Historia blushed at her own boldness as she stared down at her hand. It was nothing, really—just a fleeting moment—but somehow, it still meant something. Her fingers tingled with the memory of his cool, unmoving hand. He didn't pull away. He didn't flinch. He just... let her hold it.
Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she glanced around. Nicklaus had already vanished, disappearing down one of the winding corridors of the palace. With a sigh, she retraced the steps they had taken earlier, hoping her memory wouldn't fail her.
Luckily, a maid happened to pass by. Historia quickly stopped her and asked for directions to the training ground. The young maid gave a polite bow and motioned for her to follow.
They exited through the eastern arch of the palace and stepped into a massive open courtyard encircled by towering stone columns and black iron torch-holders, though the fires had long since died. The ground beneath was made of polished grey stone and layered sand, clearly worn from years of sparring. On one side stood rows of weapon racks gleaming under the morning light—swords, daggers, staffs, and even crossbows. Scattered training dummies stood like silent sentinels, many of them already shredded and beaten from previous drills. In the far corner was a dueling ring marked with white chalk, and beside it, a shallow pit filled with cold water, most likely for endurance tests or post-training cool-downs.
Vivian stood in the center of the arena, arms folded tightly against her chest, her fiery hair catching the light like living embers. Her sharp grey eyes snapped toward Historia the moment she entered.
"What took you so long?" Vivian's tone was flat, but the irritation in her voice was unmistakable.
On the bench at the side, Kelly sat with her injured leg propped up, her head resting against a pillar. She waved weakly at Historia.
Historia exhaled slowly, trying to keep her temper in check. "I got lost," she said, brushing her silver hair out of her face. "This place is a maze." she lied.
Vivian arched a brow, circling her like a hawk assessing prey. "If you can't find a training ground, how do you expect to survive in a place like this?"
Historia felt a spark of irritation flare in her chest, but she didn't let it show on her face. She clasped her hands behind her back, scanning the arena with interest instead of answering the insult.
Vivian tossed a wooden sword toward Historia without warning. Historia caught it by the hilt, the polished wood smooth and cool against her palm. She had barely wrapped her fingers around it when the sound of approaching footsteps echoed across the stone floor.
Morgana and Helena entered with their usual proud air—chins lifted, eyes sharp, and movements graceful like predators who owned every inch of the room. Their long, dark coats swayed behind them as if the wind itself parted for their presence.
"You're late," Vivian said, her voice carrying authority as she addressed them. She gave Helena a small, polite bow, but her tone toward Morgana was laced with a bite.
"Sorry," Morgana replied curtly, her voice cold. She strode to the weapon rack, selecting a wooden sword with an almost dismissive flick of her wrist. Her crimson eyes shifted to Historia with predatory amusement. "Allow me to spar with the wolf girl first."
"Historia," she corrected, voice calm but firm.
The tension between them was palpable—like sparks waiting to ignite. Vivian's sharp eyes darted between the two women, her interest piqued. She leaned toward Kelly and muttered, "This might get entertaining," before stepping aside and giving Morgana a nod.
"Fine. Let's see what the wolf can do."
The two women faced each other. Historia settled into a defensive stance, her feet steady on the polished floor. Morgana moved first, lunging with the speed of a striking serpent. Her wooden sword whistled through the air, forcing Historia to block. The sharp crack of wood against wood echoed through the training ground.
Morgana pressed forward relentlessly, her attacks fast and heavy, each strike meant to overwhelm. Historia, however, remained calm—dodging, parrying, and studying her opponent's rhythm. Sweat dampened Morgana's temples as she grew more frustrated with each failed attempt to land a decisive blow.
Then, Historia's emerald eyes sharpened. She had it—Morgana's pattern.
With a sudden pivot, Historia sidestepped the next swing, swept her leg behind Morgana's, and hooked the wooden sword against her wrist. Morgana stumbled, and the sword slipped from her grip. In one smooth motion, Historia's wooden blade tapped Morgana's shoulder.
The spar was over.
"Gently done," Vivian murmured with a smirk from the sidelines. Kelly clapped once, trying not to laugh.
Morgana's pride burned in her scarlet eyes. She bared her teeth slightly, fangs peeking, and threw aside the broken wooden sword with a snarl.
"This isn't over."
Without warning, she launched at Historia using her vampire abilities—her speed blurring, claws unsheathing, her entire body a streak of predatory fury. Her senses sharpened; her ears twitched to catch every movement, and her pupils dilated like a true hunter.
Historia's lips curved in a cold smirk. "So that's how you want to play?"
With a low growl, she let her own claws slide out, gleaming silver under the sunlight. She didn't even shift fully into her wolf form—she didn't need to. Her reflexes as a werewolf were enough.
The fight that followed was brutal and swift. Morgana struck with all the force and speed of a vampire warrior, but Historia met her head-on, blocking with casual precision and side-stepping with infuriating ease. A flick of her claws here, a calculated kick there, and Morgana found herself slammed to the ground for the second time, pinned with a claw lightly pressing against her throat.
Historia didn't even look winded.
"Second time," she said coolly, her voice carrying a hint of mockery. "Are you going to take this seriously, or keep embarrassing yourself?"
The training ground went silent except for Morgana's low growl and Kelly's soft whistle of amusement. Vivian leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, the corners of her mouth twitching in approval.
"My turn," Vivian said, rising smoothly from her seat. Her movements were precise, deliberate, every step exuding the quiet confidence of a predator.
Morgana, still fuming, stormed off the arena and plopped down beside Helena, her pride wounded and cheeks burning with anger. Helena patted her knee silently, her own gaze flicking curiously back to the center of the arena.
Historia retrieved another wooden sword, twirling it once in her hand before facing Vivian. This time, her stance was lower, her grip firm. Unlike Morgana, Vivian approached with measured grace—her sword raised but her expression calm, almost unreadable.
The first clash of wood against wood rang like a bell, sharp and echoing across the stone courtyard. Vivian moved with the discipline of a seasoned warrior, her swings precise and efficient. Historia met her strike for strike, her eyes focused, taking this fight far more seriously than she had with Morgana.
Dust lifted from the polished obsidian floor as they circled and exchanged blows, neither yielding an inch. Each time Historia tried to press forward, Vivian's calm defense held firm. Each time Vivian struck, Historia met her in perfect timing.
Minutes passed before they broke apart, breathing lightly but steady. It was clear to everyone watching: this round was a tie.
But neither of them was finished.
Vivian's calm eyes darkened, and in a single motion, her vampiric power flared. Her claws extended, her eyes gleamed like molten silver in the light, and though her fangs remained hidden, every sense sharpened with predatory precision.
Historia matched her without hesitation. Her werewolf claws slid out, silver and sharp, her ears elongating into furred wolf ears of the same gleaming color. She did not unleash her fangs or eyes yet, but the heightened instincts of a hunter radiated from her.
The arena crackled with tension. They were no longer sparring—they were predators testing dominance.
And just as the two women launched at each other, a deep, commanding voice cut through the air:
"Enough."
A strong gust of wind accompanied the sudden presence that stepped between them. Both women were gently but firmly pushed back, as if an unseen force pressed against their chests.
Historia's claws hovered midair, inches from Vivian's arm, and Vivian's own strike stopped just short of Historia's neck.
Standing between them was Jeremiah.
He was the kind of man who demanded attention without speaking. Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence was as imposing as it was effortless. His jet-black hair was neatly tied back at the nape, a few loose strands brushing his sharp jawline. Piercing ice-blue eyes glimmered beneath straight dark brows, seeming to see straight through a person's soul.
The sunlight caught the subtle sheen of his pale, flawless skin, making him almost ethereal, and his tailored black training coat hugged his physique just enough to hint at the hard muscle beneath. His lips curved faintly—not quite a smile, more like an expression of quiet amusement at the sight before him.
Even his voice carried a smooth authority, low and commanding, sending a subtle shiver across the arena.
"Training," he said slowly, his eyes flicking between them, "does not mean destroying each other."
Both Historia and Vivian lowered their weapons slightly, though neither looked ready to admit defeat.
From the benches, Kelly muttered to herself, "Great timing."