"On guard."
The knight training season had begun once again.
And in all honesty, this intake would most likely produce the finest knights of the current generation. A bold claim, perhaps, but the signs were there—the intensity in the trainees' eyes, the quality of instruction, the sheer desperation radiating from every swing of their blades.
Just in case you've forgotten: each year, knights from the Vatican fan out across the protectorates to harvest fresh blood. They descend upon villages and towns, subject the chosen to brutal trials, and cart off the survivors for proper training. Last year, two knights by the names of Justine and Angel had visited Gil's home village.
This year, a new batch of hopefuls had arrived at Blake's village.
Whether they would prove as cruel and brutal as their predecessors... well. That remained to be seen. But Joy, watching from the edge of the training grounds, had her suspicions.
"I don't understand men and fighting."
Joy voiced her concerns as she and Germain approached the newly constructed training facility. It stood just outside the village proper, reachable via a winding cobblestone path that cut through fields of wild grass and clusters of wildflowers.
The structure itself was... ambitious. Modeled after Roman coliseums, though scaled down to something more intimate. Unfinished pillars rose toward the sky like skeletal fingers, and the roof was conspicuously absent—open to the elements. Blake had insisted this was "by design," though Joy suspected he simply hadn't finished it yet.
"I more so enjoy the architecture," Germain admitted, his crimson eyes sweeping over the incomplete structure with genuine appreciation. "Though that take ages horribly once you realize I know women who are more invested in fighting than most men."
"But don't guys start wars?"
"I suppose." Germain's lips curved into a thoughtful smile. "Though I don't think it has anything to do with gender, truly. Men are more prone to agitation, or so it would appear." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "Women, however, have a tendency to act more on emotion than men. Honestly, I'd like to think that if women were in charge of everything, we'd be going to war more often, not less."
Joy stared at him.
The look was sharp. Focused. Carrying the distinct weight of someone who was this close to taking offense.
"Then again," Germain added smoothly, his survival instincts finally kicking in, "that's just my own opinion. Entirely subjective. Worthless, really."
Smart man.
Joy's expression softened. "Good. Now then—tell me, what type of rocks are those?"
She pointed at the pillars, then pulled out her flip phone—presumably to verify his answer against whatever research she'd prepared.
Germain approached the nearest column, trailing his pale fingers along its weathered surface.
"The Roman Colosseum, which I assume this was based on, was primarily constructed using travertine limestone, tuff—a volcanic rock—and brick-faced concrete." He spoke with the easy confidence of someone reciting a favorite poem. "Approximately one hundred thousand cubic meters of travertine, quarried from Tivoli, were used for the main pillars and exterior walls. Softer tuff was employed for internal structures, and lighter concrete in the upper levels for stability."
He traced a crack in the stone, smiling.
"He even got the weathering and degradation right. That man truly is a genius."
Joy lowered her phone, eyes wide. "You actually got everything right. How do you know this much about... anything?"
"How do you know so much about computers, Joy? It's not as though you need to."
"I just asked you the same thing."
"Interest, I suppose." Germain turned from the pillar, his expression distant. "When war is the only thing your country thinks about, one does tend to acquire... hobbies."
Joy nodded slowly. There were some things beyond her understanding—business affairs, political machinations, the inner workings of a vampire's mind. But perhaps she simply didn't want to think about those things right now.
It had been so long since she'd had to think about war.
She stared at Germain.
Really stared.
There were so many things she couldn't comprehend. 'Why did you change your name?' Gil had asked her earlier, and even she had no answer for that. But of all the mysteries swirling in her mind, one thing she wanted—needed—to understand.
This.
This.
Whatever this was growing between them.
She didn't want it to end.
And for now, temporarily, her wish would be granted. Because nothing was ever that simple. Over the past few days, she'd grown... fond of this foreign man. They had nothing obvious to bond over, yet somehow they always found something.
'I wonder,' she thought, watching him examine another pillar, 'if he feels the same?'
"What's happening in there?" Germain's voice cut through her reverie. He was nodding toward the arena's entrance, curiosity finally overcoming his reluctance to intrude.
"Oh, they're training." Joy blinked, gathering herself. "For the knight exam. It happens every year."
She was mildly surprised he didn't know about this—though she supposed external politics weren't really his domain. Still, she kept that observation to herself.
"I'm not too involved in external politics," Germain confirmed, as if reading her thoughts. "I assumed they picked up new recruits in much more... prestigious locations. That would be the most efficient way to amplify military strength in a short amount of time." He frowned thoughtfully. "If the residents of the recruitment area are already well-trained and in better physical condition, it would lower costs significantly. Unless..."
"Unless?"
"Unless they had no reason to want them as soldiers." His voice dropped slightly. "Unless they wanted them as disposable tools. Or something else entirely."
Joy's brow furrowed. "Disposable tools?"
Germain glanced at her, and something in his expression shifted—a wall sliding into place. "That's probably not true. In the end, I'm speaking nonsense." A too-bright smile. "It's fine."
Joy was left confused by the entire exchange, but Germain had already moved on, stepping through the arena's entrance.
"If you don't mind," he said, his voice carrying that particular edge it got when he was about to do something interesting, "I'd like to test myself."
Joy blinked. "Um... sure. Knock yourself out."
The arena was alive with motion. Trainees in various stages of exhaustion swung double-edged swords at invisible opponents, their movements ranging from clumsy to competent. Silver armor glinted in the afternoon sun. Instructors barked corrections. The air smelled of sweat and steel.
Germain made his way to a series of crates near the edge of the training floor—containers filled with practice blades of every shape and size. He picked one up, tested its weight, frowned.
He picked up another. Same frown.
A third. The frown deepened.
Finally, he approached a young man who had paused his training to catch his breath. The trainee was sweating profusely, his chest heaving, his shadow swordplay having driven him to the very brink of exhaustion.
"Excuse me, kind sir." Germain's voice was polite, almost deferential.
The man straightened, startled. "Yes?"
"Do you have a blade with a thinner profile? Something more... elegant?"
The trainee blinked, then gestured toward the crates. "I mean, probably? I'm sure we can find one."
"Please do." Germain set down the blade he'd been holding, his crimson eyes sweeping across the arena with quiet assessment. "And while you're doing that..."
A pause. A smile—small, sharp, utterly confident.
"...please bring a sparring partner as well."
A CHANCE TO SHOW OFF?
TO BE CONTINUED!