The training yard had gradually grown louder over the past week, not because the drills had intensified, but because conversation now filled the space between strikes.
"Lady Arietta," a knight called as he lowered his shield after a test swing, "the reinforcement activates before impact."
She walked toward him immediately, her attention sharpening rather than her posture stiffening.
"Would you demonstrate it again?" she asked, her tone calm and focused rather than defensive.
The knight lifted the shield and struck the training post once more. The wristband flared a fraction too early, reinforcing against empty air instead of actual contact.
Arietta stepped closer and examined the thin thread of mana woven subtly along the leather.
"…That is not your timing," she said after a moment of careful observation.
"It is not?" he asked, clearly uncertain.
"No," she replied, shaking her head slightly. "The trigger threshold is misaligned. I calibrated it too sensitively this morning."
The knight hesitated. "So I am not misjudging the strike?"
"No," she said at once, and this time her tone softened just a little. "This is my error, not yours."
There was no embarrassment in her admission, only quiet acknowledgment.
"I adjusted the detection pattern too narrowly when I compensated for heavier impact force."
She gently lifted his wrist and re-threaded a line of black mana into the enchantment, her control precise and restrained, the dark energy no more dramatic than ink flowing through a pen.
"Please try once more," she said after finishing the correction.
He struck again.
This time the reinforcement engaged exactly at the point of impact, strengthening the shield only when necessary.
He paused, testing the weight in his arm.
"…That feels correct."
"Yes," she answered, and the brief flicker of relief in her expression was impossible to miss. "That is how it should function."
One of the nearby knights gave a faint smile.
"You acknowledge fault quickly, Lady Arietta."
"If it is mine, I should," she replied without hesitation.
There was no pride in the statement, and no self-deprecation either. It was simply an understanding that responsibility did not need to be protected from inspection.
The atmosphere around them eased further.
The first week, they had spoken to her cautiously, as though she might fracture under scrutiny or overwhelm them without warning.
Now they brought her flawed equipment and waited while she adjusted it, like they would with any trusted artisan.
From the balcony above, Klaine watched the exchange in silence.
She did not shield her work from criticism.
She corrected it openly, and in doing so, allowed them to see her limits as well as her strength.
That, more than perfection, built familiarity.
—————
The storm did not announce itself gradually.
One moment the sky above the manor was unsettled but manageable, and the next a violent downdraft tore across the lower grounds, striking the orchard with enough force to bend young trees nearly horizontal.
Several of the outer ward sigils flickered under the sudden pressure shift, and the support structures for the newly installed fencing strained under the wind.
A wooden frame that had not yet been fully secured snapped free.
A young squire, still gathering tools beneath it, looked up too late.
The structure broke loose and collapsed toward him.
There was no time for shouted orders.
Arietta moved on instinct.
Black mana spilled outward from her feet and unfurled into the air in a single smooth surge.
It did not shine.
It devoured light.
The ground beneath her darkened as the mana rose in layered strands that thickened and hardened mid-air, forming jagged supports around the falling frame. The constructs did not resemble ropes or beams; they resembled something grown from shadow, structured but organic, edged in ways that felt wrong to the eye.
The frame halted inches before crushing the squire.
For a suspended second, the orchard felt like the moment before a Gate breach.
Heavy.
Cold.
Unnatural.
Several knights recoiled before they realized they were doing so.
One drew his sword reflexively, metal ringing sharply against the storm.
Another staggered backward, breath tightening in his chest as recognition hit before reason did.
They had seen creatures crawl from fractures in the sky with that same suffocating density.
They knew that texture.
That pressure in the air.
And it now stood in the center of their orchard.
Arietta felt the shift immediately.
She did not turn sharply.
Did not react defensively.
She stepped forward and adjusted the structure instead, redistributing the weight of the wooden frame with minute shifts of dark reinforcement until the strain balanced cleanly.
The beam lowered slowly to the ground.
The black constructs dissolved into thin vapor that slid back into her shadow, leaving nothing broken except the fencing.
Wind rushed back into the space where silence had pressed.
The squire stumbled backward and sat heavily on the ground, breathing hard.
No one spoke.
The knights were still looking at her.
Not with hostility.
But with unmistakable fear.
She noticed.
Her shoulders relaxed first.
Then she deliberately let the last trace of dark mana disperse entirely, allowing the air to clear without residue.
"It is finished," she said quietly, as though reassuring skittish horses rather than trained soldiers.
No one moved.
The knight who had drawn his sword seemed suddenly aware of it in his hand and lowered it slowly.
"…Lady Arietta," he began, and stopped, unsure how to phrase what he had felt.
She met his gaze directly, without challenge.
"I am sorry," she said before he could continue.
The words startled several of them.
"I should have narrowed the manifestation radius," she added calmly. "The environmental pressure amplified its presence more than necessary."
It was not an apology for saving the squire.
It was an apology for frightening them.
The tension shifted.
"You stopped it," the squire blurted out, still pale. "It would have crushed me."
She turned to him instead.
"You must secure structures from the windward side first," she said gently, offering correction instead of dwelling on fear. "This frame lacked counterbalance."
"Yes, Lady Arietta," he said quickly.
Her gaze returned to the knights.
"I did not use command," she said plainly. "I did not interfere with your will."
That mattered.
They could feel it now that the pressure had faded. Their minds were clear. Their autonomy intact.
One of the older knights exhaled slowly.
"It felt…" he searched for the word, "…like the Gate."
She nodded once.
"It does resemble it."
No denial.
No attempt to soften the truth.
"But it obeys only me," she added, her tone steady but not sharp. "And I use it deliberately."
The knight studied her expression carefully.
She was not looming.
Not threatening.
She looked… almost concerned.
Gradually, posture shifted back toward readiness rather than defense.
By the time Klaine arrived, the orchard was quiet except for the wind and the creak of settling wood.
He took in the broken structure, the shaken squire, the knights' guarded stances, and Arietta standing still in the center of it all.
"You contained it," he said evenly.
"Yes."
"You shaped, not commanded."
"Yes."
He nodded once.
Good.
His calm cut through the remaining tension more effectively than orders would have.
That evening at dinner, the atmosphere was restrained but not hostile.
The knight who had drawn his sword cleared his throat midway through the meal.
"Lady Arietta."
She looked up.
"Yes."
"…Thank you for acting quickly."
The words were careful.
But sincere.
"You are welcome," she replied gently.
A small pause followed.
"I frightened you," she added quietly.
The knight did not immediately deny it.
"…Yes."
She nodded.
"That is reasonable."
There was no bitterness in her voice.
Only acknowledgment.
"But you did not run," she continued. "And you did not strike."
He met her eyes properly then.
"No."
"That matters to me," she said.
Something subtle shifted at the table after that.
Fear acknowledged loses edge.
Later that night, Klaine found her standing by the library window.
Rain slid quietly down the window.
"They remained," she said again, softer this time.
"Yes," Klaine answered.
"And you remained."
"Yes."
She took a small breath.
"…Thank you."
He looked at her.
"For what?"
"For not stepping back."
Her voice was light, almost cheerful, but there was something fragile under it.
"You saw it clearly. You felt it."
"Yes."
"It looked like the Gate," she continued, trying to smile. "Anyone would be careful."
"I was not stepping back," he said calmly.
"No?"
"No."
She studied him carefully.
"You were not unsettled?"
"I was alert."
"That is different."
"Yes."
She looked down for a moment before speaking again.
"When I use that power, I know how it feels to others," she said quietly. "I would understand if people needed distance."
"I did not."
She looked up.
"Why?"
"Because I know you."
The answer came without delay.
"You have never used it without control," he continued. "You stopped the beam. You did not attack anyone. You did not lose yourself."
She swallowed slightly.
"It is still unpleasant."
"That does not make it wrong."
She tried to laugh lightly.
"You are very steady."
"I am certain."
"About what?"
"About you."
The words were simple.
Direct.
She fell quiet.
Rain moved softly against the window, steady and calm, tracing quiet lines down the glass.
"You do not have to stay," she said gently.
"I know," Klaine answered.
"But you are."
"Yes."
"I am here because I choose to be," he continued, his voice even and certain.
She studied him for a long moment, then smiled — warm and open, full of quiet confidence.
"I still like you," she said clearly. "I liked you before the storm, I liked you while you stood in the orchard watching everything carefully, and I like you now."
Her hands rested comfortably at her sides as she spoke.
"I am afraid of many things," she went on, her tone steady, "but saying that is not one of them. I want to stand beside you, openly and without hiding."
She held his gaze.
"I still want to be your wife."
Klaine watched her with calm focus.
"You are very direct."
"Yes."
"It suits you."
"That is fortunate," she replied, her smile widening slightly.
He stepped closer, closing the remaining distance between them.
"You say you want to stand beside me."
"Yes."
"Then stand."
She moved closer until they were only a breath apart, comfortable in the shared space.
After a quiet second, she lifted her hand slightly.
"May I hold your hand?" she asked, her voice gentle but steady.
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
He reached for her first, his hand closing around hers with firm warmth.
She tightened her fingers around his in return, grounding and sincere.
"I am glad you remained," she said softly.
"I told you," he replied. "I am here."
She nodded once, her smile deepening.
"Good."
Outside, the rain continued its quiet rhythm.
Inside, they stood side by side, hands joined, choosing the same place and the same moment together.