Back Home
“Lily, that was incredible!”
Lisabelle found herself hoisted into the air, borne on the shoulders of half a dozen exhilarated townsfolk. Viena flitted beside her, chattering with breathless delight, her voice bright as chimes in a summer breeze. Around them, the crowd pulsed with jubilant energy, celebrating the fierce, fleeting duel as though it had been the final clash of a grand campaign.
For a moment, the bruises and torn fabric were forgotten—drowned in the honeyed haze of victory, as though the collective memory of her injuries had been scrubbed clean by their euphoria.
“Cough.”
Lisabelle winced, pressing her palm to a tender spot on her side. “It wasn’t all that grand. He was holding back, playing nice.”
“Enough,” Vincent’s voice cut through the revelry, calm but commanding. He stepped forward, gesturing firmly for the crowd to part. “Make way. Fetch the medevist.”
At his word, the sea of well-wishers receded, and Lisabelle was lowered gently to the ground. The medevist—a lean, steady-handed man with clear eyes—knelt by her without fuss. His fingers worked swiftly over her frame, weaving spells and wrapping gauze in tandem, and within minutes, he sat back with a nod.
“She’ll mend well enough. No grave harm done.”
A collective breath, long held, broke loose in sighs of relief. Vincent offered a curt nod, and soon after, the mood lifted again; torches were relit, food and drink emerged anew, and the gathering eased into a smaller, warmer celebration. In the flicker of duskfire and the mellow murmur of voices, Diene approached Lisabelle.
The military woman’s tone was measured, but not cold—seasoned with something that resembled pride. “You fought well. I’ll see to it personally that, should you choose to enter the academy next year, your name will be weighed fairly.”
Lisabelle did not answer at once. Her breath steadied slowly; her gaze lingered on the modest feast, on Viena’s smile, on the easy laughter that melted the edges of the long afternoon. She didn’t need to rush.
To her mild surprise, Diene did not press. Her stance softened, the lines of her face easing—not with false civility, but with something older, quieter. Perhaps it was the balm of shared company smoothing old fractures. Perhaps she truly meant to leave their tangled history behind.
Lisabelle only offered a small nod, neither promise nor refusal. For now, it was enough.
"There are still months to go, Lady Diene. I will give you my answer in—"
Clank.
The porcelain cup slipped from Lisabelle’s fingers and shattered against the tiled floor, sharp fragments scattering like white shards of ice.
"Oh my—are you alright? Are you hurt?" Diene’s voice cut in, swift but composed, her hand lifting instinctively to her mouth.
At once, the maids hurried in with practiced grace, crouching to gather the broken pieces.
"My apologies. It slipped my hand. That was… embarrassing of me," Lisabelle murmured, her brow furrowed faintly.
"No, it’s nothing grave," Diene replied steadily, her tone free of coddling. "The strain from your bout earlier must still be working through you."
As their conversation carried on, Viena—having just returned from the corridor—noticed the remnants of the mishap. Her eyes narrowed slightly, quick to catch details others overlooked. Silently, she crept to Lisabelle’s side. Diene observed without intervening, her gaze sharpening, as if appraising a tactic on a field rather than a parlor game.
Without Lisabelle noticing, Viena reached under the chair’s right armrest and pinched her sister’s hand firmly. Strangely, Lisabelle did not flinch, nor react at all—until Viena suddenly bounced up with a playful yelp.
"Wah!"
"Uwaah! What in the—Vivi, what are you doing?!" Lisabelle recoiled, instinctively yanking her hand back. But Viena held fast, her small fingers clamped with surprising strength.
"I knew it!" she declared, her emerald eyes flashing triumphantly. "You’re having intraplegia, aren’t you?!"
"Me? Intraplegia? Heh. Nonsense." Lisabelle scoffed, though a faint tremor crossed her expression.
"Hmph! You are just acting tough, aren't you? The momentary loss of senses, involuntary muscle moves, pale skin . . . Everything is checked! And how you can't even notice me pinching you tells it all!"
"Quit playing smart with me or I will squeeze your cheeks until all your teeth fall out."
Lisabelle narrowed her eyes and, in mock retaliation, reached to squeeze Viena’s cheeks. Yet as her fingers moved, they betrayed her—jerking erratically, a subtle quiver betraying her lack of control.
"Hm hm! See?!" Viena chimed, leaning into her victory.
"T-This was just-!" Lisabelle began sharply.
"Lady Lisabelle." Diene interjected, her calm voice cutting through the sisters’ squabble like the clean strike of a sabre.
Diene calls out to Lisabelle and hands her something from her purse. It's a flat wooden cylinder with a certain symbol on its lid. Lisabelle accepted - with her left hand of course - and opened it to see what was on the inside.
"An ointment?"
"An antispastic muscle relaxant. For those assigned the role of military medic personnel, it's mandatory for us to bring some in time of emergency. It's perfect for light to moderate degrees of intraplegia."
Lisabelle hesitated. The pride was visible in the set of her jaw—but so was her awareness of Diene’s unspoken expectations. Refusing would border on rudeness. Finally, with a quiet breath, she dabbed a finger into the salve and began smoothing it over the knuckles of her afflicted hand.
Viena, undeterred, eagerly joined in—spreading the ointment over her sister’s wrist and palm with theatrical precision, her grin widening with every stroke.
"Hey, why are you rubbing my hands too?" Lisabelle muttered, shooting her a half-hearted glare.
"Ooh! It’s cold!" Viena replied blithely, ignoring the protest as she smeared another generous dab across Lisabelle’s knuckles.
Then, with the curiosity only she could summon in such moments, Viena lifted her ointment-smeared fingers and took an enthusiastic whiff. Her nose crinkled thoughtfully.
"Lady Diene! Is it beeswax, ginger… and Montana?" she asked brightly, eyes gleaming.
Diene arched an eyebrow, visibly impressed. "You’re quite observant, little one. Yes, we use those—but the key ingredients are Dragon’s Blood and resin from the Horim Cedar."
"I see! That explains the red color!" Viena chirped, nodding sagely as though she’d just solved an ancient alchemical mystery.
A wry smile tugged at the corner of Lisabelle’s lips despite herself. She flexed her fingers cautiously, noting with relief that the stubborn tremor had dulled. Turning to Diene, she inclined her head with measured gratitude. "Thank you, Lady Diene. Truly."
"It was nothing," Diene replied, her voice even, though there was a glint of quiet satisfaction in her gaze—as though she'd expected no less from Lisabelle’s composure.
The afternoon unfolded gently thereafter. The three lingered, conversation softening into easy exchanges that ebbed and flowed like an old river—unhurried, mellowed by the waning sunlight.
When the bronze bells chimed a quarter past four, the guests began their farewells. One by one, they drifted from the grand halls of the Arbon estate.
Viena, Lisabelle, and their household gathered at the threshold to see Vincent and Diene off, their parting words warm and well-measured. And as the final carriages pulled away down the elm-lined avenue, the sisters, too, quietly readied themselves to depart—still basking in the afterglow of a day that, despite its sharp edges, had softened into something almost tender.
Before their parting, Liam and his maids brought forth a modest array of gifts, offering them with casual generosity to the girls and their escorts.
To Viena, Liam handed a sundial compass, polished brass glinting under the afternoon light. He’d noticed how her gaze had lingered on it during their tour of the mansion, her curiosity too transparent to miss.
For Alan came a finely stitched pair of gloves, supple leather fitted for a swordsman’s grip; for Gwen, an elegant cravat of midnight blue silk—its weave just bold enough to be distinctive without being ostentatious.
And to Lisabelle, his dear niece, Liam presented a short sword. Its hilt gleamed subtly, and along the steel’s fuller ran an inscription—etched not for flourish, but for meaning.
"So many gifts. Are you sure, Uncle?" Lisabelle asked, her brow arching in wary fondness.
"Of course, dear," Liam replied breezily. "It’s far better that these see use rather than gather dust and give the maids more work than they already have. Ah—actually, I almost forgot..."
At his cue, Matilda stepped forward, bowing gracefully as she presented a lacquered tea caddy set to Lisabelle.
"This is for Eleanor," she explained softly. "Try not to break this one, yes? The cup you shattered earlier was over a hundred years old. This set is more recent, but no less precious. It was specially commissioned by your mother, from Master Zhang Yuan of Xin. Sadly, it took so long to complete that she never had the chance to enjoy it herself."
Lisabelle accepted the gift wordlessly, setting it carefully inside the carriage. Then, without further ceremony, she turned and wrapped her arms around her uncle in a rare, quiet embrace—one stripped of her usual sharp retorts and guarded airs.
(I love you, Uncle Liam. Take care, okay? I'll come again.)
For a fleeting moment, she thought he might mirror her subtlety. But Liam, true to form, shattered the tranquility in spectacular fashion.
"YES, OF COURSE! I LOVE YOU TOO, MY CUTEST YABEL! DON’T GROW UP TOO SOON, OKAY?!"
Before Lisabelle could recoil, Liam ruffled her hair and peppered her head with exaggerated, noisy kisses.
Red-faced and spluttering, Lisabelle shoved him off and delivered a resounding slap to his shoulder. But it wasn’t just Liam’s cheek that flushed scarlet—her own face bloomed into a furious, mortified blush.
"W-What the hell are you doing?! Die, you disgusting old man!! I hope both sides of your pillow are never cold!"
Laughter rippled through the onlookers as Lisabelle stomped toward the carriage and slammed the door behind her. Alan and Gwen exchanged grins, gave their farewells, and soon followed suit, their horses trotting steadily into formation.
As the carriage began to roll down the long, elm-lined avenue, Viena’s bright head popped out the window. She waved both arms vigorously, her voice carrying in the crisp afternoon air.
"Uncle Liam! Thank you for today! Don’t smoke again, okaay?! Bye bye!"
Liam barked a laugh, cupping his hands to his mouth. "Hah! That’s a tall order, kid! You’ll have to come stop me yourself, you hear me, Viena?!"
"Yeah! I will come again!"
The carriage, flanked by ten of Liam’s finest men—armored and vigilant—rolled steadily toward the border of the domain. Beyond it stretched the main roads of Rosmayne, heavily patrolled in preparation for the upcoming international event. Safer, some said, than even some of the most infamous quarters of the capital itself.
Thus ended their brief outing in Neims. Short though it was, the memories Lisabelle and Viena had woven here would linger, bright and unforgotten, for years to come.