The morning after the ambush dawned crisp and clear, sunlight filtering through the tall windows of the estate’s private training hall.
Dust motes danced in the beams, illuminating the wide stone floor marked with ancient runes for containing wayward magic.
Weapons and practice dummies lined one wall, while the opposite featured tall mirrors that reflected every movement with unforgiving clarity.
Lucien arrived early, still feeling the lingering ache from the graze on his cheek.
He wore simpler training clothes—dark tunic and loose pants—far more comfortable than last night’s formal attire.
Elara appeared shortly after, her shoulder bandaged but her posture as impeccable as ever.
She carried a faint scent of healing herbs.
“Ready to see if last night was a fluke?” she asked, a challenge in her tone but without the usual bite.
Lucien rolled his shoulders.
“Only one way to find out.”
Please don’t let me embarrass myself.
I went from dodging traffic to dodging assassination attempts.
My gamer instincts better kick in soon or I’m cooked.
They started slow.
Elara demonstrated basic forms, summoning thin threads of shadow that coiled around practice dummies like serpents.
Her control was precise—tightening, loosening, striking vital points with surgical accuracy.
Lucien watched closely, noting how she drew power not just from raw mana but from intent and emotion.
“Your turn,” she said, stepping back.
Lucien focused, calling forth his own shadows.
They responded more readily than before, perhaps strengthened by the desperation of the previous night.
He managed to wrap a dummy in a decent hold, but when he tried to strike, the tendril wavered and dispersed.
Elara circled him.
“Too much force, not enough focus.
Shadows are extensions of will.
Hesitate, and they falter.
Overcommit, and they break.”
She adjusted his stance with light touches—correcting his footing, guiding his hand position.
The contact felt almost sisterly, a far cry from her previous disdain.
They practiced for nearly an hour, the session gradually intensifying.
Elara increased the complexity, creating moving targets with her own shadows that Lucien had to intercept.
One slipped past his guard and tapped his uninjured cheek lightly.
“Dead,” she announced, though her smirk lacked malice.
Lucien groaned.
“Again.”
This is brutal. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
It’s like learning to drive stick shift while the car is on fire.
But I need this.
Can’t rely on plot armor forever.
As they rested briefly, sipping water from a side table, Elara spoke more openly.
“Last night… you could have let those attackers focus on me.
Bought yourself time.
Most in our position would consider it.”
Lucien met her eyes.
“And then what?
I’d be next on the list.
Besides, we’re family.
Messed up as it is.”
Elara was quiet for a long moment.
“Family,” she echoed, tasting the word.
“A useful shield.
Sometimes a cage.”
The subtext lingered—the weight of expectations, the Duchess’s ambitions, the Duke’s cold calculations.
Lucien didn’t push.
Instead, he summoned a small shadow orb and bounced it lightly between his hands.
“Could be both,” he suggested.
“Depends on how we use it.”
They resumed training.
This time, they worked in tandem.
Elara’s precise strikes complemented Lucien’s broader, reinforcing holds.
Their shadows intertwined more naturally, creating combinations that felt surprisingly effective.
A practice dummy was thoroughly dismantled in under a minute.
“Not terrible,” Elara conceded as they caught their breath.
Sweat glistened on her forehead, and she favored her injured shoulder slightly.
“With more practice, we might actually be formidable.”
Lucien grinned tiredly.
“High praise again.
I’m honored.”
Later, during a longer break, they sat on a bench near the windows.
Servants brought light refreshments—fruits, cheese, and cool tea.
Elara picked at a slice of apple, her expression thoughtful.
“The academy will be different,” she said.
Real rivals.
Real stakes.
The prince will be watching.
Others too.”
Lucien nodded.
He knew the story beats: the arrival of the Saintess candidate, shifting alliances, and the slow unraveling of houses that clung too tightly to old ways.
“Then we prepare.
Together.”
Elara glanced at him sideways.
“You keep saying that.
I’m starting to believe you mean it.”
The rest of the morning passed in focused drills—evasion, combined attacks, and basic defense against common affinities.
Lucien’s body protested the exertion, but his mind felt sharper.
Each successful maneuver chipped away at the terror of the ambush, replacing it with cautious confidence.
By midday, the Duke observed from the gallery above for a short while.
He offered no direct praise, but his departure without criticism spoke volumes.
After training, as they walked the corridor toward the main wing, Elara slowed her pace to match his.
“Rest this afternoon.
Tomorrow we review court etiquette again.
Can’t have you charming the prince with delivery boy manners.”
Lucien laughed.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She’s never gonna let me live down whatever vibes I’m giving off.
But I’ll take the teasing over outright hostility.
In the following days, their routine settled into something resembling partnership.
Training sessions grew longer and more intense.
Evenings occasionally involved quiet conversations over tea, piecing together potential threats and strategies.
The bond between them strengthened subtly—built on survival, shared secrets, and the realization that changing their fates might require more than individual effort.
Yet beneath the surface, tension simmered.
Messengers arrived with reports of increased border activity.
Whispers of church inquisitors inquiring about noble houses reached the estate.
The larger world continued turning, drawing them inexorably toward the academy and the conflicts awaiting there.
Lucien lay awake one night, staring at the ceiling.
The graze on his cheek had healed to a faint line—a reminder.