Holding a sword symbolized taking up a responsibility, and for her, it felt like a burden—an obligation she yearned to cast off. She could wield a sword, yet she would never embody the image of the person he desired her to become.
~
The sky above the training grounds lingered in a state between darkness and full daylight. The sun lay quietly beneath the horizon, casting the sky in deep blue hues. Good morning, mom, she thought as she peered at it. I hope you're doing well up there.
"I heard milady will be joining a swordsmanship club," Sir Conan said with an expression of skepticism. "If that is the case, then we need to prepare you."
Sir Conan stood tall, his broad shoulders and muscular physique unmistakable beneath the snug fit of his training gear. Every one of his movements revealed the grace and precision of a seasoned warrior, and she understood why he was so highly respected. If she had to endure the rigours of training, at least there was some eye candy to distract her.
"Yes," she replied, half-heartedly. It was too hot, and she didn't want to be there. "Well, isn't this just the pinnacle of excitement? Joining such a thrilling hobby."
Dylan found herself rudely roused from her slumber much earlier than usual today, and forced into pants and a training shirt. Against her will, she was dragged to the training fields, where she now clung to a hefty wooden sword, using it more like a makeshift cane to keep herself upright.
I'll have to play along for now, she thought to herself. If I go against the Duke's wishes, there's no knowing what he'll do. I don't want to give him any reason to trouble me more.
"Ha," Sir Conan sighed with a dismissive tone. "Being the Duke's daughter doesn't earn you any special privileges on my training grounds," he declared, his voice carrying a subtle menace. "Sarcasm won't find a welcome here, young lady."
"Wow, it's strangely attractive when you get all assertive," Dylan muttered aloud before she realized the words had escaped her lips. "I, uh," she coughed, "meant..."
"Ten laps."
Dylan blinked in disbelief. "Ten laps of what?"
"Fifteen, because you're not moving," Sir Conan responded firmly, gesturing towards the vast fields littered with sweaty knights. "Get a move on it, young lady. The training grounds won't run around themselves."
"Fifteen?" she asked incredulously, her eyes widening. "Sir, I struggle just to walk from my bedroom to the dining room. You do realize that attempted harm to a member of the Duchy of Beaumon is punishable by death, don't you? Are you trying to kill me?"
Conan furrowed his eyebrows in disbelief at her statement. "Really?" he questioned her.
Dylan nodded anxiously, her tight pigtails bouncing with each motion. Her eyes, reminiscent of jars of honey, fixated on him with a determined expression. The gesture, though perhaps appearing somewhat childish for an almost seventeen-year-old, held an undeniable sincerity. Conan's gaze seemed to subtly shift in the faint light, but before she could be certain, he swiftly turned his head to the side. Dylan noticed a faint blush colouring the tips of his ears.
"Then," he suggested in a quieter tone, finally giving in, "how about you walk for three laps around the field?"
Dylan grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly. "That I can most definitely do."
After two laps, Dylan was practically choking on her words. It felt as if someone had poured concrete into her airways, making it difficult to breathe. Hunched over, she desperately drew in heavy breaths—her lungs burning from the unexpected exercise. I most definitely cannot do this, she thought to herself, feeling defeated.
"Is that all you can do?" Sir Conan asked with a frown, looming over where she was crouched on the floor. "Now I understand why the doctor advised milady to engage in physical activity. You weren't even running, and look at you."
"He said light physical activity," Dylan said in between breaths, emphasizing the word 'light.'
Sir Conan sighed, extending a hand to assist her. "Lady Dylan, your condition is more concerning than I initially believed. At this rate, wielding a sword might be out of the question."
Dylan gratefully accepted his hand, rising to her bone-tired feet. "Honestly, I don't think this training is the right fit for me," she admitted. "My priority is graduating with a diploma. Studying is what truly matters."
"Getting involved in activities outside of school can help you meet new people," Conan advised, holding out a wooden sword for her to take. "It's how you build connections and gain allies as a noble. This is something you need to learn."
Dylan frowned, hesitantly accepting it with an exhausted arm. She didn't feel the need to build connections because her plan involved leaving the Duke's mansion and relinquishing her noble status after graduation. That was one of the reasons why she avoided attending social gatherings altogether.
In the novel, Dylan revelled in social gatherings, she mused. Her tarnished reputation stemmed from her behaviour at these events. It's simpler to just steer clear of them.
"Now, give me fifty sweeps."
Dylan hesitated. "Fifty?"
She observed Conan's demonstration—a sweeping motion with his large sword, moving seamlessly from one side to another in a swift, practiced movement. His blade seemed like an extension of his arm, synchronized with his actions as if it were an extra limb.
Dylan glanced down at herself with an expression of embarrassment. The wooden sword looked awkward in her arms, as if it had been misplaced and picked up by a stranger. She bit her bottom lip, inwardly cursing Doctor Peregrine, before attempting to lift it with great difficulty.
~
"M, milady," Mina stammered, gently tugging at the bundle of blankets Dylan had cocooned herself in. "It's time to eat and take your medicine."
Dylan, wrapped from head to toe, wriggled around on her bed like a cocooned creature. Mina watched the squirming mass of blankets with a slightly panicked expression, unsure of how to lure Dylan out.
"Hah." The tightly wrapped pile of blankets released a long sigh. "I just want to rest a bit more."
"You can't!" Mina protested. "His Grace sent me to wake you and make sure you eat!"
"My head is pounding, and the light is unbearable, so I can't come out."
"B, but," Mina's eyes drooped with a hint of sadness. "Lady Dylan, I've already closed your curtains. There's absolutely no light—none at all!"
"I have a fever."
It wasn't a complete lie. Dylan had pushed herself too hard when her body wasn't ready, and she was certain she'd catch a cold.
"Then you should come out so we can properly examine you!" her maid scolded, tugging at the blankets once more. "You know how serious it is when milady falls ill."
Dylan hesitated. "I have a nasty skin rash. It's super contagious—you should run and hide."
Mina sighed in defeat as she collapsed onto the side of Dylan's bed. The sun was already shining, and Dylan had wasted most of her day sleeping. She had even skipped both breakfast and lunch, refusing to leave her cocoon of warm blankets.
"Perhaps I should tell you about that thing," Mina said, her voice trailing off near the end of her sentence.
The cocoon rolled over, nearly knocking Mina off the bed. "What thing?" it asked.
"A carriage from Faerchester arrived a little while ago," Mina explained, smiling victoriously. "His Grace was going to tell you once you got up."
No way, she thought, did my Black Coat arrive?
"Eat first, and then we'll go," the maid said, gently placing a tray of warm potato soup in front of Dylan's cocoon. "You also have to take your medicine."