The form collapsed before it could finish.
Rayvaris stood at the center of the training ground, feet planted where Sylvaris had placed them.
Again.
Her stance was correct.
Her grip was correct.
Her breathing—measured, restrained—matched every instruction she had been given.
"Begin," Sylvaris said.
Rayvaris moved.
The wooden blade traced the arc she had practiced a thousand times. Her shoulders turned. Her weight shifted. The motion flowed cleanly—
And then collapsed.
The edge wavered. Her footing lagged half a breath behind her intent. The final step landed too late, too shallow.
The form unraveled before it could finish.
Rayvaris lowered the sword, jaw tightening.
"No," Sylvaris said immediately. "Again."
Rayvaris reset.
This time she slowed her body, forcing awareness into every movement. She listened for resistance. For alignment. For the place where effort should disappear and motion should carry itself.
Crescent Bloom, she reminded herself.
Not strength.
Not speed.
Miki.
She moved again.
The blade rose—clean, precise—and for a brief instant, something stirred.
Not warmth.
Not light.
Just—
Nothing.
The emptiness where Miki was supposed to answer.
The motion died in her hands.
Rayvaris exhaled, breath shaking despite her control.
"I don't feel it," she said quietly.
Sylvaris approached, circling her once.
"You're thinking about the form," she said. "Not the flow."
"I am focusing," Rayvaris replied. "On my breath. On balance."
"That's your body," Sylvaris corrected. "Not your Miki."
Rayvaris tightened her grip.
"How am I supposed to feel something that isn't there?"
Sylvaris stopped in front of her.
"You're trying to launch Crescent Bloom," she said, voice even, "without letting Miki gather."
Rayvaris swallowed.
"I don't know where it gathers," she admitted. "I don't know where to listen."
Silence stretched.
The morning air pressed close, heavy with repetition and restraint. A month of running. A month of swinging steel until her arms forgot rest.
And still—
The first form would not settle into her body.
Sylvaris exhaled slowly.
"She's been practicing for a month… and she still can't even perform the first form. I went back on my word just to teach her, and this is the result."
Sylvaris's voice was low, edged with irritation—but not disappointment. Her gaze remained fixed on the girl before her, sharp with expectation rather than contempt.
"Don't be so hard on the child, Sylvaris."
The voice cut through the morning air—deep, calm, and precise. Not raised. Not urgent.
Yet it carried authority all the same.
Sylvaris blinked, momentarily thrown off balance.
"Hard on her…?" She turned sharply. "I'm being hard on her?"
"You mastered the first form in three months."
The words landed without emphasis, delivered as simple fact.
Sylvaris froze.
"What?" Her eyes widened. "Master—?! When did you—"
The man standing a short distance away was not someone who needed introduction.
Elara Nightshade.
A presence rather than a posture. Even without armor, even without motion, he commanded the space around him. Knights who had faced battlefields found themselves uneasy beneath his gaze—not because it was hostile, but because it missed nothing.
"I've been back for a month," Elara said, his eyes calm, observant. "Watching my disciple. Observing your progress."
"A month…?" Sylvaris stared at him. "And you only decide to show up now?"
A faint curve touched Elara's lips—not quite a smile.
"…Are you angry with me?"
Sylvaris straightened immediately. "No."
Too fast.
She averted her eyes. "Why would I be?"
The faint warmth at her ears betrayed her far more than her words.
Elara's gaze drifted aside.
"…Did you report your return to the Queen?" Sylvaris asked, carefully neutral.
"No," he replied easily. "I was occupied."
"With watching," he added, unbothered.
"The Queen is my friend," Elara continued. "She'll understand."
Sylvaris exhaled through her nose. Quiet. Controlled.
"Using friendship as a shield," she muttered. "How convenient."
---
Rayvaris stood where she had been ordered to stand.
Her grip on the wooden sword did not loosen, even as her arms trembled faintly from fatigue. Sweat clung to her palms. Her breathing remained controlled—shallow, measured, practiced.
Her eyes shifted briefly.
Who is that man…?
He stood too close to Sylvaris.
Not as a subordinate.
Not as a visitor.
He spoke to her as if distance did not apply.
They know each other.
The realization settled quietly.
Without alarm.
Without curiosity strong enough to linger.
Rayvaris looked away.
Focus.
She lowered her stance again, feet correcting by instinct rather than confidence.
A month.
A full month of running until her legs burned numb.
Of swinging steel until her shoulders screamed and her fingers went slack.
Of collapsing, being restored, and standing again.
And still—
The first form would not settle into her body.
The movements were there. She knew them.
Every angle.
Every step.
Yet when she moved, something slipped.
Timing.
Balance.
Breath.
This body doesn't understand it.
Her grip tightened.
Forget them.
She raised the blade again.
If she stopped now—
If she looked again—
She would lose the rhythm she had fought to hold.
So she breathed in.
And began the form once more.
---
The sharp clomp of polished boots echoed across the training hall, precise and unhurried.
Rayvaris did not turn immediately.
Head maid Layra stopped several steps away and lowered herself into a formal bow, posture immaculate.
"Your Highness," she said evenly. "A letter has arrived. From the Twelfth Princess, Arwyn Elowen—addressed to Princess Rayvaris."
The air shifted.
Elara's gaze sharpened, the faintest edge of interest cutting through his calm.
"A challenge," he said after a moment. "Most likely a duel."
Sylvaris turned at once. "Ray. Come here."
Rayvaris obeyed, lowering her practice blade and stepping forward.
"Yes, sister?"
Sylvaris accepted the envelope from Layra and held it out, slower now. Careful.
"There's a letter for you."
Rayvaris took it with both hands.
The paper was thin. Expensive. The seal unbroken.
Her eyes moved over the neat, deliberate script.
Who would bother writing to me…?
Her fingers stilled.
"It's… a challenge," she said quietly. "From my twelfth sister."
Sylvaris stared. Then—
"What?" Her voice rose despite herself. "They're trying to eliminate my disciple already? She hasn't even gone through her Coming of Age. Does she even qualify?"
"She does," Elara replied without looking surprised. "Junior challenging senior."
He exhaled, irritation slipping through his composure.
"Blame that ridiculous law, my first King," Elara muttered, rolling his eyes.
"So she's been plotting this for a whole month," Sylvaris said slowly.
"All of it done quietly. Right under the court's nose."
Rayvaris let out a short laugh—thin, forced, almost reflexive.
"…Perfect," she said. "I couldn't have asked for a better partner for training."
Sylvaris turned on her at once.
"Idiot." Her voice snapped sharp. "She isn't challenging you to train. She's challenging you because she's stronger."
Rayvaris stiffened.
"Stronger…?" The word caught. Her breath faltered.
She had barely grasped the first form. Barely held it together.
Sylvaris leaned in, lowering her voice.
"She's been practicing the Lunar Shadow Sword."
Rayvaris froze.
Ah.
That explained it.
No rumors. No presence. No reason for her name to ever reach the lower halls.
Of course.
"Then…" Rayvaris said quietly, the weight settling in her chest,
"I'm going to lose."
The certainty sat heavy. Unavoidable.
She clenched her fists.
"Sister," she said, urgency breaking through her restraint. "Teach me something. Anything. I just have five days."
Sylvaris shook her head once.
"Even my master couldn't change that much in five days," she said flatly.
"Yes. You're going to lose. I can't help you."
Rayvaris turned sharply.
"…Then who is he?" Her gaze snapped toward the man she had barely noticed until now.
"That old man."
Sylvaris smiled faintly.
"Elara?" she said. "That 'old man' is your master's master."
Rayvaris stared.
"What—?!"
Her eyes widened, disbelief flashing across her face.
"So you're the legendary swordsman," she said, voice tight, "and even you don't have a solution?"
Elara chuckled softly.
The sound was quiet. Controlled. It carried through the space without effort.
"There is a way," he said.
"But only if you pass the test."
Sylvaris frowned. "Master… do you truly believe she's qualified?"
Elara did not answer.
Rayvaris hands tightened at her sides, fingers curling until her knuckles ached. Her pulse beat hard in her ears—steady, insistent—refusing to slow.
Whatever this test was, she understood one thing clearly.
It would not be merciful.
Somewhere beyond the training grounds, eyes would already be turning.
Whispers forming. Expectations aligning.
And elsewhere, unseen, plans were continuing their quiet advance.
Her stomach twisted. The sensation was familiar—fear pressing inward, heavy and cold.
But it did not consume her.
Beneath it, something sharper held.
I won't lose.
The thought came without volume. Without defiance.
It settled like a decision already made.
Silence followed.
Not peace—but tension.
The stillness that gathers just before impact.
The path ahead was narrow. Unforgiving.
And everything she believed she understood…
was about to change.
And still, Miki did not answer.