Chapter 7 :The "Pants" Revolution and the Walk of Pain
Waking up was a mistake.
I didn't just feel sore; I felt like I had been disassembled by a team of angry mechanics and put back together without any oil. Every time I tried to twitch a finger, my muscles screamed in a dialect I didn't even know they spoke.
"Mina," I croaked, staring at the canopy of my bed. "Cancel the day. Cancel the year. Tell the Prince I've been struck by a very specific, very elegant 'Lethargy of the Soul.' Tell him I need forty days of silence and a continuous supply of chocolate."
"Oh, My Lady!" Mina cried, rushing to my side with a damp cloth. "You look truly haggard! I shall inform His Highness at once that your fragile heart has been overtaxed by the mere thought of the Spring Gala."
That was the plan. I was going to rot in this bed like a pampered vegetable. But then, Mina held out a small, crumpled piece of parchment.
"This was left at the servant's entrance by a man with... very frightening eyes," she whispered.
I opened it with trembling hands.
Don't skip. If you're not on the field by the second bell, find another way to handle your Saintess problem. I don't train quitters.
— K.
The audacity. The sheer, Novel 101 male-lead arrogance! My eyes snapped open. If I quit now, I'd be stuck being a "Lily" forever, waiting for Cassian to carry me to the bathroom.
"Mina," I hissed, sitting up with a groan that sounded like a rusty door hinge. "Change of plans. I need to get to the training grounds. But I am not going in that lace-covered cage they call a dress."
"But My Lady!" Mina shrieked as I gestured to my favorite morning gown. "What are you doing with those shears?!"
"I'm innovating, Mina! It's called fashion-forward survivalism!"
Under my frantic direction—and many muffled sobs from the maids—we committed high treason against the royal dressmaker. We ripped out the petticoats. We sliced the heavy skirts down the middle. With some aggressive pinning and a lot of frantic sewing, Mina managed to turn the bottom half of the gown into a pair of voluminous, flowy trousers.
Tucked into a tight corset-vest, it looked... actually, it looked incredible. It was a "Villainess-lite" look. It was functional. It had pockets.
"I look like I'm about to start a revolution," I muttered, looking in the mirror. My face was pale and my arms were shaking, but I looked like someone who could at least attempt to kick something.
The walk to the training grounds was a journey of a thousand deaths. Every step felt like someone was poking my quads with a hot iron. I had to stop three times to "admire the statues," which was really just me leaning against cold marble and praying for a quick end.
When I finally reached the dirt of the arena, the "Iron Instructor"—K—was already there. He was leaning against the same post, looking as if he hadn't moved since yesterday.
He looked at my face, which was probably a lovely shade of greenish-grey, and then his eyes traveled down to my modified dress-pants. One of his eyebrows shot up.
"You cut up a royal gown," he noted, his voice flat but carrying a hint of dark amusement.
"It was an... aerodynamic choice," I wheezed, clutching my side. "Now... give me... the wooden stick. Before I lose the ability to stand."
The Knights, who were in the middle of a drill, stopped and stared. Sir Alistair actually dropped his shield.
"Pants?" he whispered, his voice trembling with religious awe. "The Lady Liliana has... she has divided her skirts! Is this a sign? Is the world ending? Or is she simply so holy that she no longer requires the protection of a hemline?"
"She looks like a warrior goddess!" another knight cried, falling to his knees. "The 'Ethereal Feather' has grown talons!"
"Ignore them," K said, stepping toward me. He didn't offer a hand to steady me, even though I was swaying like a leaf in a hurricane. Instead, he tossed me the wooden sword.
I caught it, but the impact sent a jolt of pain through my shoulders that made me see the Saintess's face in the bright white light of the sun.
"You're in pain," K said, stepping into my personal space. "Good. Pain means you're finally feeling something other than the Prince's fluff. Now, stance. If you can move in those pants, show me."
I gritted my teeth, planted my aching feet, and raised the wood. "I'm going to make you... eat this sword," I whispered.
"That's the spirit," he smirked. "Novel 101, Liliana: The more you hate the trainer, the faster you learn."