Chapter 4: The Wooden Sword and the "Love Interest" LogicIf the Prince wasn't my type, and the Saintess was a passive-aggressive nightmare, the solution was simple: Mathematics. If I could subtract myself from the equation and add the Saintess to the Prince, I could retire to a quiet estate with Vesperia and a lifetime supply of smuggled espresso.
"It's the perfect plan," I muttered, marching toward the royal training grounds. "He wants someone to protect; she wants to be the center of the universe. It's a match made in trope heaven."
But first, I needed to stop being a "Little Lily." If I was going to escape this palace, I needed to be able to outrun a Duke or, at the very least, climb a fence without fainting.
I stepped onto the training grounds. The air smelled of sweat, oiled leather, and toxic masculinity. Dozens of Knights were sparring, their swords clashing with the sound of ringing bells.
"Attention!" I shouted.
Sir Alistair and a group of elite Knights stopped, turning toward me. When they saw it was me—the girl who had essentially polished Alistair's boot with her forehead yesterday—they didn't salute. They laughed.
"My Lady Liliana!" Alistair beamed, sheathing his sword. "Have you come to bless us with your presence? Careful, the sun is quite assertive today. Shall I fetch a parasol?"
"I want to train," I said, pointing at a rack of practice blades. "Teach me how to swing a sword. I want to be able to defend myself."
The laughter that followed was genuine and incredibly annoying. "A sword?" one Knight wheezed. "My Lady, the hilt alone weighs more than your entire legacy! One swing and your delicate wrists would snap like dry twigs. You are a flower, My Lady. Flowers sit in vases."
Enter: The New ChallengerAs I was mentally drafting a "Plan B" that involved locking the Saintess and the Prince in a room together until they got married out of sheer boredom, a shadow fell over me.
A man approached. He looked to be in his early twenties, and his face... well, his face was a problem. He was devastatingly handsome, with features so refined and elegant they looked like they belonged in a high-society portrait. But his body told a completely different story.
His sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular arms crisscrossed with jagged white scars. His hands weren't the soft, manicured hands of the nobles I'd met so far; they were covered in thick, rough callouses. He looked like an aristocrat who had been put through a literal meat grinder and came out stronger for it.
My eyes sparkled. Novel 101, I thought, staring at him with the intensity of a scholar. Every ridiculously hot character with a mysterious scar and a rugged physique is a potential love interest. It's the law.
He didn't bow. He didn't offer a poetic compliment about my "fragility." Instead, he reached over to a nearby rack, pulled out a weighted wooden practice sword, and held it out to me.
"Swing it," he said. His voice was a low, steady rasp.
"Excuse me?" I blinked, still distracted by the sheer aesthetics of his jawline.
"You said you wanted to train," the man stated, his gaze level and intense. He didn't seem to care that I was the "Ethereal Feather." "Stop thinking about the 'Lily' they want you to be. Hold the grip. Plant your feet. And swing."
The First StrikeI took the sword. It was heavy—realistically heavy—but the espresso from earlier was still singing in my blood. I gripped the hilt, feeling the rough grain of the wood against my palms, and took a breath.
I didn't swing like a "lady." I swung like an eighteen-year-old who was tired of being treated like a glass ornament.
Whoosh.
The wood cut through the air with a sharp whistle. I didn't fall. I didn't stumble.
The handsome man watched me, his eyes tracking the movement with clinical precision. A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the kind of look that usually precedes a 300-page slow-burn romance.
"Not bad," he grunted. "Your center of gravity is higher than it looks. But if you want to marry off a Prince and disappear, you'll need to do better than that."
My jaw dropped. I stepped closer, lowering the sword. "How did you—?"
"I've been standing here for five minutes, Liliana," he said, the "noble" aura around him thickening despite his scarred arms. "You mutter when you're thinking. Now, again. And this time, try not to look at me like I'm a dessert menu. Focus on the blade."
I blushed furiously. Okay, so he was observant and arrogant. Definitely a love interest.