Chapter 115: The Growl Under the Tree

Chapter 115: The Growl Under the Tree [Lavinia’s POV] Time moves strangely when you’re waiting for someone. It doesn’t gallop like a warhorse. It doesn’t crawl like a snake. It just... stretches. Like an endless ribbon unraveling across the days, until you forget when it started—or whether it ever ends at all. I am ten now. I mean, almost ten. My birthday is a month away. (Thirty-two days, if we’re being dramatic. And I always am.) It’s been over three years since Papa rode out through those iron gates, fire in his eyes, thunder at his heels, and a promise on his lips. "I’ll be back before your tenth birthday." And now, here we are. Thirty-two days to go. No letters. No messages. No sign of him. At first, the letters came like clockwork. Every week. Neatly folded. Wax-sealed. Smelling like iron and sandalwood. His words were sharp and soft in the same breath. Then—three months ago—they just... stopped. No warning. No reason. I don’t know if he’s too busy conquering a continent or if something worse has happened. Now, should I protest when he returns? Throw a tantrum? Launch a diplomatic guilt campaign? Unclear. After Papa left, my brothers moved in to "keep me company," which really means "watch me like I’m a tiny political powder keg wrapped in lace." Brother Soren—currently my official sword trainer (yes, that’s a real title)—took over Ravick’s job of smacking wooden swords out of my hand and saying, "Again." Brother Lysandre, meanwhile, ended up joining Theon with estate ledgers and court finances. Theon literally screamed with joy. "NOW I CAN DATE! AND MARRY! AND TOUCH A TREE!" He’s been skipping around ever since. It’s weird because I think he is really dating. And Grandpa Thalein? He visited once, dramatically sobbing into my shoulder and declaring he wanted to stay forever. But since he’s the Royal Healer of Nivale, he couldn’t. My brothers laughed. Then Grandpa whacked both of them with my wooden sword so hard they limped for two days. Justice. As for me? Hah...I grew taller. Prettier. Louder. I may look exactly like Papa—but I am the female version of that man. The dangerous, elegant, awe-inspiring version. And I cannot believe how gorgeous I am. Seriously. I think I could conquer kingdoms with a hair flip. I spend at least ten minutes a day staring into my full-length mirror in breathless admiration. Long golden curls. Crimson eyes. Lashes like butterfly wings. A blue shimmering gown cinched at the waist like a portrait. Flowers tucked gently behind my left ear. Damn it. I keep falling in love with myself. "You’ve been staring at yourself for more than ten minutes," Brother Soren muttered from the chaise lounge, lazily tossing grapes into his mouth. "Aren’t you tired?" I didn’t even turn. I kept admiring the way my hair caught the sunlight and gave me the halo of an exiled moon princess. I said, very seriously, "Brother." He hummed, chewing. "I think I was a secret fairy goddess in a past life. One who doesn’t recognize her divine power yet." Silence. Soren froze mid-chew. Marshi—who was lounging dramatically by the fireplace, his head now level with the mantel because he had grown and grew divine fangs, thank you very much—also froze. His ear twitched. A long pause. And then— "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA —OH MY GODS, SHE SAID IT—FAIRY—FAIRY GODDESS?!" Brother Soren nearly choked on his grape. He rolled off the lounge in full warrior armor like a dying swan, still wheezing. "IS THIS A CULT NOW? ARE WE WORSHIPPING YOU?" "I would appreciate a shrine," I replied coolly, adjusting a flower pin. "With daily offerings." Marshi let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like a judgmental sneeze. Then he yawned—baring his slightly larger divine fangs—and went back to napping like a celestial rug with opinions. Brother Soren wiped a tear from his eye. "You’re unreal." "I know," I said proudly. "That’s what makes me immortal." Brother Soren stared at me. Deadpan. Expression: unreadable. Like a marble statue sculpted by an artist who had just given up halfway. He didn’t say anything. Not a breath. Not a blink. Just that long, judgmental silence. Then— He stood up. Smoothly. Casually. Dangerously. "Change your clothes," he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. I blinked. "Huh?" "We’re going to train." My soul shriveled. "WHAT?! We just trained an hour ago!" I cried, dramatically clutching the nearest cushion like it might shield me from my fate. He didn’t even look at me. Just turned on his heel and strolled toward the door like some villain from a tragic sword opera. "Since my dearest sister," he said sweetly, "was personally assigned by His Imperial Majesty to duel him upon his return..." He paused at the threshold. Smiled like a man with too much power and not enough hobbies. "...we should practice more." I nearly threw my jeweled slipper at his head. "YOU’RE A MONSTER!" He waved cheerfully. "I am waiting at the training ground, dear sister!" And then he vanished, the smugness trailing behind him like perfume. I collapsed onto the chaise in despair. This man. This menace. This sword-wielding devil-spawn. He’s worse than Ravick. Worse. At least Ravick didn’t smile while torturing me. I turned to Marshi. My last hope. My divine ally. My celestial co-conspirator. "Marshi..." I whispered. The divine tiger opened one glowing crimson eye. He growled softly—low, amused. Like he already knew. I leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "You know what to do." There was a flicker in his gaze. A silent promise. Marshi rose—graceful, majestic, terrifying. He padded toward the doorway, muscles coiled, tail swaying. Then—he bolted. I barely had time to smirk before— THUD! Followed by— "GAHHHHHH!" And then— "WHAT THE—MARSHI?! WHY DID YOU JUMP ON ME?!" I peeked around the corner of my doorway, trying (and failing) not to laugh. Marshi had tackled Soren to the ground. Full divine tiger weight. One paw casually pressing down on his chest like he was a wayward paper scroll. Soren was flat on the marble, his hair slightly mussed, his pride in shambles. Marshi gave the tiniest, sassiest growl. I stepped out and clasped my hands behind my back. "He’s just expressing his opinion about excessive training schedules." Soren groaned. "He almost broke my ribs!" Marshi sneezed in his face. Delicately. I smirked. "Divine retribution." Soren glared at both of us. "You’re raising him wrong." "I’m raising him perfectly." Marshi gave a smug tail flick and strutted back to my side like the fluffy war god he was—graceful, regal, and entirely too pleased with himself. Soren lay on the ground, groaning dramatically. "This is karma. I swear—this is divine punishment for something I did in a past life. I got you as a sister." I smirked. "You’re welcome. The gods clearly thought you were too boring and needed some sparkle." He sat up slowly, glaring at me like I’d personally ended his bloodline. "A sparkle that trained her tiger to assault her elder brother." "Correction," I said primly, flipping my curls over one shoulder. "Marshi acts of his own volition. I would never command a divine beast to jump on my annoying brother during training hour." Marshi yawned. Soren dusted himself off, muttering curses under his breath. I blinked innocently. "So... we’re still training?" He stared. Deadpan. Unimpressed. A man defeated by fate and female drama. "Yes. We. Are." I sighed and slowly turned to Marshi. "Mars—" He raised both hands immediately, eyes gleaming with victory. "Say his name one more time, and I swear I’ll write to your Papa." I froze. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. ...He absolutely would. "You monster," I muttered. "I know," he said, grinning. "Isn’t it wonderful when we’re self-aware?" I groaned, threw my hands in the air, and flipped my hair with maximum princess flair. "Fine. I’m coming. But if I break a nail, I’m starting a royal inquiry." He laughed and started walking again. "You break a nail every other day and scream like the world’s ending." "Because it is, every time," I snapped, marching after him with all the grace of a reluctantly beautiful warrior. Marshi trailed behind us, clearly proud of his performance. Honestly, he looked like he was judging both of us. And maybe... he was. *** [Training Field, Later...] The training field shimmered in the golden afternoon light, blades clinking faintly in the distance, and the scent of warm grass and steel filling the air. I had changed into my training uniform—a fitted white tunic with navy trim, leather boots, and gloves that made me feel like I was halfway to becoming a real swordfighter. Not that I’d admit it out loud. I tied my hair into a high ponytail, strands gleaming like fire, and stepped into position. Soren stood across from me, arms crossed, the sword slung casually over his shoulder like he was born holding one. I held the sword with both hands, the weight of it pulling gently at my wrists. It wasn’t ceremonial. It wasn’t dulled. It was real. It felt cold. Alive. "Now," Soren said, stepping back, "plant your feet. Don’t lock your knees. Breathe from the core. Then—swing with intention. You’re not cutting fabric. You’re cutting fate." "Dramatic much?" I muttered. "I’m your brother," he replied. "It’s in our blood." I exhaled slowly, lifting the blade. My gaze locked onto the training dummy ahead. I tightened my grip, feet firm against the ground, and pulled the blade back, preparing for the arc of the swing— And then— Rrrrrggghhhhh... I froze. That... was not a bird. Not a horse. Not even Soren’s weird grunting during warmups. It was low. Guttural. Wrong. Like thunder trying to crawl out of a throat. My head snapped to the side, and my heart stuttered. "Marshi?" I whispered. He was beneath the old oak tree near the edge of the field, where he always liked to lounge and judge us with lazy divinity. But now? Now he wasn’t lounging. His massive body trembled. Claws dug deep into the dirt, carving furrows into the grass. His ears were flat against his skull, and his mouth hung open in a silent growl—no, a groan. A rumble that shook the earth but wasn’t meant to be heard. His fur—usually pristine—flickered oddly around the edges. Like shadow and light were dancing too close to his skin. I dropped the sword. Soren turned. "What the—" Marshi let out a sharp, pained sound, his back arching unnaturally before collapsing against the roots. He wasn’t moving. "Soren," I breathed. "Something’s... wrong with Marshi." Soren’s eyes narrowed, all traces of playfulness gone. "Stay with him," he said sharply. "I’ll get Lysandre." And then he was gone—racing across the field like the wind had caught his heels, urgency trailing behind him like a cloak. And just like that, the sun felt colder. The air too still. I’d never heard him make that sound before. And I didn’t know if I ever wanted to again.