Patriot and Queen – Part 02
“Ah!”
Lisa smacked her head against the carriage ceiling again. Cecily and Aria burst into laughter.
“I-I-Iz not vunny!” Lisa huffed, tears welling in her eyes. She had apparently bit her tongue.
“Sorry, sorry,” Cecily said, gently patting her on the head.
The carriage was cramped, and every jolt had them bumping into one another. Doris had suggested that the women take the carriage while the men rode on horseback, and Cecily was thankful for it. Ever since the incident with Siegfried, she had become somewhat fearful of men.
But on that night, she didn’t feel a shred of fear. The memory of awkwardly dancing under the moonlight at the ball brought a flush to Cecily’s cheeks. She quickly glanced toward the driver’s seat.
Men on horseback rode in front of the rattling carriage.
“It’s been ten years since I last visited the Militant Nation. I can’t wait.”
Harvey Blethyn, captain of the First District’s Knight Guard, was a cheerful man.
The biting wind battered their faces, making it difficult to keep their eyes open. Each jolt from the horse sent fresh waves of pain through Harvey’s buttocks and thighs, while the sheath of his sword clanked incessantly against his boots. The cold forced him to sniffle every few seconds. Even with a thick cloak draped over his uniform, the chill cut right through. At forty years old, the journey took its toll on him.
“The people of the Militant Nation are known for their boldness, which must be why they love meat so much that no meal is complete without it. Roasted, grilled, wrapped in vegetables and steamed, or braised in wine. So many to choose from! Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.”
Despite the grueling ride, Harvey kept up his cheerful chatter, perhaps hoping to lift the group’s spirits. His warm smile never wavered, even as the wind tossed his hair about.
“…”
“…”
But unfortunately for him, his companions weren’t exactly the chatty type.
Ahead of Harvey rode Arvie Irving, a strategist from the Militant Nation, mounted on a chestnut horse. Ever since they set out, Arvie only spoke when absolutely necessary. Though people from the Militant Nation were known for their bold, brash personalities, Arvie was the opposite—stoic, with a perpetually blank expression and few words to offer.
Letting out a sigh of disappointment at the silence, Harvey turned to his right. There, Luke Ainsworth sat silently in his saddle, deep in thought. His gaze was so distant that Harvey couldn’t help but worry he might slide off his horse any minute.
It was Harvey’s first time meeting Luke, having only heard rumors of him. The young blacksmith was even more aloof than he’d expected.
“I’m surprised you accepted this invitation,” Harvey said.
Luke’s right eye flicked toward him.
Harvey pressed on, “You’ve refused every previous request to share your techniques. So, what made this time different?”
It was a genuine question. Did something happen recently that changed his mind?
Arvie, his curiosity piqued as well, looked over his shoulder.
Luke’s gaze darted away. After a moment, he finally responded, his voice so faint it was almost lost beneath the thunder of hooves, “I’m running out of time.”
“Running out of time? Are you referring to Valbanill’s revival?”
“…”
Luke fell silent once more, refusing to explain further.
What an antisocial young man, Harvey thought. Are all youngsters this difficult these days?
When Harvey glanced ahead again, Arvie had already turned back, his eyes fixed forward as he bounced rhythmically with his horse’s movements. The thought of a dreary journey ahead of them disheartened Harvey.
“Valbanill is indeed a matter of concern. But worrying over an uncertain future only leads to pointless stress. We don’t want that. Right now, let’s focus on what’s in front of us—the Militant Nation. And by the Militant Nation, I mean meat. Glorious, mouth-watering meat.”
Harvey, undeterred, kept up his cheerful monologue.
And so, the three riders and their carriage pressed onward, bound for the Militant Nation.
The third night after leaving the Independent Trade City, the group arrived at a station and decided to spend the night at a nearby inn. They planned to switch horses and leave early the next morning. Two rooms were booked, with the men and women separated, as had been the custom throughout the journey. Perhaps that was why it took Cecily three whole days to notice.
The room they were given had a cold draft, and it was cramped for the four women. There were only two beds, so they had to huddle together to fit.
“Since you are guests, I’ll sleep outside the room,” Doris offered, but Aria and Lisa immediately protested, so she quietly lay down on one of the beds. Despite the cramped conditions, she seemed used to them and soon fell asleep. Meanwhile, Aria and Lisa groaned in discomfort, lying on their stomachs to ease their sore backs.
Cecily glanced at the three of them, trying to figure out where she would fit, when her gaze shifted outside the window—and there, she noticed a shadow.
After a brief moment, she stepped out of the room.
The night had deepened. The area surrounding the inn was nothing but open plains, with the moonlight barely breaking through the overcast sky. The inn’s lights had been dimmed, and the ground seemed to be swallowed by the darkness. But outside, on the lawn, a faint orange light flickered. A small lamp sat on the grass, within which a piece of jewel steel glowed softly. It had to be Harvey’s, as they despised Prayer Pacts.
A person was bathed in the light from the lamp.
The subtle sound of a blade sliding from its sheath blended with the wind’s icy wail. The person drew their sword and held it at chest height. They gripped the hilt with both hands, turning them inward as if squeezing fabric, and tucked their elbows close.
Cecily watched from the shadow of the station.
The figure sprang into motion, executing strikes from below, the midline, and above—slashes, cuts, sweeps. Their feet glided and pivoted across the ground, while their upper body seamlessly flowed through a set sequence of moves, over and over.
The blade, gleaming silver under the moonlight, cut through the wind—sweeping, tearing, gliding. Each swing sounded crisp and light, but carried an imposing weight. With nothing to hinder its trajectory, the sword flowed freely, its tip darting gracefully in the night.
It was like a dance, Cecily thought. A performance of some sorts. At the same time, these were clearly techniques specialized for combat. She watched, breathless with awe.
The figure then shifted into completely different stances. One had them spreading their legs dramatically in a V-shape, elbows thrust forward. Another had them standing upright, back straight, with the sword held vertically toward the sky.
Each stance was accompanied by unique footwork and sword movements. Yet despite the variety of styles, there was an underlying core that tied them all together. No matter how different the techniques, their center line remained steady. Cecily couldn’t quite explain it, but she understood that this was the key to the beauty of their swordsmanship.
Finally, the person—Luke—drove the sword downward in an arc so powerful it could very well tear into the earth. Then, he stopped.
Cecily couldn’t help but give a round of applause.
Luke sheathed his katana into its black scabbard and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. His right eye flicked toward her.
“You were watching?”
She nodded vigorously. The only word that came to mind was amazing, but it felt too clichéd, so she could only nod in awe. She ran up to him, asking, “Do you always practice your swordsmanship like this?”
“It’s a habit. Unless something major happens, I make sure not to skip it.”
He must have been exhausted from the day’s travel, and yet here he was, pushing his body like this. Cecily opened her mouth to say something, but her words caught when she saw his face.
His left prosthetic eye held no warmth, and that emphasized the sharpness of the right. His gaze was intense, like he was under pressure.
Is he… anxious?
Luke seemed uneasy, as though he were trying to distract himself from some inner tension by pushing his body to its limits, much like how he secluded himself in the forge.
He sat cross-legged on the ground and took a deep breath. Cecily sat opposite him, hugging her knees to her chest. She adjusted the front of her cloak, which she had thrown on when she stepped out of the room, to shield herself from the cold wind. The lamp cast a warm orange glow on them.
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