Chapter 108: Sword Lessons and Second Leads

Chapter 108: Sword Lessons and Second Leads [Lavinia’s POV—Royal Throne Hall of Doom (okay fine, just the Throne Room)] "WHAT?!!! SWORD TRAINING?!" I screamed so loudly that a poor guard outside dropped his spear, tripped on his own foot, and nearly fell down the staircase. Standing in front of me like a smug brick wall was Ravick, the kingdom’s most terrifying walking muscle-tank, while Papa lounged elegantly on his oversized throne like the tyrant he absolutely was. And me? I stood there with my hands flailing in the air, dramatically gasping as if someone had just declared bedtime was now 5 p.m. forever. "But WHY do I need to learn sword, Papa?!" I wailed, throwing in the most pathetic puppy eyes my seven-year-old face could summon. "I am a pitiful, fragile, breakable little flower of a child!" Behind Ravick, Theon chuckled. Ravick merely smirked, as this was going to be the most entertaining hour of his day. Traitors. All of them. Papa sighed, long-suffering, folding his hands like he was giving a royal TED Talk. "You’re a princess, Lavinia. And every heir of this empire must know how to wield a sword." I blinked. Then slowly turned to Ravick and dramatically pointed at him with all the enthusiasm of a game show host. "But I HAVE Ravick!" DA-DA-DUN!!! I presented Ravick like I was showing off a prize-winning warhorse crossed with a tank crossed with a terrifying glower. Papa blinked once. Theon actually snorted. "You’re right, Princess," Theon said smoothly, trying to hide his grin. "You do have Ravick. But... let’s say in the future... someone attacks you. What do you do? Wait for Ravick to arrive from the stables? Or..." he leaned in; he was revealing a royal secret, "protect yourself?" I stared. Then slumped like a sack of doomed potatoes. "...I’ll protect myself." I mumbled, dragging the words as if I was being sentenced to peel potatoes for a week. Theon nodded like he’d just won a debate. "Exactly. That’s why, Princess, you must know how to wield a sword. So before the knights and Ravick reach you... you can defend yourself." Ughhhhh. Darn it. When the dry sarcasm man is right, you know you’ve lost the argument. I glanced back at Papa and said, "Alright, I will do it." He just gave a firm, satisfied nod. "Good. From this day forth—Ravick is not just your personal knight. He is now also your official trainer." Great. From "Protector of the Royal Sass Monster" to "Instructor of the Tiny Menace." I turned to Ravick with my most innocent, sparkly-princess smile. "Be good to me, Sir Ravick." Ravick blinked. Then gasped. "Princess! You don’t have to call me sir." "Why not?" I tilted my head. "Because you’re a princess." He said it like, duh, as if royal logic could bend the laws of titles. I frowned thoughtfully. "But... you’re going to be my teacher, right?" Ravick nodded warily. "Then obviously, I should call you sir—like they do in knight school or sword school or terrifying-warrior-academy or wherever you trained to become a giant with muscles." Ravick opened his mouth. Closed it. Blink. Blink. Then—to my utter delight—he blushed. "I... I guess you’re right, Princess." Oho....look at him, blushing. I giggled, delighted. "Are you embarrassed? Are you blushing? Is Sir Ravick actually shy?" Ravick turned away dramatically, like he was about to stare out a window and recite poetry. "I am not shy," he muttered. "I am... honorably flustered." Theon choked on a laugh, and Papa smiled. And then—boom. Ravick switched moods like a lightning strike. "Now..." he said, his voice dropping an octave and his eyes suddenly glinting like a battle-hardened warlord. "Shall we proceed to training, Princess?" Uh-oh. The Mad Dog Knight has logged in. I swallowed, standing up straighter. A well-behaved little soldier who absolutely did not want to die in her first class. "Y-Yeah... sure. Why not." Because how could I forget? Sir Ravick the Blushy becomes Sir Ravick the Merciless the second he smells sword practice in the air. And just like that, I was escorted to the royal training grounds like a lamb to the tactical slaughter. That’s when I spotted him. Osric. In the middle of a duel, the sword glinted in the sunlight as if it was personally blessed by the war gods. He spun, parried, struck—and boom, victory. The training yard exploded in cheers. Even I clapped. "Wow...." Osric looked up, spotted me, and smiled faintly and warmly. One of those sweet, soft, gentlemanly smiles. Then he walked over, wiping sweat from his brow, and bowed with perfect form. "Greetings, Princess." "Osric, you were amazing! Like—whoosh, whoosh, slash, BAM!" I mimicked his moves with invisible sword flourishes. He laughed and blushed. "Well... thank you. I’ve been practicing." His gaze shifted to Ravick, who stood behind me. "Why are you here early today?" Osric asked. I looked at him, deadpan. "Because I’m starting sword training today." Osric blinked at me. Then blinked at Ravick. Then back at me with wide eyes, and now he realized I’d volunteered for a survival mission. "Lavi... You do know Sir Ravick is terrifying with a sword, right?" he whispered conspiratorially. "He’s very... terrifying. I heard he once made a soldier cry just by raising his eyebrow." I nodded solemnly. "I know. That’s why I’m already preparing my will." Osric stifled a laugh. "Well... all the best." "If I survive the next hour, I’ll write you a thank-you scroll." Ravick cleared his throat behind me. "Princess, it’s time." Time... for doom. I gave Osric one last wave, a farewell smile that basically said, "Tell my story when I’m gone." "Bye, Osric. If I don’t come back, avenge me." "Don’t worry," he said, grinning, "I’ll make a statue of you holding a sword upside down." "Perfect. Very accurate." And with that, I turned and followed Ravick, dragging my feet like a tiny prisoner of war in silk shoes. My sword training had officially begun. May the gods help me. *** [Training Ground—Post-Training Pain & Suffering] Exactly two hours later... I was dying. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Literally dying. On the inside. Possibly on the outside too. My bones were staging a mutiny, my arms had turned to overcooked noodles, and my legs were definitely filing for separation. "Ravick..." I gasped, collapsing to the grass like a tragic heroine in the third act of a terrible opera."I can’t. If I do one more push-up, squat, or whatever this demonic ritual is called..." I slowly turned to glare at him, my hair sticking to my sweaty forehead. "...prepare for my funeral." Ravick flinched, visibly alarmed, as if he was already imagining Papa executing him for Princess Overexertion. "Then—then we should stop here, Princess!" he stammered, practically throwing the practice sword away like it burned his fingers. I nodded. Good. As he should. I am royalty. Not a gladiator. I didn’t even respond. I just dragged my half-dead body toward salvation. Salvation, thy name was Marshi. There he was. The fluffiest, laziest, chubbiest divine tiger in the empire, lying under a tree like a giant throw pillow. His tail flicked lazily as he licked it with complete disregard for the trauma I’d just endured. I staggered over, collapsed face-first onto his belly, and let out a dramatic groan. "Marshi..." I mumbled, muffled by fluff, "your master is dead. Sword training has claimed me. There was no warning. No mercy. Just... burpees." Marshi gave a low, sympathetic roar that sounded halfway between "I feel you" and "Can I go back to napping now?" I poked his cheek. "Be a good boy and drag me to my chambers, okay? Or at least nudge me until I roll in the general direction." He blinked. Then, to my absolute delight, the goodest, roundest boy in the kingdom stood up, gently bent his massive head, and let me climb on. With a great flump, I flopped over his back, limbs dangling off like a sack of royal potatoes, and off we went. Down the hallway. Past stunned servants. One of them whispered, "Is the princess... riding the divine beast... like a fainting duchess?" Yes. Yes, I was. I raised one hand weakly and said, "Make way... for the fallen warrior..." *** [Later—Towards The Throne Room] "Hah... That was a great bath," I sighed, floating down the palace corridor. Now, I had no muscle pain, no emotional trauma, and definitely wasn’t almost buried alive by sword training earlier. Marshi walked beside me like my fluffy little knight, and behind us followed Marella and Ravick. "I think our Princess is going to be the best swordfighter in the empire," Marella said sweetly, practically glowing with pride. No. No no. Bad idea. Do NOT say that out loud— "I will make sure she does," Ravick declared, standing straighter than a javelin, eyes gleaming like someone just told him sword-fighting was now a religion and he was the high priest. Oh ghost. She triggered him. She triggered the beast. Sigh...I JUST started training today. And now they were plotting my title as Lavinia the Blade Princess, and I had a strong feeling they were already designing statues of me holding dual swords while lightning struck in the background. Ridiculous. Because the best sword fighter in the empire? It won’t be me or Osric. It’ll be him. The boy readers loved. The prodigy. The hero. The one who’ll poison me to death in future. And just as I was wallowing in that beautiful premonition— WHAMMMMMM!! "Ack!" I collided, full-speed, into a human wall. "Ouch!" "Oh my! Are you alright, Princess?" Marella gasped, already inspecting my elbows as if I was made of glass and drama. I groaned, holding my forehead. "That hurts. I swear I saw stars. Or birds. Or bird-shaped stars." "Are you okay?" came a voice. A boyish voice. Warm, calm... dangerously charming. My eyes flew up— —and there he was. A boy. My age, maybe a little taller. Black hair. Golden eyes that looked like they’d swallowed sunlight and were now judging my clumsiness politely. Ghost. He’s cute.Ghost. He’s so handsome.Ghost. Who left a rare collectible treasure here in the hallway unsupervised? "I—I’m sorry. Did it hurt you?" he asked, blinking at me like a concerned puppy prince. And just like that, I completely forgot the part where I hit him like a rogue coconut. "NOPE!" I chirped, practically saluting. "Didn’t hurt at all! I am pain-proof! I bounce like a pancake!" He smiled, clearly amused but trying not to laugh at my full-body recovery. "That’s... good." He chuckled. "You’re very spirited, Princess Lavinia." Huh? So, he know who I am. Then he gave a polite little bow, hand on his chest like a perfect gentleman. "It’s an honor to meet the Princess of the Elorian Empire. I’m Caelum. Caelum Virell. I’m the adopted son of Marquis Everett." . . . . . . ". . . What...did you just say?" My voice came out in a whisper—half breath, half disbelief. He tilted his head, blinking innocently. "I’m Caelum Virell, Princess. And I’m honored to meet you." ... No. No no no. That name. That name— Caelum Virell. My stomach dropped faster than my grades in math class. The charming boy in front of me wasn’t just anyone. He was him. The second male lead of this novel. The boy every reader pitied. The hero in shadows. The prodigy who smiled with sunshine in his eyes. And the one who would one day... ...betray me. Poison me. Leave my lifeless body lying in the palace garden. So. He finally appeared, huh?