The Villainess Just Wants to Study

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒

Holding a sword symbolized taking up a responsibility, and for her, it felt like a burden—an obligation she yearned to cast off. She could wield a sword, yet she would never embody the image of the person he desired her to become.

~

The sky above the training grounds lingered in a state between darkness and full daylight. The sun lay quietly beneath the horizon, casting the sky in deep blue hues. Good morning, mom, she thought as she peered at it. I hope you're doing well up there.

"I heard milady will be joining a swordsmanship club," Sir Conan said with an expression of skepticism. "If that is the case, then we need to prepare you."

Sir Conan stood tall, his broad shoulders and muscular physique unmistakable beneath the snug fit of his training gear. Every one of his movements revealed the grace and precision of a seasoned warrior, and she understood why he was so highly respected. If she had to endure the rigours of training, at least there was some eye candy to distract her. 

"Yes," she replied, half-heartedly. It was too hot, and she didn't want to be there. "Well, isn't this just the pinnacle of excitement? Joining such a thrilling hobby."

Dylan found herself rudely roused from her slumber much earlier than usual today, and forced into pants and a training shirt. Against her will, she was dragged to the training fields, where she now clung to a hefty wooden sword, using it more like a makeshift cane to keep herself upright. 

I'll have to play along for now, she thought to herself. If I go against the Duke's wishes, there's no knowing what he'll do. I don't want to give him any reason to trouble me more.

"Ha," Sir Conan sighed with a dismissive tone. "Being the Duke's daughter doesn't earn you any special privileges on my training grounds," he declared, his voice carrying a subtle menace. "Sarcasm won't find a welcome here, young lady."

"Wow, it's strangely attractive when you get all assertive," Dylan muttered aloud before she realized the words had escaped her lips. "I, uh," she coughed, "meant..."

"Ten laps."

Dylan blinked in disbelief. "Ten laps of what?"

"Fifteen, because you're not moving," Sir Conan responded firmly, gesturing towards the vast fields littered with sweaty knights. "Get a move on it, young lady. The training grounds won't run around themselves."

"Fifteen?" she asked incredulously, her eyes widening. "Sir, I struggle just to walk from my bedroom to the dining room. You do realize that attempted harm to a member of the Duchy of Beaumon is punishable by death, don't you? Are you trying to kill me?"

Conan furrowed his eyebrows in disbelief at her statement. "Really?" he questioned her.

Dylan nodded anxiously, her tight pigtails bouncing with each motion. Her eyes, reminiscent of jars of honey, fixated on him with a determined expression. The gesture, though perhaps appearing somewhat childish for an almost seventeen-year-old, held an undeniable sincerity. Conan's gaze seemed to subtly shift in the faint light, but before she could be certain, he swiftly turned his head to the side. Dylan noticed a faint blush colouring the tips of his ears.

"Then," he suggested in a quieter tone, finally giving in, "how about you walk for three laps around the field?"

Dylan grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly. "That I can most definitely do."

After two laps, Dylan was practically choking on her words. It felt as if someone had poured concrete into her airways, making it difficult to breathe. Hunched over, she desperately drew in heavy breaths—her lungs burning from the unexpected exercise. I most definitely cannot do this, she thought to herself, feeling defeated.