The next day, well past breakfast, Rivelius made his way to the training yard.
The guards spotted him before he’d fully crossed the field, Reyna’s voice cutting through the drills a half-second later. "Lord Kane!" A dozen men snapped to attention, mid-motion, weapons lowering in unison.
"Carry on," he said, and they did, though not without a few lingering glances his way.
Reyna crossed to meet him, falling into step at a respectful distance. "Anything you need, my lord?"
"The treasury. I want the total currently in it." A beat. "I want to know exactly what to expect each month going forward."
"I’ll have the full figure for you by nightfall."
He nodded, and let his attention drift back to the yard; the same dozen men, running the same drills, in the same absurdly oversized space.
At the edge of his vision, the marker flickered.
[Warden: Active.]
Before the thought had even fully formed, the marker shifted, unfolding into the familiar shape of his Status Sheet, as though Warden had already known exactly where his mind had gone.
[Status Sheet — Rivelius Kane]
World Limit: 10,000
Strength (STR): 911
Agility (AGI): 792
Speed (SPD): 2,438
Vitality (VIT): 401
Intelligence (INT): 9,789
Charisma (CHA): ??? (value exceeds display parameters)
Reputation (REP): 12
Bloodline Awakening: 3% — Dormant
[Marital Instinct — Lv. 2]
EXP: 395/500 to Lv. 3
He looked at it for a moment. Then at Reyna.
"I want to train."
Reyna blinked, something unguarded slipping through. "...My lord?"
"Train," he repeated. "Spar. Whatever word you prefer."
She recovered fast, professional composure sliding back into place, though something in her expression suggested she was still recalculating. "Of course. Let me find you someone appropriately—"
"Who is the strongest among you?"
Silence answered him first — a beat too long, guards exchanging glances rather than answers — before a handful of them, almost in unison, turned to look at Reyna.
Rivelius followed their gaze.
"You," he said. Not quite a question.
"I hold that distinction, yes, my lord," Reyna said, polite, even, giving nothing away.
He turned to the nearest guard. "Your sword."
The man hesitated — a full second of visible disbelief, as though waiting for confirmation this wasn’t some kind of test — before unsheathing it and tossing it across the distance between them.
Rivelius caught it out of the air without looking, the motion so natural it barely registered as effort, and turned it once through his grip, the blade rolling smoothly across his knuckles before settling.
He faced Reyna. "Draw yours."
"My lord, I’d advise against—"
"Draw it."
"With respect, sparring the head of House Kane’s heir isn’t something I’m inclined to—"
"Perhaps you misunderstood." His voice didn’t rise. It never needed to. "I wasn’t asking. It’s an order."
Reyna exhaled, slow, and reached for the hilt at her hip.
"Yes, my lord."
The steel came free with a clean, deliberate sound, and the entire yard went silent around them; drills forgotten, every guard present turning to watch, none of them entirely sure what they were about to see.
Rivelius waited.
She didn’t move first. She didn’t so much as shift her stance into anything aggressive. She simply held steady, sword raised but passive, watching him with the patient stillness of someone who had clearly decided the first move wasn’t going to be hers.
He understood the wait for exactly what it was. She wasn’t going to strike her own lord first, orders or no orders. Not without being given a reason that made refusal impossible.
Fine, he thought. He’d force her hand instead.
Ordinarily, he never moved first. A conqueror didn’t need to; the first strike belonged to men who still had something to prove. But there was no forcing a reluctant blade otherwise, and standing here waiting for a fight that would never come on her terms would tell him nothing about his current strength.
He closed the distance and struck.
She dodged. Easily. With an ease that read less like reaction and more like boredom, sidestepping a strike that would have ended most fights before it began. He struck again, faster, and she was already gone from where the blade landed.
As he struck, again and again, he read her; the same way he’d once read enemy formations mid-battle. She wasn’t scrambling or reacting late. She was simply elsewhere, a half-step ahead of wherever he aimed, every single time. Twice as fast as him, easily. Possibly more. If she’d meant to counter instead of dodge, this would already be over.
He adjusted. Baited a strike toward her left, committed to it just long enough to read as real, then reversed direction mid-swing, forcing her hand instead of chasing her feet.
This time, she blocked.
Steel met steel and held for exactly half a second, before the sheer force behind it sent him skidding back several feet across the packed dirt, boots dragging twin furrows behind him before he came to a stop.
He looked down. His hands were shaking, faint but unmistakable, the grip on his borrowed sword trembling in a way it hadn’t in longer than he could remember.
The yard had gone dead silent
Reyna took a single step toward him, then stopped, reading the shake for exactly what it was rather than crowding him over it. "My lord. Are you all right?"
"I’m fine," he said, flat, though the sword in his hand suggested otherwise for another second or two before the trembling finally settled.
Behind her, a few of the guards exchanged glances; quiet, careful, the particular look of men quietly revising an expectation none of them had voiced aloud. No one had believed Lord Rivelius Kane would spar at all, let alone hold a blade properly enough to force their captain into an actual block. Whatever they’d expected walking into this, it hadn’t been that.
Rivelius, still catching his breath, filed away what his instincts had already told him mid-fight: whatever Reyna actually was, she was dangerous. Genuinely, seriously dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with rank or title. He didn’t yet have the numbers to prove it. He didn’t need them. He only knew, with growing and uncomfortable clarity, exactly how far he still had to climb.
He finally looked at her. "How old are you?"
Reyna paused — a beat too long for a question that simple — and glanced, briefly, at the guards still watching from a careful distance before answering, quieter than her usual clipped delivery.
"Twenty-seven, my lord."
"Hm." He said nothing else, filing it away the same way he filed everything else worth remembering.
At the edge of his vision, the marker flickered; not the full status sheet this time, just the one line that mattered.
[Marital Instinct — Lv. 2. EXP: 395/500 to Lv. 3.]
As if Warden was reminding him of exactly where he’d have to go to change that number, and had no intention of letting him forget it.
He handed the borrowed sword back to its owner, nodded once to Reyna, and left the yard without another word.