I stood in the estate's courtyard, the morning air still crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of dew and earth. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, its golden light creeping across the stone walls of the Vermillion estate like hesitant fingers. My usual attire, the finely tailored clothes that accentuated my appearance, had been replaced with simpler, more functional garments. They felt foreign against my skin, rougher, less elegant. But today wasn't about elegance. Today, I had to be different.
My hand instinctively went to the hilt of the sword at my waist, its presence a constant reminder that things were changing. Just yesterday, I had stood in my father's office, making a request that still felt so out of character. Even now, as I waited for my mentor's arrival, doubt whispered at the edges of my thoughts. I had spent so long perfecting my image, obsessed with beauty, and never had I imagined I'd find myself in this position—readying myself for combat, for the wilderness.
"Is this truly what I want?" I caught myself thinking. The answer wasn't as clear as I wanted it to be, but I knew one thing for sure: I could no longer be content with merely being admired. I needed to do more, to be more.
My fingers brushed against the hilt of my sword again. This sword—it wasn't meant to be a decoration, like so many things in my life. It was a tool, one that I had asked for, and now I had to prove that I could wield it with purpose. The idea felt foreign, but in some strange way, exhilarating.
I had requested gold, a tent, and supplies for my journey into the wilderness, but my father had surprised me with one condition: a mentor. The very thought irritated me. I wanted to test myself on my own terms, to see if I could push past my limits without interference. Yet, as much as I hated to admit it, my father had been right. Venturing into the wilderness without proper guidance would've been foolish. I had been sheltered all my life, protected by the walls of this estate, by the privilege of my family's name. Stepping outside of that would require more than I currently possessed.
I exhaled slowly, watching the faint cloud of my breath dissipate in the cool air. Whoever this mentor was, I would endure it. Just long enough to gain what I needed, and then I would be on my own, free to carve out my own path.
The sound of footsteps echoed across the courtyard, drawing my attention. I turned, spotting a figure walking toward me. As they grew closer, I realized they were taller than I had expected, with a broad frame that suggested experience, not just strength. His armor was worn but well-maintained, his cloak trailing slightly behind him. His hair, dark with streaks of silver, was tied back, and his expression was one of stern calculation. This man was no stranger to battle.
"So, you're Kirsch Vermillion," he said, his voice as solid and grounded as his appearance.
I inclined my head slightly. "I am. And you must be the mentor my father spoke of."
"Call me Rowan," he replied, his eyes sweeping over me as if appraising whether I was worth his time. I could almost feel the weight of his judgment, as though he had already decided I was just another pampered noble who would break under real pressure. "Your father tells me you want to head into the wilderness. Train, fight, test your limits."
I straightened my back, meeting his gaze evenly. "That's correct. I intend to join a magic squad, and I need to be prepared."
Rowan let out a soft grunt, his expression betraying nothing. "Prepared, huh? From what I've seen of nobles like you, you're more prepared to admire yourselves in a mirror than to face the dangers outside these walls."
His words struck a nerve, but I kept my face calm. I'd heard comments like this before—nobles being dismissed as vain, weak, disconnected from the reality of the world. And maybe, in the past, it would have been accurate for me. But not now.
"I'm not like the others," I replied, my voice firm. "I've realized there's more to life than appearances. That's why I'm here."
Rowan raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. "We'll see about that." He crossed his arms over his chest, looking me over once more. "Your father has asked me to put you through your paces. To see if you're serious or just another spoiled brat looking for a thrill."
I bit back the retort that came to mind, reminding myself why I was here. My father had made this part of the deal, and I had accepted it. This was about proving myself—not just to Rowan, but to my family, to the kingdom, and most importantly, to myself.
"Fine," I said, my voice even. "What do you want me to do?"
Rowan's lips twitched into the barest hint of a smirk. "Follow me. We'll start with something simple. I want to see what you're capable of."
I followed him across the courtyard, my heartbeat quickening. He led me to a section of the estate grounds where training dummies stood lined up, each one marked with signs of wear from countless drills and practice sessions. Rowan stopped in front of one and turned to face me.
"Draw your sword," he ordered.
I did so, the weight of the blade suddenly feeling more significant in my hand than it had the day before. I had practiced with swords before, of course—every noble was trained in the basics. But I had never truly fought with one. It had always been more about form and technique, never about necessity.
"Strike the dummy," Rowan said, stepping back to give me space. "Don't think. Just strike."
I gripped the hilt tightly and took a breath. I raised the sword and swung. The blade connected with the dummy, but the strike was clumsy, lacking precision and force. The sword bounced back slightly, leaving only a shallow mark on the wood.
Rowan sighed, shaking his head. "I expected as much."
His words stung, and I felt the frustration building inside me. I wasn't a warrior by nature, but I wasn't useless either. I had always prided myself on being capable, even if I hadn't embraced this kind of challenge before.
"Try again," Rowan said, his tone sharper this time. "And this time, mean it."
I set my jaw, focusing on the target in front of me. This wasn't just a test of strength; it was a test of will. I could feel my magic stirring faintly within me, the familiar sensation of cherry blossoms swirling in the back of my mind. But I didn't want to rely on my magic just yet. This was about proving I could do it with raw skill.
I swung the sword again, this time with more intent, more power. The blade bit deeper into the wood, sending small splinters flying. It wasn't perfect, but it was progress.
Rowan nodded slightly, though his expression remained stern. "Better. But you're still holding back."
I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow, my frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "I'm not holding back."
"Oh, yes you are," Rowan countered, stepping closer. "You're afraid of ruining that pretty little image you've built for yourself. Afraid of what it means to get your hands dirty, to struggle, to fail."
His words pierced through me like an arrow. He was right. I *had* been holding back, not just today, but for years. Always too concerned with appearances, too afraid to let myself falter.
But not anymore.
I gripped the sword tighter, my breath steadying. This was my moment. I raised the blade and struck again, this time with everything I had, without holding anything back. The sound of the impact was louder, sharper, and the sword embedded itself deeply into the wooden dummy.
Rowan's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched. "Maybe there's hope for you yet, Kirsch Vermillion."
I pulled the sword free, panting slightly, but for the first time in a long while, I felt something other than doubt or vanity—I felt determination.
This was just the beginning.