Riven was already annoyed by the sudden shift from intimate banter to battlefield strategy. He felt Vaelorian was testing him, and his pride demanded a quick, decisive answer, even if it wasn't the most calculated one.
"He wants me to think, but I already know the answer. The biggest threat is the one that's going to pin you down and stop you from moving. A sword is just a sword, and an arrow can be dodged, but that net? That ends the fight right there. But I'm not going to give him some long-winded explanation about 'threat isolation' and 'area denial.' I'll give him the Riven answer." Riven leaned back, pushing the frustration of his punishment aside and embracing the confidence of his raw fighting instinct.
"The longsword," Riven stated after pretending to think, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "You eliminate the swordsman first. He's the highest damage, closest threat. If you drop him, you clear the space to deal with the others."
He met Vaelorian's steady gaze, waiting for the praise he knew he deserved for his quick thinking. Vaelorian, however, only gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head.
"Incorrect."
The single word cut Riven like a lash. He bristled. "What? Why? You can't fight effectively with a man swinging a blade three feet from your face! You take out the immediate danger!"
"The immediate danger is what limits your options, love." Vaelorian corrected, his voice calm. "The swordsman forces you to engage in melee, yes, but he doesn't end the fight. You can parry him, you can evade him, you can even use him as a shield."
Vaelorian held up a single finger. "The bowman is the second priority. He has range, but is static and easily concealed. You have time to move."
He held up two fingers. "The highest immediate tactical priority is the net."
Riven frowned. "The net? But it's just a rope."
"It is a weapon of immobilization," Vaelorian stressed, his eyes intense. "Once the net throws you to the ground, the swordsman can finish you, and the archer can pin you. The flanking enemy with the net takes away your greatest asset—your mobility. You must eliminate the flanking threat first to secure your escape route, then you rush the bowman before he can draw another arrow, and finally, you deal with the swordsman who is now left alone and likely panicked."
Vaelorian looked pointedly at Riven. "Your answer, was brave, but it was also reckless. It was a choice born of instinct, not analysis. That is why you are in Eldrin's class. You lead with your strength; a true warrior leads with his mind."
Riven slumped, defeated. Vaelorian was right. He had focused on the flashiest, most direct physical challenge instead of the one that presented the most significant systemic threat. It was a humbling lesson even though he all knew the answer, and it completely ruined the high he'd gotten from their earlier flirtation.
"Alright... I got it," Riven muttered, staring at the remnants of his lunch. "The net first."
Vaelorian offered a slight smile, a softening of his features that made Riven's heart clench. "Good. Now, finish your lunch. You need the energy for tonight. And remember this lesson when Eryndor has you face three opponents at once—think with your head, not your fists."
He rose, going back to his map, neatly placed on his desk. "I have some duties to attend to. Do not be late for your next class. And Riven?" Riven looked up. "I meant what I said. I will let you do whatever you want to me tonight, if you survive Eryndor." The look Vaelorian feels familiar, reassuring Riven that the Prince's disappointment was temporary, but his love for him was permanent.
Riven left the private office, leaving Vaelorian alone with his royal duties and the realization that his punishment was well-deserved. Riven now has a full afternoon of activities before facing Sir Eryndor's hand-to-hand drills and then, finally, Vaelorian.
Riven needed to understand the 'net' problem, but he wasn't going to get the answer by staring at diagrams in a stuffy class room. He needed to talk to someone who spoke his language—the language of practical application.
He found Willow near the armoury, cleaning some training gears.
"Hey," Riven said, coming up behind her.
Willow didn't flinch, like she was already anticipating his approach. She glanced up, a knowing look in her eyes.
"Let me guess. His Highness gave you a pop quiz on battlefield dynamics, and you failed to prioritize the right threat?"
Riven scowled. "How do you do that?"
"You're so predictable, you beautiful idiot. And my strategy class ended twenty minutes ago; I know exactly what Eldrin was covering. So, what did you miss? The archer?"
"The net," Riven muttered, sitting heavily on a nearby bench. "Vaelorian said the freaking flanking net-thrower was the first priority."
Willow nodded slowly, wiping down the polished wood of her staff. "He's absolutely right. And that's exactly the kind of move you, Riven, with your focus on pure combat, would miss. You see the immediate, flashy danger—the sword. Vaelorian sees the systemic danger—the thing that removes your options."
"But it feels wrong," Riven insisted, running a hand through his braided hair. "Why engage the weakest threat first?"
"Because the net makes the stronger threats invincible," Willow explained, setting a staff down and turning to him. "It's not about who you can hit hardest; it's about who removes your ability to fight back. If you take out the flanking net-thrower, you restore your mobility. You give yourself space to move, space to evade the sword, and space to rush the archer. It's a move of self-preservation, not aggression. It's what Vaelorian wants you to learn: Control over impulse."
Control over impulse. That's the core of it, isn't it? His whole life has been him acting purely on impulse. Rush in, hit hard, win. Vaelorian is asking him to rewire his brain. And he's using the things he values—his fighting spirit, his time, even their nights together—to force that change. He's not just his training instructor; he's like a damn architect trying to build a better version of Riven. And Riven is obeying him, damn it.
"Thanks, Willow," Riven said, the frustration easing into grudging acceptance. "That actually helps."
"Good. Now, go be a thoughtful, disciplined warrior for the rest of the afternoon. Don't worry about training with Sir Eryndor later; I hear he's in a surprisingly good mood today." Willow picked up a staff. "I'll see you at dinner."
Riven spent the remainder of the afternoon pushing himself through classes, trying to apply Willow's logic. He didn't just act; he tried to think three steps ahead, imagining the flanking net with every turn.