Chapter 190: Problems co and go.
The scene begins with Damon leaving Aria’s room as if he had just crossed a battlefield that left no victors.
The door slamd shut behind him with a dry, definitive sound, too definitive for sothing that was clearly far from resolved.
He took two steps down the hallway... and almost tripped.
"...Shit..." he muttered, bracing his hand against the cold stone wall.
His whole body ached. It wasn’t the clean ache of intense training, nor the predictable exhaustion of a long fight. It was sothing more diffuse, spreading through every muscle, every joint, as if it had been used to its limit—and then a little beyond.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the sensation concentrated in his groin.
Damon took a deep breath, grimacing.
"Violent sitting is terrifying..." he muttered under his breath, almost impressed. "ntal note: never provoke a jealous swordswoman."
He straightened his posture slowly, testing the weight of his own body, cracking his neck carefully. Each movent brought back a vivid mory of what had happened inside—and of how Aria had decided to "express" her feelings.
There was no blood. No visible marks. But there was sothing much worse: the certainty that she hadn’t gone easy on him. Not at all.
"At least I’m still alive..." he comnted to himself, forcing a tired half-smile.
The hallway was silent, as if the entire mansion were holding its breath. Damon began to walk slowly, letting his body return to its normal rhythm. With each step, the pain lessened a little—not because it disappeared, but because he got used to it. A talent acquired after years of surviving situations that should have been fatal.
Then sothing caught his attention.
Voices.
tal against tal.
Rhythmic footsteps.
He frowned.
This wasn’t normal.
The Wykes Manor training area was famous for being... empty. Not for lack of soldiers, but because Elizabeth preferred discretion. Individual training. Silence. Control.
Damon slightly altered his route and headed towards the inner courtyard.
When he arrived, he paused for a mont.
The place was full.
Knights trained in organized groups, so with longswords, others with lances and ornate shields. The armor was well-maintained, too polished to belong to ordinary soldiers. There were discreet banners, without glaring symbols, but with details that betrayed nobility.
"Huh..." Damon murmured. "Since when did this place beco a barracks?"
He advanced through the courtyard with more attentive steps now, analyzing posture, formation, discipline. They weren’t rcenaries. Nor improvised soldiers.
They were professionals.
At the edge of the training field, casually leaning against a stone pillar, Ester observed everything with her usual expression: serious, cold, attentive. Her hands were crossed in front of her body, and her gaze analyzed each movent of the knights as if evaluating flaws invisible to anyone else.
Damon approached her, stopping beside her.
"I’ll assu this isn’t a surprise exercise," he comnted. "Since when do we have so many knights at the mansion?"
Ester looked away from him for a second to look him up and down.
Her gaze paused strategically.
It went down.
It went up again.
"...You’re walking strangely," she observed.
"Irrelevant details," he replied quickly. "Focus on the question."
She sighed slightly, looking back at the courtyard.
"It seems we have important visitors," she said neutrally.
Damon raised an eyebrow.
"How important?"
"A duke arrived this morning," she replied. "And these are his escort knights."
The word duke made sothing click imdiately in Damon’s mind.
"A duke..." he repeated. "So that explains the excessive tal and the ’don’t touch anything’ faces on these guys."
Esther nodded.
"He requested temporary lodging. Elizabeth accepted."
"Of course she accepted," Damon murmured. "She never misses a chance to... observe."
Esther gave him a brief, almost imperceptible glance.
"This duke didn’t co just out of courtesy," she added. "There are political maneuvers going on. Alliances being tested. Territories in dispute."
"Great," said Damon. "Nothing like bored nobility to complicate things further."
He crossed his arms, watching the knights train. One of them executed a near-perfect sequence of blows, and Damon noticed the detail that confird everything: that man had seen real combat.
"These aren’t just bodyguards," he comnted. "They’re veterans."
"Exactly," Ester replied. "And veterans aren’t sent to accompany soone for no reason."
Silence fell for a few seconds.
Damon felt a subtle shiver run down his spine, not of pain this ti, but of intuition.
"Elizabeth knows sothing we don’t," he said.
"She always knows," Esther replied.
He let out a long sigh.
"And I have this uneasy feeling that it’s going to end up falling on my lap."
Esther tilted her head slightly.
"You tend to attract this sort of thing."
"I don’t attract it," he retorted. "Things follow ."
She almost smiled. Almost.
One of the knights approached an instructor and exchanged a few words in a low voice. Another group changed formation, moving to a more aggressive training exercise. This wasn’t a demonstration. It was preparation.
"When did he arrive?" Damon asked.
"Before dawn," Esther replied. "Elizabeth asked for discretion. And extra attention."
"Extra attention..." Damon repeated. "That’s never a good sign."
He took a step back, stretching his shoulders, ignoring the nagging pain that ca with it. "—Good," he said. "Whoever this duke is, I imagine Elizabeth will want to see ."
"—Probably," Esther confird. "You always end up involved."
Damon glanced at her sideways.
"—You say that as if it were my fault."
"—I didn’t say it was," she replied. "Just that it’s consistent."
He chuckled softly.
"—Fair enough."
The tallic sound of weapons continued to echo through the courtyard, now mixed with sothing more subtle: expectation. Contained tension. The kind of atmosphere that precedes problems too big to ignore.
Damon took another deep breath.
His body still ached.
His mind was still a ss.
And now, apparently, politics had decided to knock on the mansion’s door.
"—Great," he murmured. "Exactly what I needed today."
He started walking towards the courtyard exit, already ntally preparing himself for the next difficult conversation of the day.
Damon exhaled slowly, as if accepting the inevitable.
"Alright..." he said, more to himself than to Ester. "I’ll go about my business."
She watched him sideways.
"Your business" is usually synonymous with trouble.
"Not today," he replied, with a tired half-smile. "Today I’m just going to train."
Ester raised an eyebrow slightly.
"You chose a terrible day to appear calm."
"I always do," Damon replied, already walking away. "It doesn’t an it works."
He crossed the courtyard unnoticed, passing between the groups of horsen. So ignored him. Others watched him for too long. Assessing glances. asured weights. Silent comparisons.
Damon knew that kind of look.
It was the sa one he’d received since he was young: the look of soone judging before seeing.
He wasn’t tall like a colossus, nor broad like a walking wall. His body was defined, firm, but lean. A physique molded for speed, endurance, and precision—not for making a first impression.
And for certain types of warriors... that was unforgivable.
He walked to the furthest training field, a dirt area surrounded by ancient pillars and a few twisted trees. It was there that he trained every day, away from prying eyes, repeating routines already etched into his muscles.
Damon picked up his spear.
The familiar weight brought imdiate relief.
He swung the weapon once, testing his balance, and took his stance.
He breathed.
He advanced.
His body moved almost on its own. Short step, hip rotation, precise thrust in the air. Retreat. New advance. The spear cut through the space with a low, rhythmic, constant whistle.
The pain in his body was still there, but it lessened as he entered the flow. Each movent aligned mind and muscle. Each strike banished too many thoughts.
Then he felt it.
Presences.
Damon didn’t stop training, but his senses opened a little more. Footsteps were approaching. Not silent. Not careful.
Provocative.
"Hey."
He ignored them.
The spear described a low arc, followed by a quick thrust that would have pierced a real target without difficulty.
"Hey, you."
Damon twirled the weapon in his fingers and finally stopped, resting the base of the spear on the ground.
He turned.
Three knights approached. All taller. Wider. Armor partially removed, revealing physiques built for intimidation. The kind that occupied space simply by existing.
The one in front crossed his arms, looking Damon up and down without any disguise.
"Do you train here every day?" he asked, with a crooked smile.
"Every day," Damon replied calmly.
The knight tilted his head.
"Strange. Doesn’t seem like it."
Damon maintained a neutral expression.
"Doesn’t seem like what?"
Another knight laughed.
"Strong."
The first one stepped forward.
"You’re... too slender." His gaze swept over Damon with calculated disdain. "Skinny. No presence. I bet you’d fall with a direct hit."
Damon blinked once.
"Betting usually turns out expensive."
The third knight let out a laugh.
"Look at that, he talks."
The one in front narrowed his eyes.
"You’re being insolent."
"I’m being honest," Damon replied. "You interrupted ."
The knight cracked his neck.
"The mansion is full of important guests today. It’s no place for just anyone to play warrior."
Damon rested his lance on his shoulder.
"Then why are you here, and not protecting your duke?"
A brief silence.
Dense.
The knight took another step, now too close.
"You have too much courage for soone with that body."
Damon smiled slightly.
"And you trust too much in muscles that have never needed to save your life."
The knight’s smile vanished.
"Want to test that?"
A few other knights began to pay attention. The training in the nearby fields slowed down. Curious glances appeared.
Damon sighed inwardly.
Of course, he thought. Trouble always cos when all I want to do is train.
He adjusted his grip on the lance.
"I’m not interested in fighting."
"That doesn’t sound like your choice," the knight replied, already making room, clearly inviting him.
Damon tilted his head slightly.
"Last chance to get back to training and pretend this didn’t happen."
The knight laughed, a harsh sound.
"You really think you can intimidate ?"
Damon took a step forward.
Not fast.
Not aggressive.
Just enough to cross an invisible line.
"No," he said. "I just know exactly how slow you are."
The first blow ca without warning.
A straight punch, strong, overly confident.
Damon dodged by inches.
The world slowed down.
He spun his body, used the knight’s own montum against him, positioned the lance shaft precisely behind his knee, and pulled.
The knight fell with a dry thud.
"ESTER!" Damon yelled, making the entire mansion tremble.
"CALL THAT DUKE SON OF A BITCH HERE BEFORE I KILL ALL HIS SOLDIERS." His voice was loud enough for everyone inside the mansion to hear.
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