Chapter 14: Arms Up

"Do you mind not pushing me like I'm some test animal?!"

Lysandria's voice echoed against the metallic walls as the chamber door hissed shut behind us. Through the observation window, I could see her glaring daggers at Thalia, who was bouncing on her heels like she'd just won a raffle. Veyran, standing calmly beside her, was already flipping switches on a glowing console with far too much glee.

"You're not just doing this for us," Veyran said, eyes still glued to the screen. "You're doing it for you. Those gloves might save your life the next time the cult decides to send one of their pet monsters to say hello."

"She's right, you know," Thalia added, adjusting her goggles. "No way that attack was random. Something about it feels... planned. Like a test run, or a distraction."

"Wonderful," Lysandria muttered, yanking her wide-brimmed hat lower over her face. "So I'm just the next fireball to be thrown at whatever plan they've cooked up."

They kept talking—something about mana channels and combustion thresholds—but Seraphina gently tapped my shoulder and nodded toward the hall. I gave Lysandria one last glance. She caught it and rolled her eyes, but didn't look away. Her arms were crossed, gauntlets gleaming, horns still neatly hidden beneath that weird, elegant hat of hers.

I wasn't really worried about her getting hurt. Not in a real sense. I knew these people weren't cruel.

But still. They were weird. The dangerously smart kind of weird.

I followed Seraphina out, reluctantly.

Once the door closed behind us and the muffled voices of the two mad scientists faded, she walked a few paces ahead of me before finally speaking.

"She'll be fine," Seraphina said flatly. "She's more than capable."

There was a pause.

"...Probably."

I squinted at the back of her head. That wasn't comforting.

Still, it was something. More than I expected from Seraphina, anyway.

We walked for a bit in silence, our footsteps echoing faintly against polished stone. Eventually, we stopped near a large window overlooking some kind of underground garden—full of glowing vines and softly humming crystal pillars. It was strangely peaceful here, like someone had tried to build a small pocket of calm inside the chaos.

"Are you alright?" Seraphina asked suddenly, her voice quieter this time. Less automatic.

I blinked. "Huh?"

"You've... been through a lot," she said. "I thought you might need someone to ask."

The words hung in the air like a strange echo. I stared at her. She still looked deadpan as ever, not a muscle moving on that sharp, pale face. It felt weird hearing her say something so... normal.

"I'm fine," I said, a little too quickly. "Really. I mean—yeah. It's fine. I've been through worse. Kind of."

I trailed off. It didn't sound very convincing, even to me.

Seraphina just gave a slow nod. "Alright. I won't press."

She turned her eyes back to the window, arms folding behind her back in that annoyingly elegant way she had.

"But," she said, "you don't have to help us. You're just a kid. You could still walk away. If you've got family... go back to them."

I looked away.

Family.

There was a pause. A long one. Long enough that the silence almost swallowed the moment whole.

"I don't have any," I said. "Family, I mean."

The words came out quieter than I meant them to.

"My parents died a while ago. I never really knew if I had any relatives. Maybe I did. Maybe not. No one ever came looking."

Seraphina didn't say anything. She didn't move either.

I looked down at my hands. At the faint red lines still visible from the last time I tried using magic. At the small smudge of soot on my sleeve from the attack. At the faint shimmer of mana still clinging to my fingertips like something unresolved.

"But I'm not alone anymore," I said. "Not exactly."

There was Arden. Silent, strange, kind in his own awkward way. Sora, too—always clinging close, always smiling even when she was scared. Lysandria, in her own… complicated way.

I wasn't alone. Not really. Not anymore.

There was a moment of silence between us, quiet as the flickering light from the mana-vines outside.

Then, before I could overthink it—before I could lose that stupid flicker of courage—I looked at Seraphina again. Straight at her.

And said something I'd never imagined hearing from my own mouth.

"I'm going to stay," I told her. "I'll keep fighting. Because I'm in the same party as the Hero."

My voice wavered slightly. Not from fear—well, maybe a little—but mostly from the sheer absurdity of what I'd just declared. Who the hell did I think I was?

But I didn't take it back.

Seraphina blinked once. Her expression didn't change, but I thought I caught a flicker of something—surprise, maybe. Or understanding.

She knew who I meant.

Not that fake, statuesque knight in the songs. I meant him. Arden. The weirdly quiet, too-powerful-for-his-own-good guy who barely spoke unless he had something kind to offer or someone to quietly patch up.

She gave me a small nod.

And then—just for a second, so fast I almost missed it—her mouth twitched upward in the faintest smile.

"Then hold on to that," she said. "It'll be worth more than steel."

She turned and walked ahead without waiting, her coat swishing slightly with each step.

I blinked, then hurried to catch up. "Wait—where are we going?"

She didn't look back. "To train."

"…To what now?"

Seraphina didn't explain.

Instead, we headed down a long hallway on the west side of the mansion—past a few doors and into what looked like an old stone wing, less decorative than the rest of the place. The walls were lined with softly glowing torches and reinforced arches. There were scratches on the floors, even a few old scorch marks. And the doors were wider, heavier.

This place had seen use. Not elegant dinners or noble visitors.

Practice. Combat.

War.

She opened one of the side doors and stepped inside. The room beyond was wide, circular, and empty—save for some wooden dummies, a rack of training staves, and a few worn sparring mats rolled up against the wall. Mana-crystals set into sconces along the walls gave off a soft bluish light, filling the space with a cold, almost expectant hum.

Seraphina walked to the center of the room and turned. Without a word, she slid one foot back, raised her fists, and bent her knees slightly—one foot tilted up onto its toes, the other grounded, her weight perfectly balanced.

I stared at her.

"You're going to fight me?" I asked. "Did I offend you somehow…?"

"I'm going to train you," she said simply. "You've got potential. You need something to channel it through."

"And you just… felt like teaching me how to hit things today?"

"You're underprepared," she said. "You're reckless. You flail."

"H-hey, that's rude!"

She didn't deny it. Instead, she gestured me forward.

"I like you," she said, tone utterly flat. "Stand in front of me."

"…Is this how you treat everyone you like?"

"You're lucky."

I tried to mimic Seraphina's stance.

Feet apart. One heel slightly raised. Arms up—not too high, not too low.

Everything felt wrong.

My weight shifted too far forward. Then too far back. My shoulders were too stiff. My fingers wouldn't curl right. I looked like I was trying to impersonate a fighter I'd seen in a play once. A bad one.

Seraphina was already waiting, perfectly still. Balanced. Effortless.

"Try to hit me," she said.

I hesitated. Then stepped forward and threw the world's slowest punch.

She tilted her head slightly. My fist missed her by a mile.

I tried again. Worse.

Another. Still nothing.

She didn't move much—just enough. A slight lean. A step back. No wasted motion. Meanwhile, I was throwing my entire body around like a toddler fighting shadows.

My fourth attempt nearly sent me off balance. She caught my wrist before I could fall on my face.

Then, without a word, she turned, pivoted on one foot, and used my own weight to send me stumbling past her. I hit the mat with a loud thud.

Silence.

I stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.

My arms ached. My pride was somewhere under the floorboards.

She stepped into view above me, hands on her hips. Still unreadable.

"You're slow," she said.

No argument here.

"You telegraph your movements."

I didn't know what that meant. Probably something insulting.

"You lack power, coordination, balance—"

"I get it," I mumbled.

She crouched beside me. Her expression didn't change, but her tone softened—barely.

"You didn't flinch."

I blinked.

"Most people do."

Not sure if that was a compliment. But I took the hand she offered and let her pull me up. Her grip was firm. Not cruel.

I wobbled a little. My legs felt like overcooked noodles.

She let go once I was steady.

"You're weak," she said. "But not fragile."

I didn't say anything. Not because I had nothing to say—just… didn't know how to say it.

She stepped back into position. Waiting again.

And I—somehow—lifted my arms one more time.

Seraphina gave a small nod. No encouragement, no praise—just… acknowledgment.

We kept going. I threw more punches. She dodged every one. Sometimes she'd correct my posture. Sometimes she wouldn't. Sometimes I'd land on the floor again.

Time passed in a blur of effort and bruises. I stopped counting the failed hits. Stopped caring. My body hurt, but in a different way than before. Not like after a fight. Like… something rebuilding itself. Slowly. Barely.

When Seraphina finally stepped back and said, "That's enough for today," I almost collapsed. She offered no further comment, just turned and walked off toward some other quiet task like nothing had happened.

I stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, trying not to groan.

That was the first time.

And then it happened again.

And again.

Whenever she had time—and she never said it outright, but I think she made time—we'd train.

I never got much better. Not really. But I learned how to move without tripping over myself. How to stand. How to fall.

How to try.

It wasn't much. But it was mine.

And somehow, that was enough.

For now.