The Bonaventura training yard was quiet except for the sharp rhythm of wood striking wood.

Ezekiel’s arms burned. Sweat dripped down his face and stung his eyes, but he kept swinging the practice sword — because Lanastha was watching.

She stood at the edge of the yard in a deep red dress cut perfectly for a noblewoman, not a soldier. Sunlight danced along the fine embroidery like threads of fire. Even without a blade at her hip, her posture made the soldiers on the walls avert their eyes.

“Again,” she said, voice calm and cold. “You drop your elbow when you strike. A Bonaventura does not fight like a child.”

“I am a child,” Ezekiel muttered under his breath, but he raised the sword again.

“Not for long,” Lanastha replied.

She glided across the yard, the hem of her gown sweeping the dust without gathering a speck. With effortless speed she plucked the wooden blade from Ezekiel’s hands. In one smooth motion she demonstrated the strike.

 clean, balanced, devastating and tossed it back to him.

“Do it until your body remembers,” she said. “I do not care if your arms fall off.”

Rue stood off to the side, arms folded, watching uneasily. Edric leaned against the wall, clearly entertained but silent.

That morning, word had spread:

 Lanastha was home with a child. 

Several minor nobles arrived to “pay respects,” though everyone knew they came to sniff for weakness.

One of them was Lord Marius Ventrel, a young vassal with slick black hair and a crimson-trimmed doublet, more peacock than hawk.

When Ezekiel paused to gulp water, Marius sauntered into the yard, wearing a practiced smile. “So this is the boy I’ve heard so much about.”

Ezekiel stiffened. Rue’s hand hovered near his dagger.

“I must say,” Marius continued, voice dripping with false sweetness.

 “it’s unusual. A Bonaventura child born out of wedlock. Your father must have been very charming to win Lady Lanastha’s heart without marrying her. Or perhaps…” His smile widened. “…she simply didn’t think he was worth it.”

The words hit Ezekiel like a slap. Servants nearby froze. Edric straightened from the wall, crimson eyes flashing.

Before Ezekiel could even react, Lanastha moved.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. In that crimson dress, she looked like a queen descending to pass judgment. Each step radiated menace, the silk whispering against stone like a drawn blade.

“Say that again,” she said softly.

Marius’ smile faltered. “My lady, I only meant—”

“Say it again,” she repeated, eyes glowing like embers.

The air in the yard went still. Even the guards on the walls looked away.

“I… meant no disrespect,” Marius stammered.

“You did,” Lanastha replied, voice like steel. “And you will pay for it.”

Her hand shot out, seizing the gold pin at his collar. She tore it free and dropped it into the dirt. “Crawl.”

“My lady—”

“Crawl,” she said, sharper now, still calm.

Marius went pale. He sank to his knees, scooping up the pin with trembling fingers, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the ground.

“You forget your place again,” Lanastha murmured, every word as precise as a cut, “and I will have your tongue nailed to the gates. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady,” he whispered.

“Good. Get out.”

Marius fled the yard, face burning, while servants pretended very hard not to have seen anything.

Ezekiel stood frozen, heart pounding. He’d never seen anyone humiliated so completely — not even in his old world’s movies.

Lanastha turned back as though nothing had happened. The red dress swayed slightly as she crossed the yard, elegant and unhurried. “Pick up your sword. We’re not finished.”

“But…” Ezekiel hesitated. “Why’d you do that?”

Her crimson gaze pinned him. “Because no one insults Bonaventura blood. Not even you.”

She adjusted his stance again with cold, precise hands. “Remember this, Ezekiel: people fear strength. They smell weakness. If you show them either, they will use it. Which do you want them to see?”

“…Strength,” Ezekiel whispered.

“Then swing,” Lanastha said, stepping back, “until they believe it.”