A Dangerous Obsession
Chapter 81 - 80

Chapter 81: Chapter 80

CHLORENDIA DOWNHILL

Dragging Lylda to the training grounds was probably one of my more impulsive ideas. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud. After the fiasco with Alpha Alaric, guilt had been gnawing at me, though I buried it under layers of sarcasm and annoyance. I couldn’t shake the image of Lylda standing up for me, his frail frame against Alaric’s monstrous strength. Stupid, reckless, and entirely unnecessary—but brave nonetheless.

The training grounds stretched out before us, bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon. Sparring dummies, worn and battered, stood like sentinels in neat rows. The air carried the scent of trampled grass, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of weapons that had seen far too many battles. Somewhere in the distance, guards barked commands, their blades clashing in a steady rhythm.

I turned to Lylda, who stood behind me like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights. His wide eyes darted from me to the wooden swords lined up along the rack, and I could already hear the excuses forming in his head.

"Pick one," I said, nodding toward the swords.

He blinked. "M-my lady, surely you don’t mean for me to—"

"Pick. One." I crossed my arms, daring him to argue.

With a resigned sigh, he shuffled over to the rack, his fingers hovering uncertainly over the handles before finally settling on the smallest, lightest one. He held it up like it was a poisonous snake, his expression a mix of dread and confusion.

I groaned. "It’s a sword, Lylda, not a relic from the goddess. Grip it properly, or you’ll lose a hand before you even swing."

He fumbled to adjust his grip, but the sword wobbled in his hands like it had a mind of its own. I bit back a sigh, reminding myself that this was supposed to be a lesson, not a torture session—though it felt like both.

"Alright," I said, stepping back. "Show me what you’ve got."

He raised the sword awkwardly, his elbows jutting out at odd angles. The swing that followed was... tragic. The blade flopped through the air with no power or precision, and he nearly tripped over his own feet in the process.

"Stop!" I barked, holding up a hand. "Just—stop. What was that?"

He looked at me sheepishly, his cheeks flushing. "My best attempt, my lady?"

"Well, your best is pathetic," I snapped. "Your stance is all wrong. Your grip is too loose. And what are you even doing with your feet? Dancing?"

"I-I’ve never done this before," he stammered, clearly flustered.

"No kidding," I muttered under my breath.

Stepping closer, I grabbed his shoulders and forced him into a proper stance. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees slightly. Keep your weight balanced, or you’ll end up flat on your face."

He nodded, adjusting his position as I directed. His movements were stiff, awkward, like a pup trying to mimic an adult.

"Now," I said, placing my hands over his to guide the sword. "Swing from the shoulder, not the wrist. Like this."

Together, we moved the sword in a slow, deliberate arc. His body was tense under my hands, every muscle straining as he tried to follow my lead.

"My lady, you really don’t have to—"

"Quiet," I said, cutting him off. "Focus."

His grip tightened, and I could feel him trying to match my movements. We repeated the swing a few times, each one slightly smoother than the last.

"There," I said finally, stepping back. "Now try it on your own."

He hesitated, his gaze flicking between me and the sword. With a deep breath, he raised the blade and swung. It wasn’t perfect—not by a long shot—but it was better.

"Well, you’re not completely hopeless," I said, crossing my arms.

A small, proud smile tugged at his lips. "Thank you, my lady."

"Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got a long way to go before you’re even halfway competent."

He nodded, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his tunic. The afternoon sun had left his face flushed, and his breathing was already labored.

"You need to build endurance," I said, handing him a waterskin. "You’re winded after ten minutes. That won’t cut it in a real fight."

He took the waterskin gratefully, drinking deeply before responding. "I’ll work on it, my lady. I promise."

"See that you do," I said, though there was no real bite in my words.

As I watched him, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something—admiration, maybe? Despite his weaknesses, he was trying. And for someone like Lylda, who had probably never held a sword in his life, that was no small thing.

"You’ve done enough for today," I said finally. "Go rest before you keel over."

He sank to the ground with a groan, leaning back against a tree. "Thank you, my lady. Truly."

I rolled my eyes. "Don’t make a habit of this gratitude nonsense. It’s exhausting."

He chuckled, the sound soft and weirdly pleasing to hear. "You’re kinder than you let on."

I stiffened, the words catching me off guard. "Don’t push your luck," I said, though my tone lacked its usual sharpness.

For a moment, we sat in silence, the distant clatter of weapons filling the space between us. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, noticing the way his gaze lingered on me.

"Rest up," I said as I stood, brushing dirt from my clothes. "We’ll continue tomorrow."

"I’ll be ready," he nodded.

As I walked away, I found myself glancing back at him. There was something about Lylda—something unexpected. Maybe he wasn’t as hopeless as I’d thought.

And maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a waste of time after all.

The warmth of the evening air dissipated the moment I stepped into the manor. The grand halls greeted me with their usual chill, a stark contrast to the day’s fading light. The faint scent of polished wood and aged stone lingered in the air, mingling with the muted sounds of servants bustling in distant corners.

I was halfway to my chambers when I felt it—the weight of his presence. It wasn’t something I could see or hear; it was an unmistakable shift in the atmosphere, like the air had suddenly grown heavier. My steps slowed, and sure enough, when I turned the corner, there he was.

My father.

He stood at the far end of the hall, his posture as rigid as the ancient portraits lining the walls. His cane, ever-present, was held firmly in his grasp, though he barely seemed to lean on it. His expression was unreadable, the kind of blank slate that only made him more intimidating.

For a moment, I considered turning around and taking a longer route to my chambers. But that would only invite questions—or worse, suspicion. So, with a deep breath, I straightened my back and approached him, each step echoing faintly against the polished floors.

When I was close enough, I slowed to a halt and dipped into a low bow, keeping my eyes on the floor. "Father," I greeted, my voice steady but carefully neutral.

"Chlorendia," he replied, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

I straightened, meeting his gaze briefly before lowering mine again. His eyes were as cold and calculating as ever, a storm of judgment simmering just beneath the surface.

"Go to your chambers," he said curtly. "And clean yourself up. You look unkempt."

The words stung, though I knew they were meant to. My father had a talent for turning simple observations into subtle insults.

Without another word, I dipped into another bow and stepped past him, my steps measured and deliberate. It wasn’t until I was a safe distance away that I let out a slow breath, my shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

When I finally reached my bedchamber, I pushed the door shut behind me and leaned against it for a moment, letting the silence of the room wash over me.

The flickering light of a single candle illuminated the space, casting long shadows across the walls. My bed, neatly made, looked more inviting than ever, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air—a touch added by the maids, no doubt, to help with sleep.

I crossed the room and sank onto the edge of the bed, the soft fabric of the quilt cool against my skin.

The weight of the day pressed down on me, and I leaned back, letting myself fall onto the bed. The ceiling stretched high above me, its intricate carvings a familiar sight. I stared at it for a long moment, my thoughts swirling.

Eventually, I pushed myself up and began to unlace my boots, the small task grounding me in its simplicity. One by one, I pulled them off and set them neatly by the side of the bed. Then I shrugged off my outer layers, leaving myself in the loose, comfortable garments I wore beneath.

As I moved to extinguish the candle, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room. My reflection stared back at me, tired but unbroken.

"You’re stronger than he thinks," I murmured to myself, the words barely audible in the quiet room.

You are way stronger than he could ever imagine.