Alric had been training all day in the Blood Knights' courtyard. His body ached, his arms were sore, and the fading light of dusk did little to ease the weight on his shoulders.
After finishing the session, he had come here—to clear his mind.
He'd discovered this place three days ago, on the very evening he passed the Trials and was taken to the Third Cohort's courtyard. After his introduction to the members and the instructor, exhaustion had set in fast. The others had offered him rest, but he'd refused—politely, but firmly.
Instead, he had wandered.
He hadn't meant to find anything. He had just needed air—space.
That's when he'd stumbled upon this small, overgrown garden, tucked into a forgotten corner of the cathedral grounds. Cracked stone paths, wildflowers tangled under moonlight, and silence—real silence.
He had rested here then. And ever since, he returned to it when the weight of everything grew too heavy.
No one else seemed to come here. Not even by accident.
Which made tonight all the more surprising.
Lately, he could hardly walk ten paces without someone trying to talk to him—or challenge him outright. Since the duel with Castor, word had spread like wildfire. Some came with praise. Others came with doubt, wanting to see if the victory had been skill… or luck.
The captain of the Third Cohort had granted him full liberty to train or rest as he saw fit. Still, Alric had wanted to prove himself. He'd accepted two more duels in the days since.
He'd won both.
The second had been today—barely.
His opponent, a young man from the Second Cohort named Tristan, had worn a grin and carried a relaxed air that didn't match the force behind his blade. Easygoing, yes—but deceptively skilled.
Alric had left the match with bruised ribs and the distinct feeling that he'd been let off lightly.
Even so… he'd won.
And now, with soreness in his muscles and questions still gnawing in his thoughts, he had come here—to this forgotten place of peace.
Or at least, he thought it would be peaceful.
He hadn't meant to walk this far.
Alric had wandered deeper into the garden than usual, footsteps slow, thoughts distant. Muscles still sore from training, mind still replaying Tristan's final strike—he hadn't even noticed where his boots were taking him.
Which led, of course, to his current predicament.
He was trying to look anywhere but forward.
But not seeing it again didn't mean he could forget it.
The image had already seared itself into his skull.
A girl—no, a woman—lying in the grass, moonlight brushing her skin like silk. Her long dark hair pooled around her head like ink spilled across the earth. She was reclined casually, hands folded beneath her head, back arched slightly, one leg bent at the knee.
She hadn't moved. Hadn't gasped or scrambled upright like any other lady might've. She'd just stared at him—calm, composed, unbothered. The very picture of ease.
And she'd caught him staring.
Goddess, had he stared.
Alric's face burned all the way to his ears. He'd turned his head fast—too fast. The wind had caught his stupid hair and made a mess of it, as if trying to announce Look, here's a flustered idiot with no control over his limbs!
He'd stammered something—he didn't even remember what—and now he stood frozen like a boy caught sneaking into a wine cellar.
He tried to focus on the flowers. On the stones. On anything but the memory of her laying there with the kind of grace you don't learn, only have.
His blood felt hot in his chest. Not just from the duel. Not just from the garden's warm air.
He was a plainsman, used to war camps, rough men, and even rougher lives. He'd seen his share of exposed skin in river baths and drunken tents.
But this wasn't that.
This was something else.
She hadn't done anything improper. And yet something about the way she'd simply… been there—completely at ease in her body, eyes calm and unreadable—had left him rattled in a way no duel ever had.
It made him feel like a boy again.
Worse—a bashful, awkward, clumsy boy who had somehow walked into a sacred place barefoot and loud.
His fingers tightened around the edge of his belt. His eyes flicked to a distant tree. His mouth was dry.
What was wrong with him?
It was just a girl.
A girl who hadn't even sat up when she saw him.
And now she was still behind him, watching—or maybe not—and he didn't know whether to speak or run.
Flustered beyond reason, he was just about to turn and retreat—quietly, maybe even silently—when her voice cut through the hush behind him.
"Are you the plainsman?"
The sound of it—smooth, composed, curious—cut through the garden's hush like a wind through tall grass.
"Alric."
She said his name with such calm certainty that it landed heavier than any sword swing. A beat passed. Then he heard the grass stir—the soft sound of her shifting position behind him.
He didn't turn.
He couldn't.
He was afraid he might choke on his own tongue if he saw her again. Or worse—blurt out something stupid.
Because he was already burning under the skin.
Not from shame exactly, and not just from nerves either. It was something hotter, something more dangerous that curled low in his gut.
He hadn't been prepared.
Not for the way the moonlight had fallen across her body like it was invited there. Not for the swell of her full chest beneath the thin fabric of her robes, pulled just tight enough to show shape but not scandal. Not for the impossible stillness with which she'd lain there, like she belonged to the earth and sky more than the hallways of the cathedral.
And what shamed him most wasn't that he had noticed—it was how much he remembered. Remembered that she was the women the he had seen performing the morning ritual few days ago.
The thick fall of her hair across her collarbones. The hint of skin just at her throat. The curve of her waist as her robe clung, slightly drawn by gravity and posture. The way her breath rose and fell beneath the fabric like a rhythm he could've matched his own to.
He felt like a fool.
He had no right to be thinking about any of it—not here, not now, not about her. She was one of the Sisters, wasn't she? Someone of station, of purity. Not a tavern maid, not a dancing girl in a border town with coins tucked into her skirt.
He squeezed his eyes shut for half a second and exhaled slowly through his nose.
She'd asked him a question. Twice now.
His face burned. He stared at a tree trunk as if it could save him from this moment.
"Yes," he said stiffly, his voice a little too loud. "That's me."
There was a pause behind him. He could feel her watching. Or maybe he only imagined it. That was worse somehow.
He had fought three duels in the last three days. Taken bruises to his ribs, a gash to the waist. Had stood before priests and relics and fire that nearly burned his soul open.
None of it had made him feel like this.
He was harder in battle than he was in conversation.
And a hundred times braver against blades than a woman lying in the moonlight who looked like every soft, sacred thing his life had never prepared him for.