The garden training ground was silent save for the sound of Sona's ragged breathing. Her body shook, bruises marking her pale skin under her training robes, hair clinging with sweat. Riser stood opposite, shirt half-open, fists glowing with black flame and Armament Haki.
"On your feet." His voice was steel.
"I—already—am—" she hissed back, staggering upright.
"Not enough. You're relying on your magic again. I told you—your body first, your mind second, your magic last." His foot slammed against the ground, shaking the dirt. "Fight me with your will, Sona!"
Her water spells flickered, then faded as she clenched her fists instead. She lunged, throwing a punch with all her weight. He caught it effortlessly in his palm, Armament shimmering like black steel. The shock sent pain screaming up her arm.
"Again."
She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. Again, again, again—each strike bruised her knuckles, each block reverberated in her bones. Yet she refused to stop.
Finally, something cracked—not in her bones, but in her soul.
Her fist glowed faintly, skin darkening with a sheen that wasn't magic at all. A spark of black hardened across her knuckles. The moment it struck Riser's chest, he actually grunted, the first real impact she'd landed.
"…There," he said, smiling faintly as he looked at her trembling fist. "That's it. Armament."
Sona gasped, eyes wide. "…This…?"
"Your body's answer. Your will turned into armor." He stepped closer, wrapping his larger hand around hers, reinforcing the faint coating. "It starts small. Harden it. Sharpen it. One day, it'll split the inside of your enemies apart. Internal destruction. Then you'll learn to let it flow outward—emission."
Her lips parted, realization dawning. "…So it's…me. Not my magic, not Sitri, not anyone else. Just me."
Riser's eyes softened. "Exactly. That's why I chose you."
She froze, blush betraying her fatigue. "…Idiot."
But he only chuckled, brushing his thumb against her bruised knuckles. "Now listen. You've touched all three Haki. But Haki doesn't grow like spells or rituals. It grows with your body, your battles, your will. Especially Conqueror's—it can't be trained like a formula. It's conviction itself. You sharpen it by living your dreams without surrender, even at death's door."
His tone turned deeper, almost reverent. "Observation—you stretch it by expanding your awareness until the future itself whispers. Armament—you grind your body against suffering until steel feels soft. Conqueror's—you just don't break."
Sona's chest heaved, tears pricking her eyes—not from weakness, but the raw force of his conviction hammering into her.
"…You really believe in me that much?" she whispered.
"I don't believe." He leaned closer, forehead almost touching hers, voice low and burning. "I know. That's why I said—you're my equal, my queen. And I'll make sure the world sees it."
Her heart pounded so loudly it almost drowned out her exhaustion. For the first time, she wasn't just flustered—she was moved.
"…Then," she whispered back, steadying her voice, "I'll make sure I'm worthy of it."
He smirked. "That's the Sona I want."
And in the shadows, Serafall—watching yet again—pressed her hand against her lips, blinking fast. "…Sona-tan… you're… changing."