"May I come in, Lord Leor?"
The voice that spoke was soft, barely audible through the thick wooden door of my east wing chamber.
I already knew who it was. The only person who ever knocked gently and waited like I mattered.
"Yeah. Come in."
The door opened without a creak—she was careful like that.
Eris stepped in with a silver tray balanced perfectly in her hands. A porcelain teapot and two cups rattled softly with each step. She was precise, deliberate. Even the way she placed the tray on my table felt rehearsed.
"Your tea, my Lord."
"Thanks."
It was always this routine. Same time, same words. Neither of us had much else to say. I wasn't exactly the type people talked to. Not in this world. Not in the last.
Eris stood there quietly, hands folded in front of her apron, waiting. Most nobles treated their servants like they were invisible. But I saw her. She didn't laugh at me like the others. She didn't whisper behind my back.
She stayed.
And I respected that more than she'd probably ever know.
I took a sip of the tea. Subtle bergamot, just how I liked it.
Even here… something still felt familiar.
"Eris," I said, lowering the cup, "would you come with me today?"
Her head tilted slightly. "Come with you, my Lord… where?"
"Outside the estate. Past the eastern training field."
There was hesitation in her expression. Just for a second. Then she bowed.
"As you wish."
No questions. No protests.
We left through the east gates. The guards didn't even look up. The Hollow Noble needed no protection, after all. No magic. No purpose. Just a wandering ghost of House Eidenhart.
The sky above was smeared with grey clouds. The air had a faint metallic scent, like rain threatening from behind the hills. The ground beneath our boots softened with each step into the outer fields—past the stables, past the training yard, and into the tall grass that bordered the forest line.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
But I welcomed it.
Eris followed behind me, silent as always.
I stopped near an old wooden post and unsheathed the bamboo stick from my belt. Carved from the garden trees myself. Balanced, crude—but familiar.
I raised it.
One step forward.
Kamae.
Strike. Return.
Each movement flowed like water down stone. It had been weeks since I'd trained outdoors. I hadn't dared—afraid of sneers, afraid of more laughter.
But not here.
Here, there was no one to laugh.
Just Eris.
And the wind.
She sat on a stone nearby, hands resting neatly on her lap. Her eyes occasionally flicked toward me—then back down to the notebook in her hands. She was sketching something, I think.
Even she didn't mock me.
That was enough.
Kendo: Not about strength. About rhythm. Form. Heart.
I moved again.
Strike. Step. Return.
Then repeat.
A breeze rolled across the field.
Then stopped.
And then—
Thud.
My body stilled.
Thump. Crack. Crunch.
It wasn't wind.