Drac and Lysanne continued sparring while Eric walked over and settled onto the bench at the edge of the training ground, folding his arms as he watched. He had no intention of interrupting them. This was far too interesting.

Drac moved with deliberate restraint, meeting Lysanne’s attacks with ease. His footwork was light, almost lazy, yet always precisely where it needed to be. Eric observed quietly and noted three things almost at once.

First—Lysanne was not a beginner. Her stance was correct, her grip steady, and her swings carried intent. But there was hesitation buried beneath her movements, a lack of confidence that dulled the force behind her strikes.

Second—Drac was holding back. A lot. He didn’t need to meet her blade at all. More than once, Eric saw openings where Drac could have stepped aside without raising his sword, yet he chose to parry instead—matching her rhythm, not overpowering it.

And third—Eric could already hear Ocean’s voice in his head when he told him about this later. Rune and Miri would never let Drac live it down. This was excellent gossip material.

Drac, meanwhile, was studying Lysanne just as intently.

He tracked the way her shoulders tensed before each swing, the slight delay in her footwork, the way she committed too fully to each attack. Her fundamentals were solid, but there was a critical flaw—she overextended. She put everything into each strike, leaving herself vulnerable the moment it missed.

After several exchanges spent purely on defense, Drac shifted.

He grounded his stance, pivoted once, and struck.

It was a single, clean blow.

Steel rang sharply as his sword connected with hers, the force precise rather than brutal. Lysanne’s grip broke instantly, her weapon flying from her hands and skidding across the packed earth several meters away. The sudden loss of balance sent her stumbling backward.

She would have fallen but Drac’s hand closed around her wrist before she could hit the ground.

Lysanne blinked in surprise as he pulled her upright, steadying her with effortless control. Her gaze flicked briefly to her fallen sword, heart still racing. She had felt that strike coming—had known she was exposed—but hadn’t been able to react in time.

She looked back up at him.

From the moment they had begun sparring, Lysanne had found herself drawn to his eyes. Amber, unlike anything she had seen before—elliptical pupils surrounded by warm, honey-colored rings. They were focused, calculating, never once wavering from her movements.

But just before that strike, she had seen it.

A spark.

For the briefest moment, his gaze had gleamed like embers beneath ash—and then the blow had come.

Drac released her wrist as soon as she was steady.

Lysanne became acutely aware of how gentle his grip had been. Strong, unquestionably so, yet careful—leaving no mark, no pressure beyond what was necessary.

She drew a quiet breath, grounding herself again.

Eric, watching from the bench, smiled slowly.

Oh, this was getting good.

"Your basics are good," Drac said, breaking the brief silence.

Lysanne straightened at once, instinctively attentive.

"But you’re struggling to balance yourself with that sword." He gestured toward the short sword lying on the ground.

She glanced at it, then back at him. "But it’s a short sword."

Drac nodded. "It is. But even a short sword requires a certain amount of mass and counterforce to wield properly. Your body doesn’t have enough weight or muscle to absorb the recoil of repeated attacks."

He spoke evenly, not criticizing—observing.

"You’re overcommitting because you’re compensating. That’s why you lose your balance."

Lysanne frowned slightly. "I’ve trained with a sword since I was a child. If I switch weapons now, it’ll take even longer to master it."

She hesitated, then added, "And daggers... those are weapons of assassins, not knights."

Drac was quiet for a moment.

Then he asked, calmly, "Is it bad to have the skills of an assassin?"

The question landed heavier than she expected.

Lysanne opened her mouth, ready to answer—ready to repeat everything she had been taught about honor, about nobility, about what was deemed proper and what was not.

But the words stalled.

Drac’s eyes held hers, steady and unreadable. There was no judgment in them. No challenge. No emotion at all.

And suddenly, she wasn’t so sure what the right answer was.

Drac walked over and picked up the fallen sword, weighing it once in his hand before glancing at her.

"Weapons don’t belong to any one profession," he said evenly. "Assassins are simply more flexible. Their work demands discretion, so they favor smaller weapons—but that doesn’t mean they can’t use swords."

He paused, eyes lifting to hers.

"In fact," he added, almost casually, "they often use them better than knights."

A chill ran down Lysanne’s spine as this time it seemed like he was speaking from experience.

"Y-You seem to know an awful lot about assassins," she said, unable to keep the note of caution out of her voice.

Drac hummed softly, gaze dropping to the blade in his hand. "My Master says we shouldn’t chain ourselves to a single title or a single skill. Having a specialty is fine—but battles rarely respect categories."

He turned the sword slightly, the metal catching the faint morning light.

"If you face an assassin, you can’t expect honor, rules, or courtesy. You fight dirty when the situation demands it. Surviving comes first."

A small smile touched his lips—not warm, not cruel, but with some faint emotion as if he was reminiscing.

Lysanne followed his gaze to the sword.

It was a longsword, yes—but unlike the others she had seen. The blade was darker, the metal subtly rippled as though forged under extreme heat. It carried no ornamentation apart from a small blue stone at the hilt that glinted in the sunlight but apart from that there was no embellishment—only purpose. It suited him in a way that felt unsettlingly natural. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

Like the man himself, it looked forged not for ceremony... but for war.

"Don’t overload the young miss with too much lecture, Drac."

Lysanne flinched as the First Prince walked over. Drac turned toward him without the slightest hint of surprise, as though he had been aware of Eric’s presence long before he spoke.

Eric came to a stop beside him and rested a hand on Drac’s shoulder.

"Besides," he added mildly, "maintain some dignity, man. You’re standing before a noble lady without a shirt."

Only then did it truly register.

Lysanne blinked.

She had seen his bare abdomen moments earlier, yet it hadn’t struck her as unusual—until now. With Eric’s words hanging in the air, the awareness settled in all at once, and she felt a faint warmth creep up her neck. She quickly straightened, schooling her expression.

Drac glanced down at himself, then back at Eric.

"So?"

Eric let out a long sigh, and Lysanne found herself staring in mild disbelief. He really seemed oblivious—moving at his own pace, untouched by the weight of common conventions.

"I usually spar with Master or the kids shirtless," Drac said calmly. "He says it’s fine."

Eric pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Mas-" he caught himself from saying Master too and corrected himself quickly, "Marquis is a different matter. He doesn’t care because he sees you as a son. And the kids you’re talking about don’t care. This," he gestured vaguely between Drac and Lysanne, "is not the same situation. Even he would scold you for this."

Drac paused, visibly considering that.

Then he turned to Lysanne and bowed properly. "I apologize if I offended you, my lady."

Lysanne blinked once, then shook her head. "Ah—it’s all right. Truly."

Eric smiled, clearly amused, while Drac straightened—accepting her words without question and then turned to Eric.

"You’re late," he said flatly.

"I’m not," Eric replied easily. "I came a few minutes earlier. You were already sparring, so I waited."

"You came ten minutes late," Drac corrected.

Eric’s brows twitched. Then he smiled—the kind of smile that meant trouble.

"Then shall we have a little spar of our own?" he asked.

Drac hummed once. "All right."

Eric let out a small sigh before turning to Lysanne, his tone softening as he smiled at her.

"Please don’t find my friend rude, young miss. He’s a bit... slow when it comes to formalities and etiquette," he said lightly.

"But I assure you, he’s a good person at heart."

Lysanne sensed the fondness beneath his words—the quiet pride of someone speaking about family—and smiled in return.

"I see."

Drac walked over to her then, retrieved her fallen sword, and placed it back into her hands. Without another word, he turned to Eric.

"Let’s start."

Eric glanced back at Lysanne. "Would you like to watch, Miss Lysanne?"

She hesitated, her gaze flicking briefly to Drac. His expression gave nothing away.

"I would have," she said politely, "but I need to return now."

She curtsied. "I hope you both have a good day, Your Highness and..." her eyes shifted, just slightly, "Mr. Drac."

Drac nodded once.

Eric promptly smacked his shoulder. "Greet her back."

Drac paused, then inclined his head properly. "Have a good day, my lady."

Eric smiled politely as Lysanne walked away.

The moment her footsteps faded, Eric turned—only to find Drac already raising his sword.

Eric sighed and lifted his own blade. "How are you so dense, my friend?"

Drac answered by swinging.

Steel met steel with a sharp crack, sparks scattering as mana flared along their blades. Eric blocked cleanly, feet sliding back half a step as heat brushed past his cheek.

"I greeted her well," Drac said evenly.

Eric shook his head, stepping into the next exchange. Their swords moved in blinding arcs, bodies shifting with practiced precision, as if conversation and combat shared the same rhythm.

"And here I thought spring had finally come for you too," Eric sighed.

Drac ducked under an arc of Eric’s flame-laced blade, tilting his head slightly as he stepped back.

"But it is spring already," he replied.

Eric laughed, twisting his wrist and forcing Drac to parry. "Get a hint, man. I meant romance."

Drac seemed to consider that, genuinely, while deflecting another strike.

"What about it?"

Eric exhaled, equal parts fond and exasperated, as their blades locked briefly before separating again.

"I worry you’ll die single, Drac."