No one knew exactly when it started, but the atmosphere in the Rathsture Residence had changed.
At first, the servants and guards treated Riven casually. They greeted him with smiles, sometimes even making small jokes when delivering meals or passing him in the halls. Some asked about his training, others about his sister. And although Riven was never much of a talker, he always returned their warmth with small nods or short, polite replies.
But in the past few days, all of that had faded.
Slowly, yet clearly enough to notice, their attitude shifted. Not in any dramatic way, but enough to feel it in the air. Their smiles turned stiff. Their gazes flickered away quickly. And whenever Riven asked something, the answers were brief, hurried, followed by excuses like, "I need to clean the kitchen," or "I have duties in the east corridor."
He wasn't stupid. But he also wasn't someone who liked to pry. As long as Melly was safe, as long as he could still train and sleep without worry, Riven chose to stay silent.
That afternoon, as usual, he sat alone at the training grounds, leaning against a large cold stone, his breath uneven after finishing his drills. His loose shirt was drenched with sweat, and Riftmaker was still held loosely in his right hand.
He stared blankly ahead at the wooden training dummy, now half destroyed after hundreds of strikes. Yet not one of those strikes felt like the perfect one he was searching for.
Just one strike. One perfect strike driven by absolute intent to cut whatever stood before him without hesitation or fear of consequence.
He wondered how one was supposed to cut with force that held nothing back. Without restraint. Without doubt. He felt like he had long discarded hesitation… but something else was missing.
Footsteps approached quietly behind him. Light, controlled, yet full of presence.
He knew who it was before he even turned.
"Asha," he murmured, like greeting the wind.
She walked toward him wearing a simple dark blue dress that contrasted with her pale skin. Her red hair was tied loosely, and her sharp eyes studied him from afar before she came closer.
"I heard you just now," she said softly, almost gentle, though something cold lingered beneath her voice. "You muttered under your breath. Something troubling you?"
Riven finally turned. His brown eyes met her blood-red ones. Calm, unreadable, always holding some unfathomable depth. A predator's patience.
He nodded with a rough exhale. "I… still haven't made any progress. I still don't know my affinity."
Ashtoria said nothing for a moment. She simply observed him. Then her lips curved slightly. Not a warm smile, but something subtle and unsettling. The kind of expression that suggested she found a strange satisfaction in his frustration… not out of cruelty, but because she wanted to be the only answer he could turn to.
"In that case," she said plainly, "do you want to spar?"
Riven raised a brow, but his eyes lit up. "Right now?"
Ashtoria stepped closer. Her movements were light, graceful, yet every gesture carried purpose. She stopped a few steps away and nodded.
"Yes. I believe you've grasped the basics of swordsmanship well enough. I think it's time you move to the next stage."
Her gaze dropped to the sword in his hand, then lifted to meet his eyes, sharp as a drawn blade.
"And besides," she added in a low voice, "I've been curious to see how far you've come."
Riven let out a quiet breath and gave a faint, weary smile.
"…Alright," he said, lifting his sword. "I'm ready."
Ashtoria's smile shifted just slightly. Her eyes narrowed with something nearly resembling excitement, though too controlled to show fully. She drew her training blade, spinning it effortlessly in her hand before taking her stance.
"Then show me," she whispered, "how you intend to cut me down."
Riven rose to his feet, gripping Riftmaker while his breaths steadied. His eyes locked on the red-haired woman before him. Calm. Cold. Still as water beneath moonlight.
"Ashtoria," he said quietly, "I've always wondered… is the sword really your primary weapon?"
Ashtoria paused a few steps away. The wind brushed through her red hair, glinting faintly in the fading evening light. She looked at him with that same deep, unreadable calm.
"…No," she replied flatly.
Riven frowned. "Then how are you so skilled with it?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she shifted her grip on the practice blade, raising it smoothly into position.
"When you are left with no choice, you learn to master whatever kills your enemy first," she said, her tone soft yet chilling.
"The spar starts now."
Riven wanted to question her words, but he had no time.
Ashtoria moved.
No warning. No countdown.
She struck like a shadow cutting through the air. Riven barely raised his sword in time.
CLANG!
They traded blows in rapid succession. Riven swung downward, then turned to strike low, but every attack was deflected effortlessly. Not by strength, but by perfect, efficient precision.
"Your direction is messy," Ashtoria commented calmly, parrying another strike. "Your footwork is predictable. You shift to your right every time you attack. A sharper opponent would cut you down before you could raise your sword again."
Riven gritted his teeth and poured his strength into a spinning slash. But before the blade reached her, Ashtoria's knee pressed lightly into his stomach, knocking his breath for just a second, and her blade touched his neck.
"Done."
Riven froze. One knee hit the ground. His breath came rough and frustrated. But beneath that frustration was awe. He knew Ashtoria was strong. But the gap between them today felt like a chasm… even when she was holding back.
Ashtoria lowered her blade. No smugness. No mockery.
Only calm.
"Your fighting style relies on power and endurance. But your body is not built for that. You are fast. Your reflexes are excellent. Yet you restrain yourself too much, caught between wanting to be a heavy striker and a swift swordsman. You need to choose."
Riven raised his head, sweat tracing his jaw. "Choose… what, exactly?"
"Do you know," she asked, "about the four sword styles?"
Riven fell silent.
Styles?
Before he could speak further, the evening wind stirred the leaves around them. The dying sun cast a soft red glow across Ashtoria's hair, like embers burning in the dark.
She stood quietly.
Waiting.