Chapter 8: Soreness, Schedules, and Suspicious Sword Tutorsmed

Five days had passed since the Great Garden Duel.

I still couldn't fully straighten my back.

"Urrghh—curse your tiny terrifying limbs," I groaned as I attempted a basic stretch. My muscles screamed in protest like they were staging a rebellion against the concept of movement.

Mariette, ever the picture of grace and betrayal, handed me a hot towel.

"You really should've stretched before fighting me."

"I DID!" I protested. "...A little."

She said nothing, but the judgment in her eyes spoke volumes. Rude.

You'd think a near-death match would change things — create some tension, or awkwardness, or maybe an unspoken rivalry arc.

Nope.

Mariette had acted like nothing happened the very next day. She woke me up like usual, brought breakfast like usual, and even scolded me for slouching like usual. The only difference was that now, whenever I yelped in pain trying to sit down, she'd raise an eyebrow and mutter, "Still sore?"

Yes. Yes, I was.

But she'd also been especially attentive. Muscle-soothing tea, cooling salves, warm towels, and mildly threatening reminders to drink water.

Not that she fussed or anything. It was all very efficient. No softness, no extra emotion. Just service.

"Your sword tutor arrives tomorrow," she said plainly one morning, as if she were announcing the weather.

I blinked. Then froze. Then internally screamed.

"TUTOR?! TOMORROW?!"

"I did mention it. Twice."

I grabbed my head. "Why didn't you force me to remember?! This is a disaster! I haven't prepared! What if they expect me to already know sword forms?! What if they make me run laps?! What if they bring... drills?!"

"Breathe," she said calmly.

I breathed. Then immediately started panicking again.

After breakfast, I decided I should get ahead of this. I needed to train. Practice. Show this mystery tutor that I was a diligent, responsible noble lady with a deep passion for survival.

So, I sneaked into the unused training courtyard behind the manor.

Big mistake.

I tried to copy one of Mariette's graceful combat poses. My legs cramped. I tried to lift a practice sword. My arms trembled like overcooked noodles. Then I tried to summon some mana to infuse the blade and accidentally flung it into a tree.

"You're not supposed to throw the sword," came Mariette's voice from behind me.

I yelped. "Don't sneak up on me!"

"I walked. Loudly."

She walked over, picked up the sword, and set it gently in my hands.

"You're overthinking it," she said, stepping back. "Hold it steady. Like this."

I mimicked her stance. My arms wobbled.

"You're trembling."

"I AM trembling! Out of anticipation!"

"Of death?"

"Of progress!"

She didn't roll her eyes, but the air shifted in a way that suggested she wanted to.

Still, she stayed and watched as I practiced for another twenty minutes. She didn't give many tips — just the occasional correction. No praise. No scolding.

But she was there.

Afterward, we sat on the edge of the fountain. I rubbed my sore arms. She handed me a flask of herbal water.

"You're not bad," she said suddenly.

I blinked. "Wait. Was that a compliment?"

"It was an observation."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

We sat in silence for a bit. Birds chirped. A butterfly landed on her sleeve.

"Thanks," I muttered.

She tilted her head slightly. "For what?"

"You've been... really helpful this week. I know I complain a lot, but... I notice."

She didn't reply right away. Then, softly, "It's my job."

"Still. Doesn't mean you had to be this nice."

She glanced away. "You exaggerate."

"Do I? You brewed me tea, fetched salves, AND carried me up the stairs on Day Two. That last one was undignified."

A pause.

"You were unconscious."

"It was still undignified!"

She didn't smile, but I caught the tiniest twitch of amusement in her eyes.

We stayed there a little longer. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the courtyard. My feet dangled into the fountain's edge, lightly skimming the water.

"I wish I could freeze this moment," I murmured. "Before the chaos tomorrow begins."

"You don't even know what the tutor is like."

"Exactly. That's what makes it worse."

She didn't respond. Just sat beside me, legs crossed neatly, eyes fixed on the rippling surface of the water.

After a while, she stood and offered her hand to help me up. I took it — mostly because my legs were jelly.

"Come on," she said. "You need rest. And I'm not carrying you again."

"You say that, but I know you will."

"I won't."

"You totally will."

"...Only if you pass out again."

"Deal."

She guided me back through the garden path. The lanterns were lit, soft orange glows dotting the walkway. The smell of chamomile wafted from somewhere — probably her doing. She had a whole collection of teas and herbal remedies by now. I wouldn't be surprised if she had a license in alchemy.

Inside my room, she fluffed my pillow with robotic precision, placed a new steaming mug on the nightstand, and folded my blanket corners like a professional bed-making assassin.

Later that night, I collapsed into bed, exhausted but not entirely miserable. As I closed my eyes, thoughts of tomorrow swirled like a storm.

What would the tutor be like? Would they be strict? Would they hate me? Would they make me do push-ups?!

Sleep came fast.

And with it, the dream.

I stood in the middle of a vast, empty training ground. The sky was red. The air crackled with doom.

A towering figure in full armor stomped toward me, wielding a broadsword that radiated pure malice.

"TEN LAPS! NOW!"

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

I ran. I tripped. I screamed. Fire exploded around me.

Then—

A squirrel in a military cap blew a whistle.

Behind him, a flaming banner unfurled with the words: "No Pain, No Nobility!"

Training dummies lined up in military formation began clapping in sync. One of them was weeping. Another pointed at me and mouthed, "Shame."

A chicken in armor threw a spear at my feet.

"FASTER!"

"I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO LUNGE!"

Just as the ground opened beneath my feet—

I shot up in bed, gasping.

Mariette appeared beside me a second later, candle in hand.

"Another dream?"

"It had a squirrel drill sergeant this time."

She gave me a long look. Then turned to go.

"Good night, Celia."

"Mariette?"

"Hm?"

"If I die tomorrow, tell Father I want a dramatic funeral. And pie. Lots of pie."

"You're not going to die."

"That sounds like a lie."

The door clicked shut behind her.

I sighed.

Tomorrow was going to be a nightmare.

To be continued.