A film formed. Clear as glass, thin as patience. The first time I'd tried this, it had come out as wobbly cubes that looked like they'd lost an argument. This time I coaxed a disk. Flat. Smooth. Regal, in a tiny, ridiculous way.
"Better," Stacy said quietly. "Now, the trick: weight."
"Ice has weight," I said, but I knew what she meant-the balance of it, the way mass could be cheated with shape and density and will. I sank more mana, slow and steady. The disk grew denser, darkening just a shade as tiny fractures braided into strength.
"Stop there," she said. "Now tilt."
I tilted. The disk held. I felt like a child holding a soap bubble that had agreed to be a coin.
"Your face," Stacy said. "Relax it."
"I refuse," I said, and tried anyway.
We worked like that for a while. Disks to coins to wafers. I made a tiny blade-a paper blade, really-let it sit on my palm, then dismissed it with a thought before it tempted me. We weren't building weapons today. We were learning the alphabet of a language I wanted to speak in poetry later.
By the time we broke for lunch, my head had that fuzzy ache Mana leaves when it's been asked to do tricks, and my hands were pleasantly chilled. I could feel the shape of a future blade sitting somewhere behind my ribs, waiting for the day I could call it out and have it answer like a friend.
Lunch tasted like victory and salt. Stacy talked while she ate-as always-a stream of notes and plans and casually horrifying regimes. I nodded when appropriate, grunted when not, and stored half of what she said in the part of my mind labeled later panic.
She gave me the promised two hours after. I took them. The library was cool and quiet, smelling like dust and old leather and linden polish. I hauled a stack of tomes to a sun-square table near the window and dove in: metallurgy basics; the geometry of a good edge; how tang construction changes balance; the poetry of hilt and guard proportions; a treatise by some long-dead lunatic on the soul of a blade that made more sense than I wanted it to.
Notes formed. Sketches, too-curves that would translate to ice, angles that would let mana sing instead of scream. The hours slid like silk.
I could have stayed there until the moon sat on the windowsill, but I'd made a vow with my own stupid mouth, and beyond that vow was Stacy with a practice blade and a grin. I closed the last book, tucked a few pages of diagrams into dimensional storage, and stood.
Back in the yard, the afternoon sun hammered everything flat. Heat lifted from the stones in visible shivers. The servants had retreated to shade; even the blackbirds had declared a truce with the concept of effort. Stacy was exactly where I knew she'd be: in the center of the yard, blade in hand, smile on, eyes kind.
"Round two," she said.
"Round two," I echoed, and set my feet.
We did not do anything heroic. We did not unlock secret power or birth a legend. We did what we had done all morning: she cut, I blocked; she feinted, I learned. But sometime between the fourth and the fortieth exchange, my body started answering the messages my eyes sent without writing a formal complaint first. My left hand guided more, my right hand asked less, and the sword felt, for three whole breaths, like it had always belonged there.
Stacy noticed. Of course she did. She cut, I turned; she flipped her grip, and I didn't panic; she beamed, and I pretended not to see.
We pushed until evening softened the edges of things and the yard went lavender. When she called it, I was sweat and breath and a little bit of pride.
"Not bad for day one," she said, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make my teeth click.
"Not bad for a gremlin," I said.
"Dual class," she reminded me solemnly. "Vice-Captain/Gremlin."
I snorted, then winced, then laughed at myself for both.
We drifted inside with the dusk. The mansion's lamps blinked awake one by one, gold bells of light pooling on floors and turning corners friendly. Somewhere, Lily and Rebeca argued in hushed voices about grocery lists and "professional boundaries," which, given the pair of them, probably meant something I didn't need to smell again. Somewhere farther, a string instrument found a tune like a ribbon caught in wind.
At the dining hall door, Stacy looked over her shoulder at me. "You did well."
"Don't say that," I said automatically. "It'll go to my head."
"Good," she said. "Let it. You'll need stubborn pride to carry the pain."
"I have stubborn everything," I said. "I'm a rock. You said so."
"I did," she said, and held the door.
Dinner was less ravenous than breakfast and more civilized, if only because my hands were too tired to commit crimes. We ate, we argued about whether apples counted as dessert (they do not), and we made tomorrow's plan in the spaces between bites.
When I finally dragged myself toward my room, the corridors felt like a river I knew. I paused at a window that looked out over the yard. It was slate and shadow now, only the shape of it left. My eyes found the place my back had learned the wall, the lines where my feet had stuttered and then found new paths.
I touched the glass. "Tomorrow," I said to my reflection. "We do it again."
The reflection-black hair threaded with ember-red, fox eyes that made knights run, and a mouth that could bare a canine or joke-didn't argue.
In my room, I washed the sweat and dirt off, prodded the bruises already yellowing, and lay down on sheets that still smelled sun-dried and safe. The pledge hummed a little under my breastbone, not a threat but a promise. Numbers would not define me. Movement would. Choices would.
My arms pulsed-left with the sharp wire-bite of lightning, right with the patient glow of fire-and in between those two curses I felt the cool, clean line of ice, waiting for me to make something sharp and true.
I closed my eyes and slept like I'd been switched off, and if the old choppy memories tried to creep in-buckles, needles, countdowns-I let them find the wall I'd stacked in my mind out of new things: a black blade catching morning, a teacher who laughed while she threatened, a balcony critic with a mug, a yard discovering my feet, and the idea of a blade I hadn't made yet but would.
Tomorrow, I'd run again. I'd block again. I'd count breaths until Ice listened. I'd add pages to the stack on forging, because I wanted to shape not just what I held, but what I was becoming.
And what if Stacy yelled loud enough to rattle the windows?
Fine. Some traditions are worth keeping.
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TheRealSkollie
TheRealSkollie
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Chapter 14: 3 years
It had been three years since the Marquis Draig family adopted me. Three years of grueling schedules, endless drills, and enough sweat to fill a small pond. Honestly, I was still amazed I had survived it all. Stacy's stamina training was brutal-she seemed to think running laps until my legs gave out was some kind of character-building exercise. Her sparring sessions weren't much better; her idea of "light practice" left me crawling to bed like a corpse.
Magic training, on the other hand... that was another story. Stacy wasn't lying when she said she couldn't really help with that. None of the servants knew either. In fact, no one in the entire mansion could teach me how to properly wield my magic. So while my body toughened, my mana control still felt like a toddler with a sword-dangerous and clumsy.
Still, aside from that one glaring hole, everything else in my training went well. My life had settled into a rhythm, though "settled" was a generous word when your daily routine included getting slammed into walls by a woman who thought mercy was a myth.
The biggest event over those years wasn't even about me-it was Rebecca and Lily getting married. To be honest, I wasn't shocked that they got along after Lily's whole "sacrifice" situation, but what did shock me was how fast things moved. One night they were coworkers; the next morning they were engaged. Stacy and I were stunned. They said they had found their soulmates and all that. We didn't question it, just congratulated them, and hoped they wouldn't strangle each other.
Depressing part? They're flirting. Not the normal, cutesy stuff either-oh no. Their banter was about Rebecca "punishing" Lily later that night. And they weren't quiet about it. After a few too many complaints from the servants, we had to soundproof Rebecca's room. Their wedding was two years ago, and if anything, they got worse afterward.
As for me, I got my own maid about a year ago. Her name was Dizzy. A dog demi-human with floppy brown ears, a wagging tail, and green eyes that sparkled with equal parts loyalty and mischief. I hadn't wanted one at first-I liked doing things myself-but with how much training Stacy forced on me, I couldn't keep up. Dizzy had quickly become indispensable. She fussed over me, nagged me about food, and kept my room from turning into a battlefield of dirty clothes. Still, for the record, my tail is way fluffier than hers.
Things went smoothly until about three months ago, when my past decided to crawl back into my head.
Nightmare
I woke to the sound of screaming. At first, I thought it was someone in the mansion, but when I opened my eyes, I wasn't in my room anymore. I was back in a dark, suffocating chamber that smelled of iron and mold.
I stood up, legs heavy as if the floor itself wanted me to stay down. I moved toward the door, heart hammering. But before I could take another step, something grabbed my back.
Turning, I saw her-blond hair matted with blood, blue eyes wide and glassy. My mother. Blood dripped from her forehead and down her mouth, staining her once-soft smile.
"She will abandon you too," she whispered, her voice echoing like a curse. "She will never accept your true self. She will leave you for the dogs... to dissect you again like your-"
She never finished. I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, staring at the shadows in my room. Alone. Again.
The nightmares kept coming after that. Each one worse, each one dragging me further into memories I had tried so hard to bury. My sleeping schedule shattered. Nights were spent staring at the ceiling; mornings were filled with exhaustion. I drowned myself in training, hoping to distract my mind with aching muscles and sore knuckles.
Everyone noticed. I could feel their stares, their whispered worries. But even after three years, I still didn't fully trust anyone with my past. Not enough to open my mouth and tell them the truth.
The only one I even considered telling was Stacy. I had wanted to confide in her before the nightmares began. But she... she had become a mother figure to me, and that was the problem. If she knew the truth about my parents and about me and then abandoned me-like my real mother did-I wasn't sure I would survive it.
Yes, I knew I was overthinking. But fear doesn't care about reason.
A knock broke me from my spiraling thoughts.
"Come in," I called.
The door opened, revealing Dizzy's floppy ears and bright eyes. "Young Miss, Lady Draig requests you at the training grounds in ten minutes."
"Got it." I nodded, forcing myself off the bed.
The halls of the mansion were quiet as I made my way toward the training grounds. Tall windows spilled soft morning light across red carpets, making the place feel warmer than my mood. My footsteps echoed against the marble floor, accompanied by the faint rustle of servants cleaning in the distance.
I thought about my status while I walked. I hadn't mastered all the weapons yet-my swordplay was fine, my axes were decent, but my spear work still felt awkward. Stacy once said I could keep up with her if she limited herself to a level 200 Uncommon-class build. I couldn't beat her, but I could survive an hour. That was... something, I guess.
We had forgotten to use the passive leveling restrainers at the start, which led to Rebecca scolding Stacy for being reckless. Again. Typical.
By the time I finished replaying that memory, I was already at the tall double doors leading to the training grounds. Taking a deep breath, I pushed them open.
Inside, the massive space was empty. No, Rebecca, no servants. Just Stacy, standing in the middle of the field with her katana resting against her shoulder.
"Aah, so you still come when I call." Her tone was light, but her expression betrayed annoyance.
I looked around again, confirming we were alone. "Stacy, what do you want?"
Her annoyance melted into concern. "Let's cut straight to it. I'm tired of you avoiding me. What's going on?"
"It's nothing. I'm fine."
"Bullshit." She snapped, her voice rising. "Don't think I don't notice you sitting on your balcony at night looking like you're ready to jump! If you don't tell me, I'll beat it out of you!" She raised her katana for emphasis, the blade catching the light.
I stiffened. This wasn't her playful shout. This was her angry shout-the one she rarely used. She dropped her weapon with a clatter and stepped forward. "It's been three months since we really talked! Did something happen? Did I upset you? Tell me what I did wrong, and I'll fix it. Just-please." Her voice cracked with desperation.
The sight of her panicking made me panic too.
"No, no, it's not you. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just... having personal problems." I stared at the ground.
"Personal problems? Did you finally start your period?"
"Huh!?" My face went red. "That started a year ago!"
Her eyes widened. "What?! And you didn't tell me?"
"Dizzy helped me! And it's embarrassing to talk about, okay?!" I muttered, covering my face.
"Well, if it's not that, then what is it?" She stepped closer, her worry tightening her voice.
"I just... need time to figure out how to move on."
"Move on? So it's about your past?" she asked softly. "You know, talking helps. If you don't want to talk to me, talk to someone else."
"I don't trust anyone with my past except you... but I'm too scared to tell you."
"Why?" She stopped directly in front of me.
"Because I don't want my new mother to abandon me," I blurted before I could stop myself.
Her eyes widened. "Mother? Did you just call me your mother?"
I froze. Heat rushed to my face. "I-I didn't mean-" I turned to walk away, desperate to escape.
"Wait!" She grabbed my wrist. "Please tell me. Your world is different from ours. Whatever you've done, it won't scare me off. If anything, it might even sound like a joke to me."
Her grip was firm, grounding me. My chest tightened.
"...Fine." I sighed. "Let's go to my room."
