Francis stood in the middle of the hall. A linen shirt hung on his shoulder: the top few buttons left loose. He held the bow Florence had gifted him, his strong hands setting the arrow free. The visible veins on his hands made my stomach flutter anew.
I would’ve rolled my eyes at my own folly if Francis hadn’t been staring at me from the center of the hall.
“I wasn’t expecting for you to wake so early,” he said, glancing at the stained glass window by the ceiling: sundown was upon us.
“Couldn’t sleep.” I shrugged, making my way towards him.
“I hope I wasn’t the reason for your restless night.” Francis winked, settling his bow back onto its stand.
“Do you ever tire of your arrogance?” My voice betrayed me as I rolled my eyes, unsheathing my sword.
“Is that a blush I see on your cheeks, Princess?” Francis pointed at my face, a smirk growing on his face.
“Possibly.” I pointed the sword at the bare area of his chest. “I often find myself feeling flustered when others embarrass themselves.”
A bright laughter bounced off the walls of the hall. “Is that so?” Francis’ smirk grew bigger.
“Are you here to train me, or mock me?” I pushed the blade closer to his throat, fighting my own smile.
“Can’t I do both?” Francis’ brows rose when he eyed my weapon with amusement. “You seem to enjoy putting the tip of your blade at one’s neck.”
“You seem to enjoy having the tip of my blade at your neck.”
Francis took a step backwards, forcing me to lower my sword. “Let’s see what we are working with then.” He walked towards the wall that carried dozens of swords of different kinds.
He grabbed one that seemed fit to his liking, spinning it by the hilt. “Attack me.” He took his stance a few yards away from where I stood.
“What if I hurt you?” I mimicked his stance; my fingers wrapping around the hilt of my sword. “This is Royal steel.”
“Then you will have to suck the poison out of my wound.” Francis winked, gesturing me closer. “Come now, fight me.”
“All right.” I swung my blade, lunging in his direction.
“Not too bad.” Francis’ sword met mine: the metal clanking against each other echoed through the hall. “Don’t lean forward as much, you are compromising your balance.”
I lunged again, trying to follow Francis' advice. Each swing of the sword made my wrists cry out in pain. Every time Francis’ sword met mine I was forced to fight to keep the weapon in my grasp.
It didn’t take long for me to run out of breath. Sweat rolled down my forehead, my palms becoming slippery.
“Tired already?” Francis moved towards me: each step leaving me less room to maneuver. “We just started,” he chuckled.
“I am not tired,” I protested, deflating his attacks.
“Oh no?” Francis’ sword pushed me into a corner. He seemed entirely unbothered by the extent of our activity. “How come your sword shakes so much?” He pointed at the hilt of my blade.
“I am just not used to it.” I swung my sword once again, the blade slipping off my palm, flying past Francis: into the opposite corner of the hall.
Francis retrieved my blade, holding it before himself at a perfect angle. He studied the blade as the metal reflected the candlelight.
“It’s too heavy for you,” he said at last, spinning my sword in every direction.
“It is not,” I choked: my lungs still on fire. “It was made specifically for me.” I demanded the blade back.
“Cordelia, it’s heavy even for me, and unlike you, I do train often.” Francis gave my sword a final spin before passing me the weapon. “With a physique like yours, you shouldn’t fight with a sword. Not yet at least.” He put his weapon back in its place. “The sword will bring more harm than protection.”
“This is the only Royal steel weapon I have.” I sat on the floor against a wall, my lungs finally calming.
“You are more likely to get killed by it than to protect yourself.” Francis stood by my feet, his boots touching mine.
