Take Me Away, Dark Lord!

’This is a day spa with weapons. They are actively committing high treason against Papa’s orders because they think I’m too cute to sweat. This is the greatest military corruption scandal in Imperial history!’

”Yes, Sir Pyros,” Seraphina replied, maintaining a perfectly straight, serious face.

She stepped up to the edge of the chalk circle.

She took a deep breath, raised her small fists into a determined running posture, and began to jog.

She did not sprint, but executed a light, bouncy, incredibly adorable toddler-trot around the ten-foot circle.

The reaction from the sidelines was that of an unhinged pandemonium.

”Look at her form!” Sir Gallahan cheered loudly, clapping his gauntleted hands together. ”The kinetic efficiency is flawless! Notice how her little boots barely disturb the ash!”

”Pace yourself, My Lady!” Sir Boris bellowed encouragingly, gripping his massive war hammer like a cheerleader’s baton. ”Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth! You’re dominating the terrain!”

”Incredible stamina,” Captain Pyros wept, physically wiping a tear of pure pride from his scarred eye. ”I have trained thousands of recruits. I have never seen such raw, unadulterated cardiovascular potential! She is a natural-born athlete!”

Seraphina completed the first ten-foot lap, but she wasn’t even breathing heavily. Her heart rate had barely elevated above its resting pace.

She continued into the second lap, deliberately adding a small, triumphant little skip to her step just to see what would happen.

The men practically lost their minds.

”A tactical skip!” Lucas gasped, clutching the hilt of his broadsword in awe. ”She is integrating erratic movement patterns into her baseline mobility! It makes her an unpredictable target for snipers! Pure genius!”

Seraphina crossed the imaginary finish line of the chalk circle, coming to a halt. She placed her hands on her knees, letting out a small, highly exaggerated phew, playing along with these grown, childish man’s with their delusions.

Instantly, she was swarmed.

Sir Boris was there in a second, draping a massive, incredibly soft, ice-cooled towel over her shoulders.

Sir Gallahan shoved a crystal goblet of chilled, imported Southern fruit juice into her hands. Captain Pyros was furiously fanning her with a large palm frond he had apparently procured specifically for this purpose.

”Hydrate, My Lady, hydrate!” Gallahan urged frantically. ”You just expended a massive amount of caloric energy! The caloric deficit must be balanced instantly, or your core will suffer!”

”You crushed the perimeter, Mushroom,” Boris beamed, his single eye shining with absolute pride. ”The record for that specific chalk circle remains undefeated.”

Seraphina sipped the chilled fruit juice, her dark eyes looking over the rim of the crystal goblet at her fanatical, heavily armed entourage.

’I am going to milk this for absolutely everything it is worth,’ Seraphina decided, fully embracing the corruption. ’Papa Duke wants me to be forged in fire? I am going to be forged in chilled juice and enthusiastic compliments!’

Once the arduous, life-threatening exertion of the two-lap marathon had concluded, it was time to move on to the next phase of the curriculum: armed combat basics.

”To control one’s mana, one must first learn to channel it through a physical focus,” Captain Pyros lectured, adopting a slightly more serious tone, walking over to the massive, iron-barred weapon racks lining the walls of the Crucible. ”The body is a vessel, but a weapon acts as a conduit, refining the chaotic energy into a precise, targeted strike.”

He threw open the heavy gates of the armory.

The racks were filled with the brutal, highly lethal tools of the Southern Legions. There were massive, two-handed broadswords, jagged halberds, heavy iron maces, and wickedly curved scimitars.

”Now,” Pyros mused, rubbing his chin. ”For a beginner, a standard training sword is usually appropriate.”

He reached for a wooden practice sword. It was made of dense, heavy hickory, designed to mimic the weight of real steel. It was about three feet long and weighed roughly four pounds.

Sir Lucas was there before Pyros could even lift it off the rack.

Lucas slammed his hand down on the hickory sword, his scarred face twisting into a mask of pure, homicidal outrage.

”Are you out of your mind, Pyros?” Lucas hissed, his voice dropping into a lethal, venomous whisper. ”Look at the grain density of that wood. Look at the balance. If she swings that, the kinetic momentum could cause a tear in her cuff! Do you want the Archduke to freeze your lungs? Because if you injure her shoulder, I will hold you down while he does it.”

Pyros snatched his hand back as if the wooden sword were covered in venom. ”You are correct, Commander. My apologies. The standard issue is entirely too barbaric for a Sovereign’s delicate joints.”

”We need something lighter,” Sir Boris declared, stomping over to the weapon racks. ”Something perfectly balanced. Something that cannot, under any circumstances, cause a splinter.”

The three Vanguard commanders and the Chief Fire Instructor proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes aggressively arguing over the structural properties, weight distribution, and splinter-probability of every single training weapon in the armory.

They rejected bamboo because it was too brittle, rejected the hollowed iron because they were too cold, and categorically rejected anything that had a point sharper than a boiled egg.

Finally, Sir Boris let out a frustrated growl, drew his massive, mythril-forged hunting knife, and marched over to a pile of discarded balsa wood used for target kindling.

With the meticulous, terrifyingly gentle precision of a master sculptor, the giant knight proceeded to rapidly, frantically carve a weapon from scratch.

Five minutes later, Boris returned to the center of the arena, dropping to one knee in front of Seraphina.

”Your weapon, My Lady,” Boris announced proudly, holding out his creation on his two massive palms like an offering to a goddess.

Seraphina looked at it.

It was a sword, technically. Well... It was roughly the length of a standard ruler.

It was carved from incredibly soft, feather-light balsa wood. The edges had been sanded down until they were completely round.