Chapter 195: Morgana is going through a difficult time.

The blade cut through the air with a dry whistle, too precise for someone who, officially, shouldn’t be there.

Morgana turned her body, took a step forward, two steps back, shifted the weight of her back foot, and finished the movement with a short thrust against the wooden target already marked by dozens—hundreds—of previous blows. The impact echoed through the academy’s inner courtyard, solitary, almost defiant.

She was breathing heavily.

Not from physical exhaustion. Not yet.

It was something trapped in her chest.

Arven’s Academy was silent in that wing. It always was. Not because there weren’t students, but because that specific space was… inconvenient. A forgotten training field, away from the main routes, used by those who shouldn’t be there or by those who made a point of not being seen.

Like her.

Morgana pulled the sword back, twisting her wrist with a slight snap. Her body was hot, her muscles responsive, sweat trickling down the side of her face and down her neck. She had been training for hours. Far beyond what was allowed. Far beyond what was recommended.

Far beyond what her father desired.

The Duke of Arven.

The man who had decided, years ago, that she would be many things—strategist, diplomat, political symbol—but never a knight.

“It’s not a path for you.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“You don’t need this.”

Well-dressed lies always sounded reasonable when they came from powerful mouths.

Morgana attacked the training dummy again, this time with more force than necessary. The wood creaked. A splinter flew.

“Damn it…” she murmured, clenching her teeth.

She took a step back and lowered her sword, resting the point on the ground. Her chest rose and fell too quickly. Her heart beat fast, irregularly, as if trying to keep up with something that wasn’t there.

Or someone.

The thought came uninvited.

Damon.

She gripped the sword hilt tightly. No. Not now.

But it was useless.

Since that day, since that absurd morning when he simply… left, the thoughts came like a constant tide. Sometimes gentle, almost tolerable. Other times, violent, overwhelming, like waves crashing against something she couldn’t name.

He was there.

And then he wasn’t anymore.

Without a proper goodbye. Without sufficient explanation. Without warning.

Damon had disappeared from the academy as if he had never existed—except for the marks he left on it.

Morgana took a deep breath and tried to focus again. She raised her sword. Adjusted her stance. Mentally repeated the basic principles.

Firm base. Loose hips. Eyes ahead.

She advanced.

The strike was perfect.

And yet, something was wrong.

She stopped mid-movement.

“Shit…” she whispered, letting her arm fall.

It wasn’t the technique. It wasn’t the body.

It was the head.

She closed her eyes for a moment and, against her will, the memories came flooding back.

Damon standing beside her, adjusting the position of her feet with a brief, almost casual touch.

“You rely too much on your arm strength.”

His attentive, serious, but never condescending gaze.

“Again.”

The strange patience for someone who could clearly be brutal if he wanted to.

The way he observed before speaking. As if he were always calculating not only the right movement, but the impact of his words.

And then…

Nothing.

The next day, they said he had been called away. Missions. Politics. Decisions above her. Above everything.

She remembered asking where he was.

Once.

Twice.

Until she stopped.

Because no one seemed willing to answer.

Or perhaps… no one thought she deserved the answer.

Morgana opened her eyes abruptly.

“Idiot…” she murmured, unsure if she was talking to herself or to the memory of him.

She moved away from the training dummy and sat on the stone step beside the courtyard, resting her forearms on her knees. The sword lay beside her, the cold metal contrasting with the warmth of her skin.

The silence of the academy was almost cruel now.

Without the sound of dry instructions.

Without the noise of footsteps behind her.

Without that uncomfortable and constant presence that, only now, she realized how comfortable it had become.

Morgana ran her hand through her hair, pulling it back forcefully.

She was angry.

No. Angry wasn’t enough.

She was nervous.

Very nervous.

Not with her father. Not with the academy. Not with the situation itself.

With herself.

Because, at some point between the secret training sessions, the quick conversations in the hallways, and the glances exchanged that lasted too long, something had changed.

She had waited for him.

Waited to train.

Waited to argue.

Waited to hear a dry criticism or a rare compliment.

Waited to see him touch her sword and say “like this.”

And when he didn’t return…

Something inside her remained suspended.

Unfinished.

Morgana closed her eyes again, more slowly this time.

She wasn’t naive. Never had been.

She grew up surrounded by political games, fragile alliances, people who smiled while plotting how to use each other. She knew how to recognize manipulation. She knew how to identify self-interest.

And that’s precisely why it bothered her so much.

Damon had never asked for anything.

He never tried to impress her.

He never treated the name “Arven” as something that automatically commanded his respect.

He corrected her like he corrected anyone else.

Sometimes he completely ignored her when she made an obvious mistake.

Sometimes he praised her so simply that it was disconcerting.

“You’ve improved.”

Just that.

No embellishment. No expectation.

And that… that had been dangerous.

Morgana put her hand to her chest, feeling her heart still racing.

She swallowed hard.

No.

It couldn’t be that.

She wasn’t that kind of person.

She didn’t fall in love. She didn’t allow herself that kind of weakness. Especially not for someone who simply… left.

But the thought formed anyway, inevitable, like a blade being slowly drawn from its sheath.

What if…?

She opened her eyes suddenly.

What if what bothered her wasn’t anger?

Wasn’t frustration?

Wasn’t wounded pride?

What if it was… absence?

The courtyard suddenly seemed larger. Emptier.

Morgana let out a short, almost nervous laugh.

—Pathetic…—she murmured.

Falling in love?

She, Morgana of Arven, heiress to a duchy, raised to be a political weapon, a strategist, a central piece in power games… in love with a knight who disappeared without even looking back?

It was ridiculous.

And yet…

She stood up suddenly, as if the movement could banish the thought. She gripped the sword tightly and returned to the center of the courtyard.

“Again,” she said aloud, as if someone were there to hear.

She attacked.

The blows came swiftly, too aggressively. Each thrust carried something beyond technique. Frustration. Doubt. Something dangerously close to longing.

The blade struck the dummy with excessive force. The base yielded slightly.

Morgana advanced, breathing heavily, her eyes shining not only with effort.

“Why did you leave…?” she whispered, the question escaping before she could stop it.

There was no answer.

Only the distant echo of metal against wood.

She stopped.

Her arm trembled slightly.

Morgana lowered the sword slowly.

The question hung in the air, ownerless.

And, in that heavy silence, she finally allowed the thought to complete itself, whole, without being interrupted by negation.

She didn’t know when it had happened. She didn’t know which training session.

Which conversation.

Which look.

But the truth, naked and uncomfortable, was there.

She had cared.

And maybe… just maybe… it had crossed the line she always swore she would never cross.

Morgana closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Damn it…” she murmured, this time without any strength.

The training had stopped.

The light creaking of footsteps on the stone broke the silence before Morgana even realized she was no longer alone.

She was still standing in the center of the courtyard, her sword hanging loosely at her side, her mind too distant to notice the immediate approach. It was the soft scent of clean fabric—simple soap, nothing luxurious—that brought her back to the present.

“Lady Morgana…” The voice was low, respectful. Cautious.

Morgana slowly opened her eyes and turned her head just enough to see the maid standing a few meters away, maintaining correct posture, her hands outstretched in front of her, holding a carefully folded towel.

A young woman. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Simple uniform, a gaze too attentive for someone who didn’t want to cause trouble.

Morgana blinked a few times, as if needing to remember where she was.

“Hm?”

The maid took a step forward and extended the towel a little further.

“For you, ma’am,” she said. “You’re… sweaty.”

Only then did Morgana realize how much. Sweat dripped from her temples, down her neck, soaking the collar of her workout clothes. She let out a low, almost tired sigh, and took the towel, wiping her face without any delicacy.

“Thank you.”

The maid nodded, but didn’t move away.

Morgana noticed.

She lowered the towel slowly and glanced sideways.

“Speak,” she said bluntly. “If you came all this way, it wasn’t just for that.”

The young woman hesitated for a split second. Enough to confirm.

“The Duke…” she began, choosing her words carefully. “Sent a message for you, ma’am.”

Morgana froze.

Not out of surprise.

But out of immediate irritation.

His name always made something inside her clench, like a muscle accustomed to bracing for impact.

“Of course he did…” she murmured, wiping the towel around her neck again.

She didn’t look at the maid when she asked:

“What does he want now?”

The maid took a deep breath before answering, clearly aware that she was in the middle of something bigger than herself.

“He asked you to go to Wykes Manor.”

The towel stopped mid-movement.

Morgana slowly raised her gaze.

“Wykes…?” The name carried a strange weight with it. Ancient. Dense. A place that always carried too many stories and too few explanations.

She remained silent for a few seconds, staring into nothingness ahead, as if reorganizing thoughts that were already fragile even before that interruption.

Then, finally, she released the air from her lungs in a long, heavy sigh, laden with everything she hadn’t said aloud.

“…That old son of a bitch.”

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