Chapter 5: A Blade to Be Sharpened
Vaera von Nachtrose was not easily unsettled.
She had seen weakness. She had seen cruelty. She had delivered cruelty with her own hands.
And yet, as she sat in her chamber the next morning, staring at the golden light spilling through her window, her thoughts were haunted by the image of the girl from the night before.
That bloodlust.
She had never felt anything like it.
It was raw. Untamed.
Not the calculated killing intent of a trained assassin.
Not the refined coldness of a noble ready to dispose of a nuisance.
This was something else.
It was hungry.
It was alive.
And it had not been directed at her.
Vaera tilted her head, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips.
How fascinating.
She had recognized it now—killing intent.
Not just an impulse. Not just a fleeting wish for violence.
True intent.
That girl—her maid—had wanted to slaughter the servant last night.
Not punish him. Not discipline him.
Rip him apart.
And yet, she hadn't moved.
She had been waiting.
Not hesitating.
Not holding back.
Waiting.
For what?
For permission?
For command?
The thought sent an odd chill down Vaera's spine.
She drummed her fingers against the armrest of her chair.
This girl, this stray she had picked up, was turning out to be more interesting than she had ever imagined.
And potential like that should not be wasted.
She sought out her father.
Duke Alistair von Nachtrose ruled from the shadows.
Other noble houses wielded their power openly. Their wealth, their connections, their influence—all laid bare for the world to see.
But the Nachtrose family had never needed to show their power.
Because it was felt.
Whispers in the dark. Unseen hands pulling the strings.
A single glance from her father was enough to make men crumble.
Vaera was not intimidated by him.
She was his daughter.
And one day, she would surpass him.
She entered his study without waiting for permission.
The room was dimly lit, curtains drawn, bookshelves lining the walls.
Duke Alistair sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, his piercing violet eyes watching her the moment she stepped inside.
"You rarely visit me, daughter." His voice was deep, smooth, carrying the weight of authority that made lesser nobles tremble.
Vaera did not waste time.
"I require a knife instructor."
The Duke arched a silver brow. "For yourself?"
"For my maid."
He stilled.
Then—he smiled.
A slow, knowing smile.
"Ah," he murmured. "So you've finally taken an interest in her."
Vaera's fingers twitched.
Her father was always watching. Always calculating.
Nothing escaped him.
Not even the smallest of her whims.
"She is promising," Vaera admitted. "But untrained. That is wasteful."
The Duke leaned back in his chair.
"What did you see?"
Vaera met his gaze evenly. "Killing intent."
His smile widened slightly.
"Was it directed at you?"
"No."
"Then she is loyal."
Vaera tilted her head. "That remains to be tested."
The Duke let out a quiet chuckle.
"You think like me, child."
She did not react.
It was a fact, not a compliment.
He studied her for a long moment, amusement flickering in his gaze.
Then, he sighed.
"A maid trained to kill. How scandalous."
Vaera did not respond.
He already knew her well enough to understand—she did not care for scandal.
The Duke tapped his fingers against the desk, thoughtful.
"A knife is a useful tool," he mused. "And a dangerous one in the right hands."
Vaera said nothing.
She had already decided.
And so had he.
Finally, he waved a hand.
"Very well. I will arrange an instructor."
She inclined her head. "A competent one."
"Of course."
She turned to leave, but before she could step out, his voice stopped her.
"Vaera."
She looked back.
Her father's expression had not changed, but there was something calculating in his gaze.
"Do not let that girl control you."
Vaera blinked once.
Then—she smiled.
"That will not happen."
And she left.
Eight Years Later
Time moved forward, indifferent to all things.
Days turned to weeks. Weeks into months. Months into years.
And through it all—she trained.
The first time Vaera had told her about the lessons, something inside her had stirred.
She did not show it.
But deep within her, where the last embers of warmth had long been extinguished, a new flame took its place.
A vow.
Vaera had given her an opportunity.
And she would not disappoint.
She would become strong.
She would become useful.
She would become a blade that only Vaera could wield.
A weapon sharpened for one purpose.
To make her enemies suffer.
Her instructor was not a kind man.
Leonhardt Strain.
A former assassin. A killer who had no loyalty to anything except the art of death itself.
He did not waste time with pleasantries. He did not care for weakness.
"You are here to learn," he told her on the first day. "Or you are here to die. Choose."
She chose to learn.
He nodded, and then he beat her.
The first lesson was endurance.
Pain was an inevitability in battle. A true assassin did not flinch from it. A true killer did not hesitate.
So he conditioned her the only way he knew how.
He had her hold a blade between her fingers, balanced on the tip. If she dropped it, he cut her.
He made her stand for hours in the snow, her feet bare, her skin burning from the cold. If she collapsed, he kicked her back up.
He struck her ribs when she breathed too loudly. Slammed her hands against stone when she fumbled her grip.
She never cried out.
She never begged for him to stop.
She only listened.
Endured.
And when the pain became familiar, when the ache in her bones no longer felt foreign—she understood.
Pain was a teacher.
And she was a student.
The second lesson was control.
"A blade is not just a weapon," Leonhardt murmured, standing behind her. "It is an extension of your will."
He placed a dagger in her hand.
"Move it. Slowly."
She obeyed.
Her wrist twisted, the blade gliding through the air.
But it wavered—too unsteady.
He grabbed her hand, forcing her fingers tighter around the hilt.
"Precision," he said. "Every movement has a purpose. Every cut must be intentional."
She adjusted.
The dagger stopped shaking.
He nodded, satisfied.
"Again."
And so she repeated the motion—hundreds, thousands of times.
Until the blade felt like an extension of her own body.
Until it obeyed her without fault.
Until she knew exactly where to cut.
The third lesson was anatomy.
Leonhardt did not believe in wasting kills.
When he handed her a rabbit, she did not hesitate to slit its throat.
Blood pooled from the wound, but he shook his head.
"Sloppy," he criticized. "Did that hurt?"
She blinked.
"I don't know," she admitted.
His eyes gleamed.
"Then learn."
He made her watch as he peeled away the flesh—revealing muscle, tendon, bone.
"Here," he pointed, "this is the nerve cluster near the spine. A cut here will cause temporary paralysis."
He pressed a finger against the leg.
"And this? Cut it deep enough, and they will never walk again."
She memorized every detail.
Every weakness.
And when she was given another rabbit—she did not just kill it.
She made it suffer.
Leonhardt smiled for the first time.
"Good."
The fourth lesson was silence.
A maid did not stomp like a knight. A maid did not shout like a soldier.
A maid was meant to be unseen. Unheard. Unnoticed.
So he made her walk across floors covered in dry leaves.
If she made a sound—he struck her.
If she tripped—he knocked her back down.
"Again."
She walked.
She stepped lightly, feeling the weight of her body.
Every movement had to be calculated.
One misstep could mean death.
By the end of the month, she could move through the hallways without disturbing a single speck of dust.
She was no longer just a maid.
She was a shadow.
The final lesson was killing.
Leonhardt did not waste words.
He brought a man before her, bound and gagged.
"A traitor," he explained. "He sold information to our enemies."
She stared.
"Kill him."
She obeyed.
Her blade sunk into the man's side.
He screamed.
Blood coated her hands, hot and thick.
She pulled the knife out, watching the wound gush.
But he was still alive.
Writhing. Trembling.
She tilted her head.
How long would it take before he died?
She wanted to know.
So she cut him again.
And again.
And again.
Leonhardt watched as she carved into his flesh, slicing along tendons, cutting just deep enough to cause pain without killing him immediately.
She did not blink.
She did not flinch.
She only observed.
How long did it take for a man to bleed out?
How much pain could he endure before his voice broke?
She found the answer seven minutes later.
When the body stilled, when the screams stopped—she finally let out a slow breath.
A warmth spread through her chest.
Satisfaction.
She looked down at the corpse.
It was her first.
But it would not be her last.
Leonhardt stood over her that night, watching as she cleaned her blades.
Her hands were stained.
Her heart was calm.
He smirked.
"You do not kill for sport."
She remained silent.
"You do not kill for anger," he continued. "Nor for duty."
He tilted his head.
"Then why?"
She did not blink.
And then—she spoke.
"For her."
His smirk widened.
"A dangerous devotion."
She did not disagree.
But it was the truth.
Every cut she made, every knife she wielded—
It was all for Vaera.
Her hands had never been clean.
And they never would be.
Because a maid's hands were meant to serve.
And if blood was what Vaera needed—
Then blood was what she would give.