On a day as still and unassuming as any other, a lone figure was training his sword. The man, garbed in simple but well-worn training attire, was imrsed in his sword practice. He gripped the hilt of his katana and slid the sword into its sheath, the motion smooth and deliberate, the weapon fitting snugly into place with a soft click.
Then, without hesitation, his hand moved with practiced precision, drawing the blade in a single, swift motion. His arm moved in a perfect arc, a diagonal cut that was at once fluid, lightning-fast.
The man was training in the art of sword drawing, his eyes closed in deep concentration. With each fluid movent, his body seed to beco one with the weapon in his hands. As his sword slid from the sheath in a swift, practiced motion, his breath followed the rhythm of his movents—slow and deliberate, in perfect harmony with the arc of his blade.
"A little bit faster this ti"
"Slightly upwards"
"The sheathing was not fluid," Each ti the sword left its sheath, the man would speak his faults aloud, as if acknowledging them.
It was the thod he ca up with, a form of self-correction that had beco second nature. The slightest imperfection, a minor deviation from perfection, was an invitation to grow—an opportunity to refine his craft and himself. This was no ordinary practice; it was also self-reflection. By vocalizing his shortcomings, he anchored himself in the present mont, constantly reminding his body and mind of the adjustnts required.
BANG!
The door to the quiet training room suddenly crashed open, breaking the stillness that had enveloped the man's practice. A woman, draped in a stunning black gown, burst into the space, her movents filled with an unmistakable urgency. The rich fabric of her dress swirled around her, the delicate edges catching the faint light that filtered through the window, casting shifting shadows on the floor.
Her face was obscured by a net veil, so fine it appeared almost transparent from a distance, but upon closer inspection, it was completely opaque—an impenetrable barrier that concealed every feature, every expression. It gave her an air of mystique as if she were both here and yet sowhere else entirely, distant in a way that was both unsettling and captivating.
"Cassius! Cassius!" Her voice, sharp and insistent, cut through the serene cadence of his movents, a stark contrast to the stillness that had been previously.
Cassius slowly opened his eyes, his calm gaze shifting to the right where the woman stood. Without hesitation, he bowed his head deeply, his tone respectful yet formal.
"I greet the Duchess."
The woman's response was imdiate, her voice laced with an unmistakable sulkiness, as though her mood was a reflection of a deeper frustration. "You still haven't given up on training in this slly place, and didn't I previously tell you to change your way of greeting and not greet in the sa way as everyone greets including that old crook?"
Cassius sighed softly, his voice carrying a note of gentle pleading as he spoke, "Miss, you should not be in this place."
The Duchess crossed her arms and asked "Why? Is this not the place you live? Was I not the one who brought you here? Then why can't I be here?" her words were coming in quick succession, like a series of rapid-fire questions.
She seed to pause as if sothing new had crossed her mind. Her eyes widened slightly, and her voice dropped into sothing fearful, and vulnerable. "It—It can't be... are you rebelling against ? You are going to leave ?"
Cassius stood motionless, his gaze not shifting from the Duchess, had one thought 'Another day wasted without being able to train with peace.'
With a deep breath, he finally spoke, his tone calm but firm, "Miss, you should know better than why you should not co to this place. This is the servant quarters. You should also not call the Head Butler an old crook. Even the young miss has started to pick up on your bad habits. A few days ago, she called him an old crook, acting just like you. When he told her not to call him that, she started pulling on his beard. The young miss is also secretly reading far too many novels that are not suited to her age. I –"
"STOP IT! STOP IT! I didn't bring you here just for you to start nagging at like that old crook!" The Duchess shouted, her voice rising in frustration. She threw her hands over her ears and began shaking her head left and right as if trying to block out the words, her tantrum unraveling with the recklessness of a child.
As she flailed about, it beca apparent that the veil that obscured her face was not just a delicate piece of cloth—it seed almost fused to her features, not moving at all, as though it were more a mask than a veil.
'This woman is a pain. Maybe I should not have chosen to follow her.'
Before he could catch himself, the Duchess's voice broke through his quiet contemplation, sharp and accusing. "Hey! You thought sothing rude about . Didn't you?"
Cassius didn't flinch, nor did he move. His posture remained as still as it had been when she first barged in, the calm exterior masking any trace of the irritation he had fleetingly felt. He was used to her accusations, to the way she could read him with unsettling accuracy.
"There is no way I could ever think sothing like that,"
"Hmm! I forgive you for whatever you thought, just this once," the Duchess said with a dramatic sigh, her hand resting firmly on her waist, the gesture full of superiority. "But you have to stop swinging that piece of crap and agree to follow my orders."
"NO! There is no way I would agree to anything like that." Cassius's voice cracked with a rawness that he rarely allowed to show. "Last ti, I agreed, the Duke nearly choked to death, and I couldn't even do anything..." He took a quick, shaky breath, the mory clearly haunting him. "If I listen to you again, the Duke will chop into a minceat."
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