The estate gates groaned open, and the caravan began to move. Wheels crunched over gravel, hooves struck the packed earth in rhythm, and the banners of House Torvares fluttered in the morning wind. Ludger sat atop a small chestnut gelding—sturdy, obedient, and just spirited enough to keep him alert. The leather reins felt stiff in his hands, though not half as stiff as his back under the weight of responsibility.

Beside him rolled the lacquered carriage, polished wood gleaming, gold trim catching the light. Viola leaned out the window almost immediately, hair tied back with a crimson ribbon, her eyes sharp with the restless energy of someone who had been waiting for this stage all her life.

“You look ridiculous on that horse,” she called, smirking. “Like a kid playing knight.”

Ludger adjusted his reins and gave her a flat look. “Better than looking like a princess trapped in a box. How’s the view of the world from inside your rolling cage?”

She huffed. “This isn’t a cage. It’s a symbol.”

“It has cushions,” Ludger said. “Symbols don’t usually come with pillows.”

The younger maid sitting across from Viola stifled a laugh until Viola shot her a glare sharp enough to cut bread. The girl quickly pretended to be fascinated with her lap.

Viola leaned closer to the window, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “You know, I could’ve asked for a horse too. Grandfather said it wasn’t proper. But when I win this tournament, I’ll ride into the next one however I want.”

“When you win?” Ludger echoed.

“Yes.” Viola’s eyes gleamed, her grin fierce. “That’s the plan. Win, bring honor to my family, and make Grandfather proud. You’re here to keep me standing when I push too far, right?”

Ludger’s mouth twitched into the faintest smile. “So I’m your walking bandage kit.”

“Exactly,” she said, beaming as if he’d just agreed to a knighthood. “My personal healer.”

He clicked his tongue and looked ahead, the road stretching long and dust-brown under the sun. “You’re awfully confident for someone who just turned ten. Don’t trip on the way to the stage.”

“Better to trip going forward than stand still,” Viola shot back.

Her words hung between them, bold and unyielding. Ludger’s eyes narrowed as he considered her—reckless, yes, but determined in a way that even he couldn’t dismiss outright.

One week to the capital, he thought. Two weeks of noble circus. Then another week back. If she survives her own pride, maybe I’ll survive mine.

The carriage rattled onward, and Ludger’s horse matched its pace.

The road stretched wide under the sun, dust curling up with every turn of the wheels. Ludger’s horse plodded along at a steady pace beside the carriage, while Viola leaned out of her window, her ribbon snapping like a banner every time the wind caught it.

“Tell me,” she said, chin propped in her hands, “are you planning to spend the whole trip brooding like a little old man? You’ll scare the horses.”

“I thought that was your job,” Ludger replied without missing a beat. “You’ve been talking since the gates, and we’ve barely gone a mile. Even my horse looks like he wants earplugs.”

The chestnut flicked its ears as if agreeing.

The younger maid across from Viola snorted into her sleeve before snapping back to silence under her mistress’s glare. Viola puffed out her cheeks, then leaned further out the window. “At least I’m not riding a pony like some village kid on his first hunt.”

“It’s a gelding,” Ludger corrected, patting the horse’s neck. “Sturdy, reliable, low maintenance. Unlike some people I could mention.”

From behind, a booming laugh broke across the caravan. Harold rode with a massive axe strapped to his back, reins held loose in his calloused hands. “Ha! The boy’s sharper than half the nobles I’ve met already!”

“Don’t encourage him,” Selene snapped from her mount on the opposite flank. Her eyes cut toward Ludger, cool and measuring. “Confidence is one thing. Arrogance gets bones broken. Keep that in mind, Ludger.”

“Noted,” Ludger said evenly. “But if I break, at least I can heal myself. Viola, on the other hand…”

“I won’t break,” Viola shot back instantly, face hot. “I’ll prove it at the competition.”

Aleia’s voice drifted from the rear, playful and light. “And when she does push too far, it’ll be fun to watch you two argue about it.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Cor muttered, his horse pacing along at a careful distance. He looked at Ludger over the rim of his spectacles. “Discipline matters more than pride. Remember that, both of you.”

Arslan, riding up ahead, twisted in the saddle and flashed his trademark grin. “Ah, let them chatter, Cor. Builds character. Besides, it makes the miles go faster.”

“Or slower,” Selene said dryly.

The guards at Viola’s side stayed silent, but Ludger noticed their jaws tight, their eyes flicking between their young charge and her grandfather’s retreating estate in the distance. Even the older maid in the carriage seemed stiff, hands folded neatly, as if the weight of Lord Torvares’s unspoken warning still clung to her shoulders.

Ludger tugged lightly on the reins, settling his horse closer to the window where Viola still leaned. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “One month. That’s how long this whole trip will last. Try not to make me regret bringing extra herbs for healing.”

Her eyes sparked at the challenge. “I’ll make you regret doubting me instead.”

“Promises, promises,” he muttered.

The road stretched on, sun climbing higher, and the caravan rolled forward—one week of dust, banter, and the slow build toward the capital’s stage where children played at war while the world judged their families.

The sun slipped low, spilling long shadows across the road until the world looked dipped in copper. The caravan slowed as the horses began to tire, and the day’s chatter dulled into the quieter rhythm of breathing and hoofbeats.

Selene raised the obvious question first. “We’re losing light. The closest village might be an hour, maybe two. Do we press on, or do we make camp?”

The words hung in the cooling air. Everyone turned—like iron filings to a magnet—toward Arslan.

He sat tall in his saddle, squinting at the horizon, one hand loose on the reins, the other scratching at his jaw. The man had perfected the art of looking like he was considering a grand strategy when in truth he was probably wondering if supper would include ale.

“Village would mean beds and stew,” Harold offered helpfully, “but the horses are dragging. And I’m not carrying the carriage.”

Cor adjusted his spectacles, frowning. “Even if we reached a village, finding rooms for this many at sunset would be difficult. And costly.”

All eyes shifted back to Arslan.

He grinned, flashing teeth as the decision landed. “Then we camp. Less fuss, less coin. Besides, the night air’s good for you. Builds character.”

Predictably, Viola brightened at once. She leaned half out the carriage window, practically glowing in the fading light. “Finally! I’ve been waiting to sleep under the stars. Much better than some stuffy inn.”

“Of course you like the option with more danger,” Ludger muttered from his horse.

“Of course you like the option with less adventure,” she shot back without missing a beat.

Selene ignored both of them and began barking instructions. “We’ll use the grove up ahead. Harold, get firewood. Aleia, scouts on the perimeter. Guards, rotate watch when we settle.” She glanced at the maids. “Keep the girl fed and clean, and don’t complain.”

The older maid nodded briskly. The younger one squeaked but followed.

By the time the caravan pulled into the small grove—a ring of trees bending together like conspirators—the last of the sun had bled from the sky. Horses were unhitched and tied, packs unloaded, and the smell of firewood being split joined the rising chorus of crickets. Sparks soon flared, painting their camp in flickering orange.

Ludger sat by his bag, pulling out his herbs and checking them carefully before tucking them away again. One month gone, he reminded himself. Just one month.

Viola dropped to the grass nearby, stretching like a cat. “This is perfect. Tomorrow we’ll wake to the sunrise, ride out together, and keep going. It’ll be glorious.”

“Or we’ll wake to Harold snoring loud enough to scare the horses,” Ludger said, not looking up.

Harold laughed from across the fire. “Glorious snoring, lad.”

The camp came alive with the small rituals of adventurers—steel being sharpened, fire catching properly, and food beginning to sizzle in pans. And as the shadows grew long and the stars flickered awake above the grove, Ludger realized this was only the first night of many.

The fire burned low, wood cracking and sighing as smoke drifted lazily into the canopy. Most of the camp had settled into rhythm—Harold humming tunelessly as he turned meat on a spit, Aleia sharpening her arrows with steady, practiced strokes, and Cor muttering half a prayer, half a lecture over his notes. Even the guards seemed relaxed, helmets off, sweat cooling on their brows.

That was when Viola bounced to her feet.

She stretched her arms overhead, the crimson ribbon in her hair catching the firelight, and grinned like she had been waiting all day for this moment. “Ludger,” she called across the grove, “let’s spar.”

Ludger looked up from where he sat cross-legged with his notebook. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I haven’t had time to practice properly. Too much training for the competition itself, not enough sparring partners my age. You’ll do it.”

He closed the book with a deliberate snap. “Glad to know I’m so highly ranked in your list of practice dummies.”

Viola rolled her eyes. “Don’t pout. Come on—just a few rounds. Unless you’re scared of getting shown up.”

That earned her a slow, steady look. Ludger rose, dusted himself off, and adjusted his sleeves. “You do remember the last time we sparred, right?”

Her cheeks flushed. “That was years ago.”

“Six months.”

“Details,” she said, waving him off.

Selene’s sharpening paused, and she tilted her head toward them with a faint smirk. “If you two insist on bruising each other, keep it in the clearing. And don’t wake the horses.”

Viola grinned wider. “See? Permission granted.”

Harold chuckled, clearly amused. “This I’ve got to watch. The girl’s got fire, and the boy’s got brains. Let’s see which wins.”

Arslan, sprawled near the fire with his arms behind his head, cracked an eye open. “Try not to break each other before the capital. Your mother will kill me twice if I bring you back in pieces.”

“Noted,” Ludger muttered.

They stepped into the clearing where the moonlight spilled silver across the grass. Viola bounced lightly on her toes, her wooden practice sword in hand, eyes sparkling. Ludger raised his fists, settling into a stance that looked casual but carried coiled readiness.

She lunged first, fast and eager. He sidestepped, let her momentum carry, then jabbed lightly with his fist to tag her shoulder. She spun back, cheeks flushed, grin intact.

“Not bad,” she admitted. “But you’re not going to keep dodging forever.”

“Depends,” Ludger said dryly, circling. “How long before you trip over your own pride?”

A chorus of chuckles drifted from the fire as the camp watched. Viola’s eyes narrowed, and her grip on the sword tightened.

And just like that, the night shifted—two children in the middle of a grove, but every strike and counter was a rehearsal for something much larger.

The clearing snapped alive the moment Viola steadied her stance. Her grip on the practice sword shifted—less childish swing, more tempered cut—and her eyes gleamed with something more than raw determination. Then, with a sharp exhale, she poured mana into the blade.

The wooden sword lit with a pale sheen, edges traced in faint blue light that hummed against the night air.

Every head by the fire lifted. Selene’s sharpening stone stilled. Harold’s grin faltered. Cor’s quill froze mid-note. Even the guards, who had trained themselves to ignore noble antics, straightened instinctively.

Aleia whistled low. “Well, look at that.”

Then, as if pulled by one thought, every gaze slid toward Arslan.

He sat exactly where he’d been, leaning against his pack, one eye half-shut like a man pretending to nap. But the sweat at his temple and the too-casual shrug gave him away.

“Don’t look at me,” he said, grinning with all the guilt of a thief caught red-handed. “Maybe she picked it up on her own.”

Selene’s brow arched. “And maybe pigs sprout wings.”

Viola didn’t wait for the judgment. She grinned, lifted her glowing practice sword, and charged.

Ludger had half a second to brace before she came down on him with a speed that split the air. He brought up his arms, forearm guards locking in place just as her strike landed.

Clang!

The impact rattled his bones. His stance slid back an inch through the dirt.

The second strike followed immediately, sharper, heavier, her grin wild with the thrill of proving herself.

Clang!

His teeth clicked together. The weight wasn’t overwhelming—yet—but it wasn’t the reckless flailing he remembered either. She was hitting with focus now, each strike carrying the raw edge of training honed into purpose.

Clang! Clang!

He gritted his teeth as his arms shook under the rhythm, every block sending a dull ache crawling up to his shoulders. His guards held, but the sheer force left no doubt—Viola had grown.

“Not bad,” he muttered under his breath, sweat already cooling at the back of his neck. “Not bad at all.”

From the fire, Harold slapped his knee. “Hah! She’s swinging like a proper warrior now!”

“Proper,” Aleia echoed slyly, “with a little extra tutoring.”

Again, everyone’s eyes flicked toward Arslan. He raised his hands innocently, though the corner of his grin said everything.

“Favoritism,” Selene said flatly.

“Mentorship,” Arslan corrected. “Big difference.”

Ludger blocked another strike, feet digging trenches into the grass, and thought bitterly, Sure. Mentorship for her. Broken bones for me.

And still Viola pressed on, sweat shining on her forehead, ribbon whipping with each movement.

She was no longer just his reckless half-sister. She was something heavier—sharpened, driven, and still swinging straight for him.

The rhythm of blows hammered on, each strike heavier than the last, until Viola reared back with a gleam in her eye. Mana pooled at the edge of her blade, brighter this time, her stance set for a decisive overhead cut.

“Got you now!” she shouted, and the sword came down with all the reckless force she could muster.

Ludger’s arms moved before thought. He dropped his guard, stepped in, and caught the blade between both palms. The mana crackled across his skin, but he held fast, fingers digging into the rough wood. Viola’s eyes widened as her momentum met immovable resistance.

Then he twisted.

CRACK!

The sound split the grove as cleanly as the sword itself. Splinters scattered, the blade snapping just above the hilt in his hands. Viola stumbled forward, left holding nothing but a jagged stump of wood.

The camp went silent. The fire popped. Even the crickets paused.

“What—!?” Viola’s face turned red as the embers. “You broke my sword!”

Ludger held up the splintered end, expression flat. “Correction. I stopped you from splitting my skull. The sword just didn’t survive the negotiation.”

“You—you can’t just—!” She stomped a boot, cheeks puffed, fists clenched tight around the ruined hilt. “That was mine!”

“Then don’t try to cleave me in half with it,” Ludger replied, brushing splinters from his palms. “You’ve gotten stronger, Viola, but you still don’t know when to stop. Besides, how many times did I do that already?”

Her glare could have burned holes through steel. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable.”

From the fire, Harold’s booming laugh finally broke the tension. “Hah! She’s right, boy—you are insufferable. But Saints above, that was a clean move!”

Selene gave a sharp nod, though her eyes lingered on Ludger’s hands. “Smart, but reckless. You’ll bleed yourself dry if you try that with real steel.”

Arslan stretched, grinning like the proud idiot he was. “What can I say? The boy’s got spirit. Like father, like son.”

Everyone turned toward him again. His grin froze. “...What? Why’s everyone looking at me?”

Aleia smirked. “Because you’re the only fool who’d think breaking your sister’s toy counts as ‘bonding.’”

Viola still fumed, clutching the stump of her sword. “I want a rematch. With a real blade this time.”

Ludger sighed, already feeling the headache settling in. “Fantastic. Can’t wait.”

He tossed the broken half of the weapon aside and sat back near the fire, rolling his sore wrists. Viola stalked after him, muttering darkly under her breath, and the rest of the camp slowly returned to motion—though not without stealing glances at the two of them, as if sizing up a duel that was only just beginning.