– A Month and a Half Later -
The morning mist clung low across the Verdant Estate's training grounds, a pale haze that softened the edges of the world. The air still carried the chill of dawn, though the sun had begun to pierce the mist in slender shafts that glimmered against the polished earth. The training yard was empty save for two figures standing across from one another — one tall, sculpted by years of training and battle; the other, small yet firm, her shadow thin but unyielding beneath the rising light.
They both held long swords — simple blades of wood, scarred by past practice sessions. There was nothing noble about them, yet the atmosphere was heavy, almost reverent. Today, they would not be used for drills or light routines. Today, they were weapons in a contest — a spar meant to measure progress, endurance, and perhaps something unspoken.
The tall woman, her raven hair bound in a loose tail, rolled her shoulders as she spoke, voice steady and faintly teasing.
"You ready?"
The smaller girl — her white hair tied messily behind her neck, sweat already gathering on her brow despite the cool air — nodded. "You bet."
Her tone was light, but her eyes were focused. Sophia Verdant had learned, over the past month and a half, that bravado alone did nothing. Yet, she refused to let fear or fatigue dull her spirit.
"What are the rules?" Iris asked again, her grip on the wooden sword light but precise, as though she was holding something alive.
Sophia took a slow breath. "To land a strike on you while you defend my attacks."
Her knees bent, spine straight, both hands clutching the wooden sword's hilt with quiet determination. Her form wasn't perfect — her elbows stiffened slightly, her stance too narrow — but there was discipline in every line of her posture.
Iris's lips curved faintly. "Good. Let's start this."
Her tone was calm, almost casual, but her eyes sharpened as she raised her blade in one hand. Her off-hand drifted behind her back, a relaxed stance that carried the confidence of a seasoned warrior.
The wind stilled. The mist parted slightly between them.
And Sophia moved first.
The sound of her foot against packed dirt echoed through the grounds — sharp, determined. Her body lunged forward, sword thrusting in a clean, direct line aimed at Iris's midsection.
But before it could even reach, Iris's wrist flicked once. The wooden blade brushed Sophia's attack aside with an effortless parry. The impact made a hollow crack, and the force sent a tremor through Sophia's arms. She stumbled — not enough to fall, but enough to feel the gap between them widen like a canyon.
Her breathing steadied. Her recovery was quicker this time, smoother than before. She had spent weeks conditioning her reflexes, forcing her body to obey her will.
Again she attacked — an overhead strike this time, bringing the sword down with all her weight behind it.
Again it was deflected, Iris's sword catching hers like water shaping around stone. The rebound jolted Sophia's wrists, sending a sting through her bones.
Her blade wavered.
– Sophia –
'Damn, it's like hitting a mountain.'
I bit back a grunt, sliding my foot backward to regain balance. The wood vibrated faintly in my grip. My arms throbbed. Iris hadn't even moved her feet — she was still in the same spot, her body relaxed, eyes unreadable.
Precaution over pride — that was the lesson Juan had drilled into me during mana training. Never assume safety. Never assume mercy.
I tightened my grip, lowered my body slightly, and swung in a horizontal arc.
The sound of impact echoed once again — and again, my attack was swept aside as if it carried no weight.
"You won't be able to do anything with that," Iris said flatly. Her voice lacked mockery, yet its firmness struck harder than her parries. "Try to improvise."
She wasn't wrong. I had practiced these stances to exhaustion. Sword Thrust, Overhead Strike, Horizontal Slash — the basics etched into my bones. But repetition wasn't the same as mastery. Against Iris, every strike felt predictable, every movement telegraphed.
Still…
I couldn't just give up.
'Think, Sophia. There's no rule that says I can't change my stance mid-swing…'
The idea hit me like a spark in the dark. I steadied my breath, waiting for the rhythm of her stillness. Then I lunged.
– Iris –
The girl moved again — smaller now, sharper, her feet carving faint prints into the dust. Her eyes gleamed with a focus that was rare for her age. I shifted my weight, ready to parry another Overhead Strike.
Her form looked the same — until it didn't.
In mid-swing, her wrist turned, her elbow folding inward. The downward motion transformed into a sideways sweep — a feint, perfectly executed in motion.
My brows lifted in surprise. 'She changed stances mid-air?'
I twisted my grip to meet her horizontal blade — just in time.
The wood clashed. The impact wasn't strong, but her intent was. Her body trembled with effort, trying to overpower me. The stance was correct — but her body wasn't ready for it.
"That's enough," I said quickly, stepping back and lowering my weapon.
– Sophia –
"That's enough," Iris's voice cut through the sound of my breathing.
I froze mid-step, confused. "But I can keep going—"
The protest barely left my mouth before a sharp pain tore through my back. It felt as though something had snapped — a deep, tearing ache that made the world blur for an instant.
"Stop!" Iris's command thundered through the field. She crossed the distance in a blink and caught me before I could fall.
"That feint was brilliant," she said, her tone half-scolding, half-concerned. "But your body isn't ready for that yet."
Her words sank slowly through the haze of pain. Despite everything, I couldn't help but feel a small flicker of pride. Brilliant, she said.
As Iris carried me toward the mansion, her voice softened slightly. "I've acknowledged your readiness. By the authority granted to me by Duke Verdant, I'll begin teaching you the basic techniques of the Verdant Household."
Even through the ache, my heart skipped once.
The techniques of the Verdant Household — finally.
– Two Days Later –
The sun had climbed high above the estate, scattering warm gold over the field. The training grounds, once quiet, were alive with the rhythmic clatter of wood.
"Gosh, that really hurt," I muttered, stretching my arms. The pain had dulled into a lingering ache that flared when I moved too quickly. Iris, standing a few paces away, didn't seem the least bit sympathetic.
"It has to," she said matter-of-factly. "You did something no five-year-old should've been able to do."
Her words weren't exactly comforting, but I felt a flicker of satisfaction anyway.
Iris's eyes softened slightly. "Now. Let's begin with the basic techniques every Verdant Knight must master."
She unsheathed her sword in one smooth, graceful motion. The sunlight caught on the steel, flashing briefly like a star before dimming.
"Tell me, Sophia," she said quietly, "what holds a swordsman steady when the world moves against him?"
Her question caught me off guard. I thought for a moment, recalling the lessons on posture and balance. "His legs," I answered.
Her lips curved faintly. "No. His 'heart'. The legs follow. A calm heart is unbreakable."
She raised her sword and stepped into position. "First form: Stonefoot. Feel the ground. Do not merely stand on it — belong to it."
I watched closely. Her stance was wide but fluid, her knees loose, her breathing even. When she moved, it wasn't against the wind but *with* it.
"A stone does not resist the river," she murmured. "It lets the river flow around it."
In that moment, she looked utterly immovable — like the earth itself had accepted her presence.
"This," she said, returning to rest, "is the lowest form of the Rooted Stance."
I copied her. My legs spread, knees soft, shoulders relaxed. I held the wooden sword upright, trying to mimic her stillness.
"That's perfect form," Iris said, picking up another wooden blade from the rack. "But imitation isn't mastery. The Rooted Stance must be felt, not repeated."
She approached — her movement soundless on the packed soil — and without warning, swung downward.
Instinct screamed, and I raised my weapon with both hands.
Bam!
The impact sent dust flying. My feet sank slightly into the ground. My arms trembled under the pressure, but I didn't fall.
When the weight lifted, I exhaled shakily.
"The Rooted Stance distributes force evenly," Iris explained, lowering her blade. "Through the arms, the legs, into the ground. It's the stance that endures storms without breaking."
She stepped back, her tone resuming its calm edge. "From today, we'll train this stance. I'll attack. You'll defend. By the end of this month, I expect you to master it."
I blinked. "By the end of this month?"
Her expression didn't change.
I felt a pit form in my stomach. :By the end of the month…? Just one strike from her nearly crushed me!'
I swallowed hard. "I—I'll try my best."
"Good," Iris said simply, raising her blade again. "Then let's start once more.
– Damien –
From the balcony overlooking the training grounds, Duke Damien Verdant observed quietly, hands clasped behind his back.
'The Rooted Stance,' he mused. 'A fundamental technique — simple in form, but merciless in practice.'
Sophia's figure below was small, yet she stood unflinching against Iris's relentless strikes. Every block shook her shoulders, but she endured.
Each Household had its own sword style, and the Verdant lineage had several — practical, grounded, shaped by centuries of battle. The Rooted Stance was one of the oldest. It formed the base upon which all Verdant techniques were built.
Stonefoot. Iron Flow. Earthheart.
Three forms — low, mid, and high. Each demands not only strength, but harmony between heart and soil, body and will.
'If she can master Stonefoot now,' Damien thought, watching Sophia absorb another strike, 'she'll have a foundation stronger than any child her age. The mid forms will follow naturally once her Aura awakens.'
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "Honey, what are you doing?"
He turned slightly. Isabelle stood behind him, her white hair cascading over her shoulder, her presence a gentle counterpoint to the rough rhythm of training below.
"Observing," he said simply.
Her eyes followed his gaze. "Oh, I see… Well, breakfast is ready. Should we wait for her?"
He hesitated, watching as Sophia caught another blow — her knees bending, the dust rising. The stance held, if barely.
"Yes," Damien said finally. "We'll wait."
– Sophia –
"Rest up. We'll continue tomorrow."
Iris's voice came through the haze of exhaustion. My arms hung limp at my sides, my breath ragged. She placed her wooden sword back in the rack, and I did the same, though my hands shook faintly from strain.
Half an hour later, I found myself at the dining table, the smell of fresh bread and herbs making my stomach growl.
Father looked up the moment I entered. "So," he said, smiling faintly, "learning the Rooted Stance?"
"Yes," I said, sitting across from Mother. "It's difficult to defend against Iris's attacks, but I'll get there soon enough."
"Good," he said approvingly. "Our Household has many techniques, but not all will suit you. Did Iris explain how the low, mid, and high forms work?"
"Not yet," I admitted. "She said she'd give me a manual to study the theory. But…" I hesitated, curiosity winning over fatigue. "Can you tell me about the mid and high forms?"
The question lingered between us as the maids began setting the table. The morning light caught in the glass, scattering soft reflections across the wood. My body still ached, but beneath it, a steady rhythm pulsed — resolve.
The Rooted Stance wasn't just a form. It was the first step toward belonging — to the blade, to the Verdant name, to myself.
And I would master it, no matter how many times I had to fall.