I never wanted to be taught by a stranger. Not because I was afraid of lessons—I'd been reading books thicker than most people's arms since before I was even properly weaned—but because of what I'd heard whispered between the maids when they thought I wasn't listening.
Some tutors, especially the ones brought in from outside noble families, didn't care about the child. They only cared about the position. About status. About being able to say they taught someone "important." And if that child didn't fit into the image they wanted—if he was too quiet, too strange, too hard to understand—then it didn't matter how bright he was. They would try to replace him. Or shape him into something small and obedient, like a coin pressed into a mold.
I didn't want that. I didn't want to be scolded for writing with my left hand, or told to sit up straighter every time I got tired. I didn't want my quietness mistaken for defiance, or my softness mistaken for failure. I didn't want to be another strange little prince some bitter woman with perfume-thick words would talk about over wine.
I'd read the stories. I'd heard the maids giggle about them. "Lady Hensworth nearly pushed her stepson down the marble stairs again. All because the Duke's attention shifted to the child's health." Or—"Countess So-and-So sent her husband's firstborn away because she didn't want competition for her own baby's title."
The women in books—those sharp-laced noblewomen with glass eyes and polished claws—were always clever. Always ambitious. And always cruel to the ones too young to defend themselves. I wasn't afraid of learning. I was afraid of the people who would be paid to teach me.
I've been thinking about it for a while. Not because I wanted to be like the princes in stories, the ones who always know what to say or walk like they own every room. But because… I didn't want to make a fool of myself. Not in front of strangers. Not in front of family.
Not if someday I'd have to stand beside Caelum in a room full of nobles. I didn't want to be laughed at. Or worse—pitied. So after sword training one morning, while I was wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve and Felix was checking my form again, I told Caelum.
"I want to start classes."
He was walking past with a parchment in his hand, probably headed to his study. But he stopped, blinked at me once, and tilted his head. "Classes?"
I nodded. "Etiquette. History. Stuff I'm supposed to know."
His lips parted like he was going to ask me why—but he didn't. He folded the parchment instead and crouched down in front of me. "Are you sure?" he asked softly. "You don't have to rush into it. You've only been here a short time. There's no pressure."
I shook my head. "I'm not doing it because I think I should. I just… I want to. I want to be ready. I don't want to depend on someone who might… not want to teach me properly."
He looked at me carefully, his gold eyes warm but serious now. "Did someone say something to you?"
"No." I looked away. "But I heard stories. From the servants. About tutors. About women who smile at children's faces while trying to send them away. Especially ones who… aren't their own."
Something flashed through his gaze then. Not anger. Not surprise. Something like protectiveness. He placed his hand gently on my head. "You're not wrong to be cautious." Then he smiled. "But you don't have to worry. Serenya offered to be your first teacher."
I blinked. "Really?"
He nodded. "She said she'd love to teach you—if you were ever ready."
A slow warmth built in my chest. "You're not going to hire anyone else?"
"No one without your permission," he said. "And no one you don't feel safe with."
I stepped forward. And hugged him. Without thinking. Without hesitation. Just a small pair of arms wrapping around his waist, my cheek pressed to the silk of his tunic. He froze for a moment, then melted into it—his hand resting lightly between my shoulder blades. I didn't say thank you. But he heard it anyway.
I didn't start lessons right away. They agreed to begin in the first week of Emberdawn, the third month of Spring. That gave me almost four weeks. Four weeks to focus on what I already loved. What I already felt burning in my limbs. Swordsmanship.
Felix said I was improving. He told me this while I stood with my practice blade at my side, sweat dripping from my chin, breath coming fast from the fifth set of forms we ran that morning. "You're lighter on your feet," he said. "More balanced."
I wiped my face and looked at the blade again. "I think I get it now."
"Get what?"
"Why people say swordsmanship is like dancing."
He raised an eyebrow.
"It's not about power," I said. "It's not even about speed. It's about how your whole body moves. You have to… let it flow."
Felix grinned. "I've taught grown men who didn't understand that until they broke their ankle falling on the wrong step." He crouched beside me. "Each strike should tell a story. Each step should carry rhythm."
"It's like music," I whispered.
"Exactly."
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual. I had dreamt of fire. Not burning. Just… flames moving like dancers, leaping and spinning, changing shape with every pulse. I had dreamt of holding my wooden sword and seeing it glow, not with magic, but with purpose.
When I reached the training field, Felix was already there. He handed me a longer blade today—not the same training stick I started with. This one had weight. Balance. I took it. Bowed. And moved.
The first few swings were awkward again. Different blade, different length, different pressure. But once my feet adjusted, my arms followed. I let my weight sink into the soles of my boots and let my hips guide the twist. I imagined the wind. The fire. The way water flows down stone.
And I moved like it. Felix didn't stop me. He just watched. After ten minutes, he finally spoke. "You've passed the beginner level."
I froze.
He smiled. "You're ready to learn real forms now."
Back in my room, after changing from my sweat-soaked tunic and drinking two cups of water, I sat on my bed and thought about everything that had happened since I arrived. It hadn't even been that long. But I felt… different.
I still liked the quiet. I still avoided large groups. I still didn't speak more than I needed to. But my body no longer tensed at the sound of footsteps behind me. My breath didn't hitch when someone reached out to touch my shoulder. I still flinched sometimes. But not always. Caelum made sure of that. The knights made sure of that. Felix. Serenya. Lloyd. Ruby. Lisa. Gabel. Tilly. Lillian. They made sure of that.
Later, I found myself near the stables again. Dean let me feed the mares and brush their manes. I didn't talk much, but I liked the silence between us. It was a peaceful one. The horses liked it, too. One of them—Whisper—was particularly fond of me. She had pale fur and darker ears, and she always turned her head when I entered, as if listening to a sound only she could hear.
Dean told me she was born during a lightning storm. That's why she liked quiet people. "Too much noise scares her," he said. "But you… you're like mist." I wasn't sure if that was good. But I liked it anyway.
That evening, I ate dinner with Caelum as usual. We talked about my sword form. He asked if I wanted to start reading more military history. I told him yes. I didn't eat dessert, but I did take another bite of warm bread. He didn't comment.
When I told him I was excited to start lessons with Serenya, he smiled and said, "She'll be gentle." That was all I needed. In bed that night, I looked at my flower crown from Bloomhallow. Still pressed under the glass frame Gabel made me. I traced the edge of the frame with my fingers and whispered—"One step at a time." And the wind outside felt like it agreed.