The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the training room. My breaths came in ragged bursts, my body aching. Master Renard, the stern-faced , had pushed me to the brink, relentless in his pursuit of perfection. The real swords—forged with centuries of tradition—had left their mark: bruises, scrapes, and aches that pulsed with each heartbeat.
Finally, he stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow. "We'll see you tomorrow afternoon," he said, his voice gruff. Then he left, leaving me alone with Louise who did not look pleased.
The room seemed to exhale, its stone walls still echoing the clash of steel. I sank to the floor, my legs trembling. The adrenaline that had fueled my every move now drained away, replaced by a bone-deep fatigue. Regret gnawed at me—how could they treat me like that and just leave me, battered and bruised?
Louise approached, her expression slightly disappointed. She was a woman of few words, her eyes sharp as she assessed my condition. "Well, hurry up and go take your shower," she said, her tone brisk. "Then you can eat. I've got other things to do."
I nodded, pushing myself up. The stone floor felt unforgiving against my scraped palms. I wondered if it was necessary to be so strict with a child, but I dared not voice my thoughts. Instead, I shuffled to the bathroom, my steps slow and deliberate. The hot water stung my wounds, but I welcomed the pain—it meant I was alive, still fighting.
In the bathroom, I opened a wooden drawer, revealing medicine and bandages. The scent of herbs filled the air as I tended to my injuries, wrapping the cloth tightly around my arm. The wounds would heal, but the scars would remain—a reminder of my determination, my choice to wield steel and face the consequences.
Dressed in threadbare pajamas, I made my way downstairs to the dimly lit dining room. The meal was simple—crusty bread, a wedge of sharp cheese, and a steaming bowl of vegetable soup. I ate alone, the silence heavy around me. The flickering candle on the table cast elongated shadows, dancing with memories of the day's training.
Then I climbed the narrow stairs to my spartan room, collapsing onto the narrow bed. Exhaustion claimed me, and I fell asleep within seconds, the rhythmic creaking of the floorboards above echoing in my dreams.
As darkness enveloped the world outside, I dreamed of steel, of battles fought and won. I vowed to rise again, stronger, ready to face whatever challenges awaited me. For in the clash of swords, I discovered my own mettle—the fire that burned brighter than any sun.
And so, I slept, my breaths steady, my resolve unyielding. Tomorrow would come, and with it, another day of training, of pain, and of forging myself into something more than flesh and bone.
The next morning dawned with a sense of both anticipation and trepidation. The sun's rays filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the wooden floor of my small room. I had barely slept, my mind racing with thoughts of what awaited me today and if it was going to be as hard as yesterday.
As if on cue, a gentle knock echoed through the room. The door creaked open, revealing the stern face of Mrs. Simmons, the head maid. Her graying hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her eyes bore into mine with an intensity that made me shiver.
"Miss Aurelia," she said, her voice crisp and unwavering, "Master Beaumont expects you downstairs in fifteen minutes. You have a busy day ahead."
I nodded, my heart fluttering.By what I saw yesterday he looked to be very strict. I scrambled out of bed, my bare feet padding across the cold floor. The bathroom door beckoned, and I practically leaped inside.
The hot water stung my skin as I hurriedly showered, washing away the remnants of yesterday's training. The bruises on my arms and legs throbbed, but I ignored them. There was no time for weakness. I dried off, wrapping myself in a towel, and stepped out.
To my surprise, a neatly folded set of clothes lay on the counter a black shirt and trousers. Mrs. Simmons must have left them for me. I dressed quickly, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. The fabric clung to my damp skin, and I smoothed it down, trying to look presentable.
Downstairs, the grand dining room awaited. The chandelier hung low, its crystals catching the morning light. The long table was set with an array of utensils and dishes—more than I had ever seen in my life. My stomach churned with nervous energy.
And then he entered—the man who would be my guide into this world of etiquette and refinement. Professor Mr. Beaumont stood at the head of the table, his impeccable suit emphasizing his authority. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, and his eyes held a sharpness that made me feel exposed.
"Good morning, Miss Aurelia," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Your first lesson is going to start with learning how to eat properly." He gestured for me to sit, and I obeyed, my hands trembling. "Sit up straight," he instructed, and I adjusted my posture.
He began to explain, his words a waterfall of rules and expectations. How to hold the fork and knife, the correct way to cut meat, the art of sipping soup without slurping. I listened, my mind racing to keep up. But no matter how hard I tried, I stumbled. My elbows were too far from my body, my spoon clinked against the bowl, and my napkin slipped from my lap.
Each mistake was met with a sharp rap on my knuckles. Professor Beaumont wielded a thin stick, and every time I faltered, it struck my hand. The pain was sharp, but worse was the humiliation—the knowledge that I was failing miserably at something so basic.
"Again," he said, his eyes unyielding. "And this time, remember to keep your pinky down."
I tried, oh how I tried. But my fingers trembled, and the stick came down once more. Tears welled in my eyes, but I blinked them away. I couldn't afford weakness. Not here.
The lesson stretched on, each mistake etching itself into my memory. The clatter of silverware, the sting of the stick, the weight of expectation. Professor Beaumont's patience wore thin, but he persisted. "You will learn," he said, his voice unwavering. "Or you will suffer the consequences."
And so, I sat there, my hand smarting, my pride shattered. But somewhere deep within, a fire burned a determination to prove myself, to rise above my inadequacies. For in this grand dining room, amidst the crystal glasses and polished silver, I vowed to become more than just a girl with bruises. I would become a lady, refined and unyielding, ready to face whatever challenges awaited me.
And as the morning sun streamed through the window, I wondered if this was the price of perfection to endure pain in pursuit of grace. But I would pay it willingly, for I had glimpsed a world beyond my wildest dreams, and I would seize it, one correct fork placement at a time.