Günther : Chapter 4

Lady Seraphine's Morning

The training yard lay silent as Seraphine sheathed her katana, her breath steady despite the four hundred lethal strikes she'd delivered without pause. Dawn painted the manor's spires in pale gold as she strode inside, her boots leaving faint impressions on the dew-laden grass.

In her chambers, she peeled off sweat-dampened training gear and donned the Academy's formal attire—sapphire-blue robes with silver trim, the fabric stiff with embroidered runes along the cuffs. A final adjustment of her gloves, and she was ready.

The dining hall smelled of spiced tea and honeyed oats. Duke Ironhold sat at the head of the table, already reviewing ledgers, his spectacles perched low on his nose. He glanced up as she entered.

"You seem... invigorated this morning. Good news?"

Seraphine took her seat, pouring herself tea. "No, Father. Merely preparing for the Academy Combat."

The Duke hummed, setting aside his papers. "Results matter less than growth. Remember that."

"Of course."

They ate in comfortable silence, the clink of silverware the only interruption.

Günther's Morning

Cold water from the estate's pump shocked away the last dregs of sleep. Günther scrubbed the forest's grime from his skin, the scars on his torso mapping decades of violence now hidden beneath a starched chauffeur's uniform.

Reginald appeared as he finished buttoning his coat, carrying a tray of black coffee and a list.

"The Duke insists you memorize every staff member's name and role," the butler said, nodding toward the bustling kitchens. "That's Marta, head cook. Never serve Lady Seraphine shellfish—she's allergic. And that scowling brute is Henrik, the head groom. He'll report directly to you about the carriage's maintenance."

Günther sipped the coffee—bitter, no sugar. "Anybody I should avoid?"

Reginald's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The Duke's valet, Klaus. He's... overly curious about newcomers."

A bell chimed in the distance.

"Ah. That's your cue. Lady Seraphine departs for the Academy in ten minutes."

Günther drained the cup and headed for the garage, the mansion's labyrinth of corridors already feeling less foreign.

The Unspoken Conversation

The steam carriage rolled smoothly through Ironhold's streets, its polished exterior reflecting the morning sun. Inside, the silence between Günther and Seraphine was thick—not uncomfortable, but charged with something neither could name.

Seraphine sat rigidly in the backseat, her gloved fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the hilt of her katana. She stole glances at the rearview mirror, where Günther's calm eyes met hers for the briefest moments before flicking back to the road.

She wanted to speak.

But what did one say to a chauffeur who had shattered an assassin's bones without hesitation? To a man who had declared—in the heat of violence—that she mattered to him?

Social graces had never been her forte. Academia, combat, politics—these were languages she mastered effortlessly. But casual conversation? It might as well have been ancient runes.

Günther, for his part, kept his focus on the road. He'd noticed her restlessness, the way her lips parted slightly as if to speak before sealing shut again. He didn't press. If she had something to say, she'd say it.

The carriage turned onto the Academy's main boulevard.

Arrival at the Academy

Günther parked in the usual spot—the same one where, days prior, blood had stained the cobblestones. Seraphine stepped out, but unlike before, she didn't immediately stride toward the training halls. Instead, she paused, her silver hair catching the wind as she surveyed the courtyard.

Students in sapphire robes hurried past, their whispers trailing behind them like shadows.

"Lady Seraphine is outside?""Did she actually walk through the main gate?""Maybe she's looking for another duel…"

Their curiosity didn't faze her. But something had shifted.

Since the attack, Seraphine had begun to notice things beyond her rigid routine. The way the morning light painted the Academy's spires. The scent of ink and herbs drifting from the library. The way Günther's posture never slackened, even when he thought no one was watching.

She didn't linger long—old habits were hard to break. But as she turned toward the training grounds, she cast one last glance over her shoulder.

Günther was already watching.

Their eyes locked. A heartbeat passed. Then, with the faintest nod—so slight it could've been imagined—she disappeared into the crowd.

Breaking Barriers

"Günther, come with me. I'll give you a tour."

A faint blush colored Seraphine's porcelain cheeks as she spoke, the words delivered with uncharacteristic hesitance. Her gloved fingers tightened momentarily around her katana's hilt before forcing herself to relax.

"Of course, Lady Seraphine."

I matched her pace as we entered the Academy's grand archway, the rune-engraved gates humming at our approach. Students and professors alike froze mid-step, their whispers trailing after us like startled birds.

The Tour

"Lady Seraphine! You're—ah—accompanied today?" A crimson-robed professor adjusted his spectacles, eyeing me with poorly concealed curiosity.

Seraphine didn't slow. "This is Günther. He's... assisting me with a project."

No mention of chauffeur duties. No dismissive labels. Just assisting—a term vague enough to grant me unspoken standing within these hallowed halls.

She guided me through the theory wing's labyrinthine shelves, past the gym where mages strained against enchanted weights, and into the practice yards where spellfire lit the air. At each location, staff members greeted her with deference—and regarded me with puzzled intrigue.

"That's Headmaster Orlo," she murmured as a wizened man in gold-trimmed robes passed by. "He's the only one here who's ever beaten me in a duel."

There was no bitterness in her admission. Only respect.

The Arena

We arrived at the combat pits as two advanced students clashed below, their blades leaving afterimages of flame and frost.

"This is where truth is revealed," Seraphine said, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. "Magic can lie. Politics can deceive. But steel?" She rested a hand on her katana. "Steel never falters."

A charged silence settled between us. Then—

"You've fought before."

It wasn't a question. I kept my gaze on the duelists. "Here and there."

Sand crunched as she turned fully toward me, the arena's floodlights catching the silver strands in her hair. "I'd like to see it sometime. Your fighting."

Not a request. A promise.

"I can't fight, my Lady." I let my shoulders slump, the picture of weary resignation. "Just an old man afraid of death."

The lie tasted like ash.

Seraphine's eyes—sharp as her katana's edge—narrowed. She stepped closer, the scent of frost and steel wrapping around us.

"How unfortunate." Her gloved finger tapped the arena railing. "The man who broke an assassin's spine with his bare hands is now... afraid?"

A student's fireball exploded in the pit below, casting flickering shadows across her face.

"Tell me, Günther." She leaned in, her whisper colder than the winter winds. "Which part of you is lying? The cowardice..." Her gaze dropped to my hands—scarred, steady. "...or the age?"

The arena's sand stirred at our feet, grains skittering away as if repelled by the tension between us.

I met her stare without flinching. "Maybe both."

A beat of silence. Then—

The ghost of a smile touched her lips. "We'll see."

With that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the exit, her silver hair catching the light like a victory banner.

"Fear keeps old men alive, Lady Seraphine." I chuckled, rubbing my neck with exaggerated fragility. "And this old man quite likes breathing."

Her silver eyebrows arched. A predator recognizing prey's演技—flawed, but entertaining.

"How convenient." She traced the arena's railing with a gloved finger, leaving a thin line of frost in its wake. "Then you won't mind if I test that theory?"

A flick of her wrist. Three crimson-robed duelists emerged from the pit's shadows, practice blades glowing venomous green.

"These are my... assistants," she purred. "They'll ensure your safety during our... demonstration."

The tallest cracked his knuckles. "We'll go easy, grandpa."

The first blade came whistling toward my ribs—a telegraphed strike, slow enough for even a civilian to sidestep.

I stumbled backward, arms flailing. "W-Wait—!"

The second attacker lunged, her practice sword carving a green arc where my neck should have been. I tripped over my own feet, crashing onto the sand with a theatrical grunt.

"P-please! I'm just a driver!"

The third duelist hesitated, glancing at Seraphine. She stood statue-still, her fingers curled around her katana's hilt.

"Again," she commanded.

They struck in unison this time. I rolled away like a drunkard, my movements just barely enough to avoid contact. A blade grazed my sleeve—close enough to tear fabric, far enough to leave skin untouched.

"Enough."

Seraphine's voice cut through the arena. The duelists froze mid-swing.

The first blade came whistling toward my ribs—a telegraphed strike, slow enough for even a civilian to sidestep.

I stumbled backward, arms flailing. "W-Wait—!"

The second attacker lunged, her practice sword carving a green arc where my neck should have been. I tripped over my own feet, crashing onto the sand with a theatrical grunt.

"P-please! I'm just a driver!"

The third duelist hesitated, glancing at Seraphine. She stood statue-still, her fingers curled around her katana's hilt.

"Again," she commanded.

They struck in unison this time. I rolled away like a drunkard, my movements just barely enough to avoid contact. A blade grazed my sleeve—close enough to tear fabric, far enough to leave skin untouched.

"Enough."

Seraphine's voice cut through the arena. The duelists froze mid-swing.

The Unspoken Truth

Sand clung to my clothes as I rose, dusting myself off with exaggerated relief. "T-thank you, my Lady! These young ones are too—"

"Leave us."

The duelists vanished like shadows at dawn.

Seraphine closed the distance between us, her breath frosting the air. "Your act is insulting." She tilted her head, studying me like a puzzle. "But amusing."

I adjusted my torn sleeve, feigning confusion. "Act?"

Her boot tapped the sand where I'd "fallen." "No imprint. No disturbance in the granules." A slow smile. "You hovered, Günther."

Damn.

"Old men have light bones," I offered weakly.

She laughed—a sound as rare as winter roses. "Next time, I'll bring fire. Let's see your bones dance then."

The Pull of the Arcane

I watched from the arena's edge as Seraphine drilled with her elite squad—the same students who would accompany her in the upcoming Academy Combat. Fire, lightning, water, and wind erupted in controlled bursts, each element bending to their will.

At first glance, it seemed like chaos. But the longer I observed, the more I sensed it—an invisible thread tugging at my awareness, connecting each spell to its caster.

Magic here wasn't limitless. It wasn't even truly theirs.

The Rune-Bound System

This world's power worked like this:

The Birthright

Every newborn was tested for Mana Affinity—measured by which runes glowed on ancient obelisks when blood was spilled.

Seraphine's records likely showed multiple high-tier runes at birth—a rarity that explained her status.

The Accumulation

Mages didn't "generate" magic. They stored it—like rainwater in cisterns—through:

Ambient Absorption (Breathing in mana from ley lines)

Rune Implants (The glowing tattoos on duelists' wrists)

Blackpeak Ore (The Duke's rumored power source)

The Trigger

Spells required:

Verbal Components (Those chanted phrases I'd heard)

Somatic Guidance (Seraphine's precise sword flourishes)

Emotional Catalyst (Her icy fury sharpened every blast)

A student misfired, their lightning bolt fizzling into the sand. Seraphine didn't scold—she demonstrated. Her katana drew a silver arc, and the very air split open, unleashing a thunderclap that shook the stadium.

"Again," she ordered. "Channel through your scars, not your fear."

Günther's Realization

That's when I understood:

This wasn't just training.

It was conditioning.

The Academy didn't teach magic—it weaponized trauma. Every spell these children cast was tied to pain, to memory, to the first time they bled for power.

And Seraphine?

She was their perfect product.

The Carriage Ride Home

The steam carriage rattled along the cobblestone road, the scent of ozone still clinging to Seraphine's robes from the day's training. She sat rigidly across from me, her silver-grey hair catching the fading sunlight as she studied me with that unnerving, calculating gaze.

"What do you think of our academy team? Are they strong enough?"

I kept my eyes on the passing scenery. "I wouldn't know, Lady Seraphine. I don't understand magic—let alone how to fight."

Her fingers tightened imperceptibly around her katana's hilt. "You can't use magic at all?"

"Not a drop."

"Then how," she leaned forward slightly, "did you make fire in your home in Blackpeak?"

I met her gaze, feigning hesitation. "...It might be easier to show you."

Her eyes narrowed. "The training grounds, then. Immediately upon our return."

"Ah—no need for that, my Lady. The backyard garden will suffice."

The Demonstration

Behind the Ironhold mansion, where the manicured hedges gave way to wilder thickets, I gathered dry twigs and tinder. Seraphine watched like a hawk, her posture stiff with suspicion—until the first spark leapt from the flint.

"What... is that?"

Her voice held something I'd never heard before: genuine bewilderment.

"Fire-making, Lady Seraphine. The mundane way."

I blew gently on the embers, coaxing them to life without a single whispered incantation. The flames danced, casting flickering shadows across her porcelain face. For the first time since I'd met her, the ever-composed heiress looked... fascinated.

She crouched beside me, her katana forgotten in the grass. "Show me again."

I did. And again. Until her gloved hands—hands that had commanded storms—fumbled with the flint, her brow furrowing in concentration.

"Why have I never seen this before?"

"Because," I mused, watching her struggle, "when one has magic, why bother with friction?"

A twig snapped under her boot. "Magic fails. Flint doesn't."

The realization hung between us, heavier than any spell.

Blair's Report

Blair, the Duke's personal attendant, stood rigid in the study, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. The scent of aged parchment and ink filled the room as Duke Ironhold poured over documents—until Blair cleared his throat.

"My Lord, there is... something you should know."

The Duke didn't look up. "Speak."

"Lady Seraphine has been spending an unusual amount of time with the new chauffeur. Just now, I witnessed them in the rear gardens, engaged in... peculiar activities."

That got his attention. The Duke's quill froze mid-stroke, a droplet of ink bleeding across the parchment like a dark omen.

"Define peculiar."

Blair hesitated. "They were making fire. Without magic."

The Duke's Reaction

A vein pulsed in the Duke's temple. His daughter—his perfect, ruthless heir—kneeling in the dirt like a commoner, striking stones together like some backwoods savage?

"And her demeanor?"

"She was... smiling, my Lord."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

The Duke rose, his chair scraping against the marble floor. Through the window, he could see them—Seraphine, his ice-forged daughter, crouched beside that infuriating old man, her usually immaculate gloves smudged with soot.

And she was laughing.

A sound so foreign, so unbecoming, that for a moment, the Duke wondered if this was some elaborate illusion.

The Conflict Brewing

"This man—Günther." The Duke's voice was dangerously calm. "His records?"

Blair produced a dossier—thin, suspiciously so. "Claims to hail from the Blackpeak mountains. No verifiable lineage. No prior employment records. And yet..."

"And yet?"

"He moves like a soldier. Observes like a spy. And now, he's teaching Lady Seraphine primitive tricks?"

The Duke's fist clenched. This wasn't just odd. It was calculated.

"Double the guards on her. And bring me Klaus. If this chauffeur has any ties to the Jenuva League, or worse—the Blackpeak rebels—I'll peel his skin myself."

Seraphine's Unseen Rebellion

Unaware of the storm brewing in the study, Seraphine remained in the garden, striking flint with newfound determination.

"Again," she demanded, her earlier frustration giving way to fascination as sparks flew.

Günther watched, arms crossed. "You're holding it wrong."

"Then show me."

Their fingers brushed as he adjusted her grip—a fleeting contact that sent an inexplicable jolt through her. She recoiled, not out of disgust, but confusion.

Why did his touch feel like... lightning?

As the last sparks of their flint-fire faded into the twilight, Günther watched Seraphine's focused expression—the way her silver eyebrows knitted together, the determined press of her lips. For a fleeting moment, he saw her there: Elizabeth, bent over their campfire in the mountains, her laughter warm against the cold.

But memory was a treacherous thing. He buried the thought deep, where it belonged.

Elizabeth was gone.

And this sharp-edged noble girl with winter in her veins? She was just another temporary flame in the long, dark night of his exile.

Yet as he turned away, he couldn't ignore the way his black blood pulsed—like it recognized something in her that even he dared not name.