Chapter 110: The Sword, the Sighs, and My Swift Death Tomorrow

Chapter 110: The Sword, the Sighs, and My Swift Death Tomorrow [Lavinia’s POV—Royal Training Grounds, Morning of My Immediate Regret] There are a few moments in life where you realize—with great clarity and zero dignity—that you’ve made a terrible, horrible, deeply regretful mistake. For me, that moment came exactly four seconds into my next sword lesson. "Princess," Ravick said with the utmost seriousness, "this is your sword." He presented it like it was Excalibur. I, meanwhile, stared at it like it was a freshly sharpened murder stick with betrayal written all over it. "Are you sure this isn’t too sharp?" I asked suspiciously, squinting at the gleaming blade. "What if it slips? What if it cuts off someone’s ear? What if that someone is me?!" "It’s a practice sword," Ravick said patiently, although a vein on his temple twitched. "It’s dull. You’re more likely to bonk than bleed." "Oh." I nodded wisely, then held the sword upside down like a bouquet. Ravick stared. "Princess... that’s the wrong way." "It is?" I looked down. "Oh." I flipped it around. Then promptly dropped it. It hit the ground with a solid thunk and nearly took my toe with it. "Ghost," I muttered, hopping backward. Ravick let out a long sigh that sounded like he was already drafting a resignation letter. "Let us begin with stance, then. Feet apart. Bend your knees. Raise your arms. No—bend the elbows, not the wrist—you are not summoning thunder—" "Are you sure?" I grinned, flailing the sword above my head dramatically. "Because I feel very thunder goddess right now." "You look like you’re about to swat a fly the size of a dragon." I pouted. Osric, training a few feet away, snorted loudly and pretended to cough. I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don’t mock me. I’m very dangerous." "Extremely," Ravick said, deadpan. "You’ve almost taken out yourself twice." "Third time’s the charm." "Third time, you’ll sprain your royal spleen." He adjusted my stance again, this time kneeling in front of me with the patience of a monk and the visible exhaustion of a man who regretted all his life choices. "You must treat the sword as an extension of your body," he said solemnly. "You must respect it. Feel it. Become one with it." "I’d rather become one with a croissant," I muttered. "What was that?" "Nothing, Sir Ravick. I live for the blade." I lifted the wooden practice sword again with dramatic flair — like a tiny warrior who’d just sworn vengeance for a fallen pastry. Ravick, ever patient and probably re-evaluating his life choices, exhaled for the ninth time and moved behind me. "All right," he said, gently nudging my elbows into something that resembled alignment. "Let’s try again. First position — high guard. Now move into—" CLACK. My sword smacked his knee again. "Ghosts preserve us," Ravick muttered under his breath. "Your sword is possessed." "It’s spirited," I corrected proudly, holding it like it was Excalibur reborn. "Like its wielder," Osric called out from the side, barely hiding a grin. I squinted at him. "Didn’t you have your own training today?" He shrugged, lounging on a bench like he was born there. "I felt yours might be... educational." Right. Educational. He meant hilarious. I turned back, swinging my sword with every ounce of enthusiasm and precisely zero accuracy. And then... the atmosphere changed. You know that moment in horror novels—where the forest goes silent, birds flee the trees, and a distant bell tolls for someone’s doom? Yeah. That moment. The temperature dropped ten degrees. The breeze stiffened—then stopped altogether. Even the sun looked like it noped out of the sky. Ravick stiffened mid-step. Osric sat up straight like a cat who just saw a ghost. A servant dropped his broom and ran. And me? I felt it. That deeply cursed aura. That very specific brand of imperial doom. And then, with the precision of a thousand nightmares and the drama of a thousand more— He arrived. Papa. The Emperor of Elorian. The Scourge of the Southern Campaign. And, incidentally, my bedtime storyteller. He strode across the training field in flowing obsidian robes trimmed in gold, looking like the final boss in a villain origin story. I blinked. "Papa?" "Why are you here?" I asked, more curious than surprised. (The man did have a flair for dramatic entrances.) "I was informed," he said, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, "that my dearest daughter has taken up the sword." "...But it’s a wooden sword." His eyes glinted—the kind of glint that made ministers sweat and ambassadors question their citizenship—and I knew this broody, overly dramatic man had absolutely abandoned all state matters, probably dumped them on poor Theon’s desk, just to come here and supervise my sword practice like it was a national crisis. "A sword," he said, "is still a sword when wielded by a princess. That makes it dangerous." Oh no. Oh no. Why do I feel a chill around me? Ravick bowed deeply. "Your Majesty... I was guiding the Princess through the basics—" Papa turned to him. Then turned to me. Then back to Ravick. "I shall take over." And the world paused. Cue the floating red letters in my brain: ABORT MISSION. NOW. "Ahaha—Papa, it’s okay! Really! Ravick’s doing great! I’m barely bleeding!" Papa ignored me. He was already unfastening his cape with the same deadly elegance as someone preparing for a duel over land taxes. "Let me see what my daughter has learned and is capable of." "BUT PAPA, I HAVEN’T LEARNED ANYTHING YET," I practically bounced in panic. He didn’t respond. Of course he didn’t. Ravick stepped back like he’d just been handed a cursed artifact. Osric gave me a slow, incredibly unhelpful thumbs-up from the bench. And me? I was now on the training field... With a sword in hand... Facing the actual Emperor...not my papa. No pressure. He didn’t ease me in with a demo or instructions. No. He raised his own sword—long, silver-edged, forged in the fires of war, probably whispering in Latin—and said simply: "Attack." I stared at him. "...Papa, what happened to warm-up drills? Maybe... stretching? Maybe we breathe together first?" "You’ve already warmed up," he said flatly. "By striking your Sir Ravick’s knee twelve times." Fair. Still rude. I swallowed hard. My palms were sweating like I owed them money. But I lifted my wooden sword with all the poise I could muster and lunged. It was dramatic. It was bold. It was... catastrophic. My foot caught the hem of my shirt. I windmilled forward like a paper fan in a storm. Papa side-stepped with the elegance of a ballroom ghost avoiding a peasant’s cough. "Balance," he said dryly. "Try again." I tried. And again. And again. Each attempt ended with me stumbling, gasping, and swinging like an angry duck with vertigo. By now, people were peeking out from behind bushes, trees, and stone pillars like nosy woodland creatures. A small crowd of knights had gathered, watching with the quiet awe of men witnessing either a miracle in progress... or a public disaster with excellent form. "Your footwork is... expressive," he commented, which was not encouraging. "Thank you," I wheezed. "It was not a compliment." Rude. But then—attempt number six. I felt it. A rush. A spark. The blood of warriors. I roared. I spun. I unleashed every ounce of princess fury in a glorious arc of destiny—And— THWACK! My sword flew out of my hands with glorious force and smacked Papa in the leg. The Emperor. Of Elorian. IN. THE. LEG. Silence. Crushing, cosmic silence. Even the wind went, "...DAAAAAAAMN." Osric gasped. Ravick turned as white as parchment. A stable boy dropped to his knees and prayed for deliverance. And me? I stood frozen. Wide-eyed. Small. So very small. "...Oopsie, Papa," I said, flashing the most innocent grin I could muster. "My bad?" Papa looked down. At the leg that had just been assaulted by a weaponized stick. Then looked up. At me. "...Was that an assassination attempt?" He asked slowly, like he genuinely hadn’t decided whether to be amused or offended. "Not unless it worked!" I blurted. "Wait—NO! No! I meant—I would never—" He stepped forward. I backpedaled like a startled goat. "Papa! I love you! I’m your darling daughter! The sunshine of your throne room and...guess life too!" He crouched slowly, picked up the fallen sword, and examined it like it had just declared war. "I shall have it executed," he muttered. "The sword?!" He turned to me, a slow, dangerous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "...Tomorrow," he said, his voice smooth as silk but laced with the kind of menace that made grown men flinch, "we begin footwork. And I shall personally ensure you do it right." The breeze died. Somewhere, a bird gave up mid-flight and fell into a bush. A squirrel peeked out from a tree, saw the emperor’s expression, and noped back into its hole. The knights standing nearby took a collective breath. Osric silently crossed himself. And I? I stood there, tiny wooden sword in hand, soul already halfway packed and ready to flee the empire. Right then and there—I knew. I had made a grave. A royal. A sword-to-the-leg, emperor-was-watching, absolutely-no-refund, no-takebacks mistake. My funeral? Booked. My regrets? Infinite. My survival rate? Unclear.