Under the scorching heat of the rising sun, Lyra Kenet maintained her gentle smile. Had a painter passed by, they might have immortalized this moment as a romantic scene between a noble lady and her private guard. However, to anyone familiar with the Kenet bloodline, that smile was a silken snare, ready to strangle.
Elara stood tall in the distance, her small body tensing until she resembled a cracked porcelain statue. She remained utterly silent, her fingers clenched so tightly at her sides that her nails turned white. She felt paralyzed, unable to do anything but watch her sister—a known master predator—begin to ensnare her prey. A heat burned in her chest—not from fire magic, but from a raw refusal to see the "object" of her observation touched by such filthy hands.
Alaric Vane did not move. He gazed at Lyra's face in silence, letting a suffocating stillness envelop them for several seconds that felt like an eternity. Lyra's amber eyes gleamed with confidence, waiting for this youth to fall to his knees, blush in embarrassment, or at least return her advances with a hidden passion. To Lyra, every man was an easily read book, and Alaric was supposed to be no different.
However, what followed was an invisible slap to the pride of a Kenet noble.
Alaric suddenly turned away. Without hesitation, without a single tremor in his shoulders, he raised his crude wooden sword once more.
"Forgive me, My Lady. I do not understand your meaning, and I do not wish to understand," Alaric said in a voice as cold as ice, without so much as a glance back.
Swish!
The sword cleaved the air again with a sharp whistle. Alaric resumed his training as if Lyra were merely a wooden post or a stray gust of wind that happened to stand in his path. He completely ignored her presence, regarding Lyra's existence as no more significant than the dust swirling across the villa's backyard.
From the distance, a sound shattered the silence. It was Elara's laughter.
The young girl laughed hysterically, her voice shrill and intentionally loud so that it echoed to every corner of the field, perhaps even reaching the inner corridors of the villa. She no longer cared for noble etiquette; she wanted the world to know exactly how humiliating Lyra's position was at that moment. Several servants standing behind Elara glanced at one another anxiously, trying their hardest to suppress their smiles. In their hearts, they knew that by tomorrow, Lyra might earn a new insulting nickname among the staff: "The Lady Rejected by a Slave."
Elara finally stopped laughing after several minutes, her chest heaving as she tried to stabilize her ragged breath. She felt exhausted, yet the satisfaction coursing through her veins was far more delicious than any cold tea or luxury snack. She had felt a momentary spark of worry, thinking Alaric might waver under her sister's cheap charms, but the blunt and flat rejection had exceeded her expectations.
With a wide smile of victory, Elara sat back in her lounge chair. She watched Lyra, who was now walking back toward her with stiff steps, tense shoulders, and a face flushed crimson from the burning shame.
"Sister, did you think he was a cheap man like the ones in your favorite bars?" Elara said smugly as Lyra drew near. "Remember who owns that slave? It's Lady Luna! It's impossible for someone like Luna to take a lewd slave as her plaything. You've truly missed your mark this time, Sister."
Lyra did not offer a single word in response. She remained silent, but her sharp, hate-filled eyes continued to pierce Alaric's back as he focused on his training without a hint of guilt.
Is there actually someone who won't fall for my charms? Lyra thought, feeling a heavy blow to an ego that had remained untouched for years. Interesting... truly interesting, she murmured so softly it almost sounded like a snake's hiss.
Usually, whether in luxury bars or noble galas, anyone—man or woman—would bow to her charm. Lyra knew exactly how to use her beauty; she knew when to act cute and when to be provocative. From naive youths to power-hungry old nobles, all eventually fell into her trap. This was the first time she had encountered someone like Alaric—a slave who wouldn't even grant her a second glance after being offered a "game."
However, in the middle of the field, Alaric's internal state was far from calm or "cool."
Alaric wasn't biologically disinterested. He was a normal young man, and Lyra Kenet was an explicitly attractive woman. But the shame and paralyzing fear he felt were far greater than any passion she could offer. I don't want to die just yet, he screamed internally with every swing. He still had a massive responsibility; he had to survive for his siblings at the Grey Cradle Orphanage.
In the world of Oakhaven, a slave who was tempted—or worse, seen responding to the advances of a noble lady—would not end up in a bed, but on the gallows or in an underground torture chamber. If he entertained Lyra's madness, his life would end in seconds once the news reached the ears of the high nobility.
The image from the night before returned to his mind like a nightmare that refused to leave. That accidental kiss. A softness he was never meant to feel. Alaric's face flushed despite his efforts under the sun. He swung his sword faster, harder, trying to cast out the intrusive thoughts and the traumatic memory. He was immensely grateful that, at least for now, Lyra remembered nothing of last night due to the alcohol.
Now I just need to make sure the youngest Lady doesn't open her mouth to anyone, Alaric thought anxiously, his eyes occasionally flickering toward Elara.
Time passed unheeded. Alaric pushed every inflamed muscle fiber until he reached his 15,000th swing of the 5th set. When he finally stopped, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, replaced by the darkness of night illuminated only by a few flickering torches at the edge of the field.
Lyra had disappeared to who-knows-where, likely back to her room to mourn her failure or to a bar to drown her frustration. But Elara... the young girl was still sitting there, as if she had become a permanent fixture of the landscape.
Alaric was truly baffled. What made this young lady so content to watch a man covered in blood, sweat, and dust for an entire day? Was her life so empty that this monotonous training felt like high-class entertainment to her?
Alaric walked toward Elara with heavy, dragging steps. He drove his wooden sword into the ground directly in front of her with a heavy thud, then wiped the sweat from his grimy forehead with the back of his hand. His face looked dark in the torchlight, his eyes weary from extreme exhaustion, yet there was an aura of resolve radiating from his broken form.
Elara was slightly startled when the sword struck near her, but she did not retreat. Instead, she stared at Alaric with an unnatural stillness, as if she had been waiting for this exact moment and knew precisely what the youth wanted to discuss. The silence of the night felt incredibly heavy, setting the stage for a secret negotiation between a desperate slave and his obsessive mistress.