“Complains?”
“Before, during, and after.”
Garron sighed.
“That is my son.”
Deckard looked offended.
“I am right here.”
“Useful,” Estellise said.
Deckard blinked.
“What is useful?”
“His reactions,” Garron said, beginning to understand her meaning.
“Predictable mistakes are easier to beat out of a boy.”
Estellise tilted her head.
“Beat out?”
“Correct,” Garron said.
“Through beating.”
“Through training.”
“That includes beating?”
“Only when he fails to move.”
Estellise considered this with visible seriousness.
“Efficient.”
Deckard’s expression shifted.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if a door had opened in his mind and revealed a room full of terrible implications.
“Wait.”
Garron ignored him.
“We start with footwork.
Then guards.
Then basic cuts.
No flourishes.
No showing off.
No heroic lunges.”
“Heroic lunges are a problem,” Estellise said.
“He has been lunging?”
“At monsters.
At puddles.
At me.”
“At you?”
“To catch me.”
Garron looked at Deckard.
Deckard looked away.
“That had context.
She was falling…”
“It usually does,” Garron said.
Estellise continued, “He reacts quickly when startled.”
“Good.”
“But not correctly.”
“Then we startle him correctly.”
Deckard raised one hand.
“I dislike how naturally that sentence arrived.”
Garron and Estellise both looked at him.
For one terrible moment, their expressions were not the same, but they were aligned.
That was worse.
Much worse.
Deckard lowered his hand.
“So, just so I understand, Father plans to punish me through this supposed training, and you are willing to help him.”
“Correct,” Estellise said.
Garron nodded.
“Wonderfully useful battle training.”
Deckard stared at her.
“This is because of yesterday.”
“No.”
“You threw rocks at me.”
“Pebbles.”
“Into trees.”
“You dodged.”
“That does not answer the question.”
Estellise looked away.
“It seems fun.”
Deckard looked at Garron.
Garron looked entirely too pleased.
“She learns quickly.”
“I am doomed.”
“Not if you learn quickly too,” Garron said.
Deckard looked at the lake, then the trees, then the two people who had somehow become allies against him.
“I feel surrounded.”
“You are,” Estellise said.
Garron started toward the path.
“Home.
Before Elena finds out I let this conversation last long enough to become a plan.”
Deckard followed, muttering under his breath.
Estellise walked beside him.
Behind them, the Crystal Lake lay bright and still beneath the silver trees.
For a moment, just before the path curved out of sight, the water rippled once near the shore.
Not warning.
Not farewell.
Almost approval.