Back at the Valliere mansion, everything was quiet and green.
The repairs from Lita's earlier mishap had been dealt with quickly — servants were thorough, and the walls no longer showed any trace of the damage. The garden was exactly as it always was: wide, well-kept, and caught in a warm afternoon light that made the whole estate feel like it existed slightly outside of time.
Lita moved through her forms in the open grass, her new outfit fresh and comfortable, her grip on the magic hilt easy now — more natural than it had been even a few days ago. She summoned a blade, dismissed it, and called it back in a different shape. Tested the weight. Adjusted. Each movement flowed into the next.
At the small table nearby, her mother sat with tea in hand and documents in front of her, the picture of absolute calm. She glanced up at Lita once in a while, her expression unreadable, but she was watching. She always was.
Flare stood a short distance away, arms folded, doing the same.
For a little while, nothing happened. The garden was peaceful. Lita was focused. It was, by all measures, a good afternoon.
Then something shifted.
Lita was mid-swing when she felt it — the magic in the blade surging past what she'd intended, the glow suddenly too bright, the air around the hilt vibrating in a way that set her teeth on edge. She tightened her grip instinctively, but the energy kept building, restless and large and not quite hers anymore.
Not again.
She exhaled through her teeth, planted her feet, and pulled it back — not by force but by stillness, the way Flare had been drilling into her. Hold it. Don't fight it. Shape it. The glow dimmed slowly, the tremor in the ground beneath her settling into nothing.
Lita let out a long, shaky breath.
Flare had already taken a step forward, ready to move in — but she stopped when she saw Lita straighten up, the hilt quiet in her hands again. A flicker of something approving crossed her face.
Lita glanced towards the table. Her mother hadn't looked up from her papers.
She sat down in the grass, just for a moment, and stared at the hilt resting across her knees. The power in it was growing. She could feel that. And lately, so was whatever it was responding to in her — that deep current that ran beneath her magic, the part that sometimes slipped the leash before she even noticed it had moved.
How does she do it? Lita thought, watching her mother from across the garden. All that power, held so effortlessly. Never a tremor. Never a slip. Just absolute, unhurried control.
She wanted that. Badly.
She stood up, squared her shoulders, and got back to work.
By late afternoon, Lita had made up her mind.
"Flare." She turned with the look that Flare had come to recognise — bright, determined, and about thirty per cent likely to cause mild property damage. "Can we do a mock battle? Just a short one."
Flare raised an eyebrow. "You've been at this all day."
"I know. I want to test everything."
There was a pause. Flare's expression did the small internal calculation it always did when Lita asked for something borderline. Then she gave a single nod. "I'll need to ask your mother first."
She crossed the garden to the table and bowed slightly. "Madam, Lita has requested a mock battle to close out her session. Do I have your permission?"
Her mother looked up from her documents. She studied Flare for a moment, then shifted her gaze to Lita, who was standing ready in the grass, trying not to look too eager and failing completely.
"Permission granted," she said. "Don't hold back too much. Let her learn."
Flare returned to Lita and unsheathed her own blade — slender, no-nonsense, and clearly very used. She gave Lita a long, level look. "Ready yourself. I won't make it easy."
Lita summoned her sword, the pale light of it steady in the afternoon air. She took her stance. Across from her, Flare was completely still, completely relaxed, which somehow made it more intimidating.
"Begin."
Lita went in fast. She aimed for Flare's left side, the angle she'd been drilling, putting her weight behind it—
Flare deflected without blinking. Not even a step back.
They moved through the garden, steel ringing against steel, the sound of it clean and sharp in the open air. Lita pushed attack after attack, trying the angles and combinations she'd built over weeks of practice. Flare met every one of them, redirecting, parrying, and countering with a precision that made Lita's best efforts feel like rough drafts.
"Your movements are too predictable," Flare said, not even winded. "Stop telegraphing."
Lita pushed magic into the blade on her next swing, the glow flaring bright. The strike had real force behind it this time — Flare blocked it, but she had to shift her stance.
That was something.
Lita pressed forward, keeping the pressure up, refusing to let the rhythm break. She could feel herself hitting her limit, her arms burning, her concentration stretched thin — but she didn't pull back. One last surge, everything she had left, her sword driving into Flare's block with everything behind it—
Flare held. Then, with one smooth motion, turned Lita's blade aside and placed her own at Lita's chest.
"Done."
Lita dropped to one knee, gasping. Her whole body ached. She was grinning anyway.
Flare extended a hand. "You did well. You still have a long way to go." She pulled Lita to her feet. "But you did well."
"I'll take it," Lita managed between breaths.
Across the garden, her mother had set down her pen. She was watching with an expression that wasn't quite a smile — but it was close.