After a simple washing, Freyja stepped out of her chamber.Though the hour was still early, the servants were already awake, bustling about their morning duties.
As she descended the spiral staircase, she caught sight of a young maid in a white uniform, diligently polishing with a cloth.
"Good morning, Lady Freyja," the girl greeted respectfully.
"Mm, good morning." Freyja smiled and gave a small nod. She was about to continue down the stairs when a thought struck her, and she turned to ask,"Tell me, has Father taken his breakfast yet?"
"The Baron departed for the city at first light, my lady," the maid replied with deference.
"Oh… I see." Freyja inclined her head, her thoughts drifting elsewhere.
—The Castle's Dining Hall—
Breakfast was not a meal required to be shared, and thus only a scattering of people sat at the long tables.
After exchanging a few polite greetings, Freyja took her seat and ate simply from the fare brought by a maid. As she had expected, the high seat at the head of the table remained empty.
She lingered on no idle thoughts; once her meal was finished, she rose at once and departed.
Her recent recklessness—sneaking into the forest to hunt alone and suffering an attack—had earned her a punishment of sorts. The Baron had confined her within the castle under the guise of concern, a restriction that resembled a gentle imprisonment.
Yet Freyja herself found no reason to resist. The realm beyond the walls was rife with turmoil; stepping outside would invite only peril to herself and needless worry to her father. Far better to remain within and seek purpose here.
Thus, rather than returning to her chamber after breakfast, she followed her memory through the castle's winding passages until she reached a heavy door deep within.
It was unlocked, and yielded easily to her hand.
The chamber beyond was vast and bare. Sunlight poured in through tall windows, its golden glow reflected upon the polished reddish-brown floorboards. From outside drifted faint echoes of the guards' distant training.
Within stood little more than exercise equipment and a row of wooden sword racks.
This was a place reserved for those of particular standing within the household, a private training hall.
In her childhood, Freyja had wandered here out of curiosity a few times, where the Baron himself had guided her through the rudiments of swordplay. At the time, the repetition of a handful of strikes and thrusts had quickly wearied her, and she had abandoned the lessons with a child's impatience.
Yet now, she recognized what she had once dismissed: that the simplest forms were the truest foundations, and that strength was born not of flourish but of discipline.
She approached the rack and drew down a practice blade.
The wooden longsword was heavy in her grasp, carved to mimic steel. Roughly a meter in length, its crossguard and blade formed the familiar cruciform design. The hilt bore faint etchings to steady grip, lending it a certain authenticity.
Closing her eyes, Freyja sank into memory.
Her thoughts, sharpened by the clarity of morning, reached deep. Forgotten details resurfaced as if painted anew upon her mind.
There, within recollection, stood a broad-shouldered man with a full beard, smiling as he demonstrated a slow sequence of strikes for a small girl at his side. His movements—downward cleaves, angled slashes, straight thrusts—were measured and deliberate. To the untrained eye they might have seemed casual, but in Freyja's gaze they were precise, flawless.
The forms were few, yet she soon grasped their rhythm and intent.
Her eyes flew open. In one fluid motion, she brought the wooden sword down in a heavy cleave, then swept it across in a horizontal strike—just as the Baron had once shown her.
The weight of the blade dragged her slightly off form. Her mind recalled the motions with clarity, yet her body faltered for want of practice.
She adjusted her stance, drew a breath."Thrust!"
A faint whistle cut the air. Her golden hair, lifted by the motion, caught the morning light in a hazy shimmer.
"Upward cut!"
The wooden blade sang as it carved through the stillness.
She moved swiftly through the sequence, each strike bringing sweat to her brow.
Switching the sword to her left hand, she felt the strain in every limb. Though the motions were simple, they demanded her entire strength.
Her body, inherited from the Baron, was sturdier than that of most girls her age—yet even so, the exertion tested her.
She flexed her aching right hand."If only the blade were lighter…"
But she knew well—true swords in this world were wrought of iron, and only the great houses possessed steel. Such weapons were reserved for the finest warriors. Here, weight and endurance mattered more than sharpness. A heavy blade, even dull, could still crush a foe.
Complaints would avail her nothing. Training must go on.
Again the whistle of wood through air rang out. Again, and again.
Skill was not won in a day, but in persistence.
Gradually her movements grew smoother, her strokes surer. Familiarity lent them speed; her once-clumsy forms began to flow with a certain grace.
The wooden blade hissed and hummed, weaving arcs in the air.
And as the rhythm took hold, Freyja felt something stir within—a resonance, as though the echoes of her childhood practice were awakening in her body once more. Perhaps she did indeed hold a natural affinity for the sword.
Immersed, she forgot fatigue, forgot even the sweat that soaked her garments.
Her strikes grew sharper, more fierce, until at last she spun, driving the blade upward in a final flourish—then stopped, chest heaving.
"Ha… ha…"
Exhaustion caught her at once. Her young body trembled from the strain; muscles burned, and yet a lightness filled her limbs, a strange exhilaration.
And then she realized—it was no mere illusion. Her keen mind caught the subtle shift: strength, faint but undeniable, had taken root.
Wiping her brow, Freyja gazed at the sword in her hand, a small smile curving her lips."So… this truly is the most effective way. But overindulgence would bring harm instead of progress. I shall need a plan."
The Baron, burdened with the influx of vagrants across his lands, rarely remained in the castle. Days might pass without his presence, and when he returned, his blade was often stained with blood, leaving him no time to concern himself with her.
That suited Freyja well enough.
Thus her days fell into rhythm: breakfast, sword drills in the training hall, running exercises in the courtyard, and evenings spent within the library's quiet embrace.
Her habits soon became known throughout the castle; even the Baron, on occasion, offered her brief words of guidance.
And so her new life of discipline continued, day by day—until half a month had quietly passed.