"…Alright, I’ve heard enough of your updates."

Maxime swallowed dryly, his throat bobbing with the effort. It was early afternoon, and sunlight streamed through the wooden cabin's windows, casting lush shadows from the forest outside.

"In summary, you beat that bastard to death quite thoroughly, and now you've become the kingdom's most notorious philanderer and certified bastard. Is that it?"

"How can that possibly be the conclusion you draw from everything I just told you, Master?" Maxime's temple twitched as he clenched his jaw.

Across from him, Nayra sat with her legs crossed, gazing at her sole disciple with a dissatisfied expression. Her nearly silver hair, shimmering like sunlight, lazily draped down her arms as though burdened by her disinterest.

"Did I say anything untrue? No matter how you argue, the fact remains: you’re an irredeemable bastard. A scoundrel so vile, even ripping you to shreds wouldn’t suffice."

"If anyone deserves that title, it’s the villain I beat to death, wouldn’t you say?"

"Silence. If your master says it, then it’s the truth. You’ve always been far too talkative for your own good, you know that?"

Nayra slammed her palm onto the wooden table with a resounding thud. The sound reverberated like cannon fire in Maxime's ears. He swallowed again, shrinking slightly under her piercing gaze. Nayra studied her disciple’s cowering expression before letting out a hearty laugh and waving her hand dismissively.

"Enough. As long as you’re alive and well, that’s all that matters. When is the coronation for that princess you helped put on the throne?"

Maxime exhaled a breath of relief.

"It's scheduled for mid-March."

"Spring is a good time for such events. When news spreads of a queen ascending the throne, foreign diplomats will flock here in droves. Will the kingdom be able to handle that?"

"Unless someone worse than Leon Benning comes along, we’ll manage just fine. There’s no need for concern."

Nayra scoffed at the notion of "concern." The idea of a fae worrying about a human kingdom amused her.

"Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m only worried about you, not the fate of this kingdom."

"That’s… touching," Maxime replied dryly, a faint hint of sarcasm in his tone.

He immediately regretted his words when he caught Nayra’s sharp glare. Nayra never sugarcoated her words when it came to relationships—human or otherwise—and Maxime, of all people, knew this best. Their dynamic allowed for such rare moments of levity, but the underlying understanding was always present. After a brief moment of silence, Nayra folded her arms and leaned back in her chair.

"You’re still endearing in your own annoying way. At least you’re not as insufferable as before."

Her remark earned a furrowed brow from Maxime. Nayra chuckled softly at his reaction but soon let out a short sigh.

"How’s your swordsmanship? Improved at all?"

"It would feel a bit vain to answer that myself, Master."

Nayra's lips curled into a sly smile, a sight that made Maxime instinctively uneasy. Her smiles rarely signaled anything good for him—they were usually preludes to her plans.

"If you won’t say it, then I suppose I’ll just have to see for myself."

As if hearing her words echo in his mind, Maxime knew exactly where this was heading.

"Outside."

With that single word, Nayra rose from her seat and strode toward the door. Maxime stared after her blankly for a moment before shaking his head and standing. When his master ordered something, there was no use resisting. Still, despite his reluctance, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he considered the prospect of testing his sword once more.

Outside, Nayra stood leaning casually on a wooden practice sword, her attire unchanged. The weapon swayed gently back and forth, supporting her like a rocking chair. There wasn’t a hint of discomfort in her posture—it was as though the blade’s hilt had been cushioned with silk.

That’s… beyond becoming one with the sword, isn’t it?

"What’s taking you so long? You’re slower than a snail," Nayra called out, a smirk playing on her lips.

"I needed a moment to mentally prepare."

"Since when have you ever done that?"

Her faint chuckle was followed by a nod toward the ground nearby. Maxime turned his head and saw another wooden practice sword stuck in the dirt.

"Your body’s fully recovered, right?" Nayra asked, watching him stretch and prepare.

"No, it’s not," he replied bluntly.

"Unfortunate. Pick up the sword."

Maxime shot her a look of disbelief but reluctantly obeyed, pulling the practice weapon free from the ground. He held it aloft, his expression wordlessly questioning her logic. Nayra narrowed her eyes.

"You’re perfectly fine. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Don’t bother lying to me."

"Then why ask if I was recovered in the first place?"

"For politeness."

Nayra's flippant response was accompanied by her lifting her own practice sword. Not a single speck of dirt clung to its surface as she drew it from the ground. The sight made Maxime instinctively assume a ready stance. Nayra’s expression turned neutral, her voice calm and measured as she addressed him.

"Begin when you're ready."

The lighthearted atmosphere disappeared as if it had never existed. A cool breeze, distinct from the biting chill of winter, swept through the yard. Maxime steadied his breathing, knowing that even a single gulp of dry saliva could disrupt his focus.

Looking for an opening would be a waste of time. The key was to strike when his breathing was most steady, when his mana was most densely concentrated, and when he could attack with absolute precision.

His heart began pumping mana. As always, it wasn’t a massive amount—more like a modest trickle than a flood. Mana flowed through his bloodstream, unhurried and steady. He accelerated its pace, guiding the flow with practiced ease. While it was just a spar, Maxime couldn’t deny that he wanted to show Nayra what he had accomplished.

- Bloom.

From the very start, he was going all out.

CRACK!

The sound was far too intense for two wooden practice swords meeting. Nayra raised an eyebrow, her gaze fixed on Maxime’s gleaming eyes. A small smile crept onto her lips. The pressure on her hands was stronger than expected—this was no mere warm-up.

"Not bad," she remarked, gripping her practice sword with both hands.

The imbalance of power shifted to equilibrium almost instantly. Maxime didn’t try to force his way through. Instead, he adapted to the new balance, letting the weight guide him into his next move.

Twice, three times, their swords clashed. With each exchange, Nayra adjusted her evaluation of Maxime upward. He wasn’t merely adhering to the sword principles she had taught him—he had internalized them, transforming them into something uniquely his own. The familiar forms were now tinged with Maxime’s distinct variations.

"I wouldn’t say it’s perfect…" Nayra mused.

Still, there was something satisfying about how "Maxime-like" it felt. Reflecting on her past lessons in human swordsmanship, Nayra remembered that Maxime had always been like this—absorbing techniques and reshaping them in his image. If he had gone in the wrong direction, she would have been the first to reprimand him. But his path wasn’t something she could outright dismiss as incorrect. For Nayra, deciphering his evolving swordplay was a surprisingly enjoyable challenge.

"Watching a student grow is always gratifying."

She caught Maxime’s strike with a grin. This time, it was "Highwind," a technique she had once taught him. Nayra responded with a counter in kind. Despite not using her full Bloom, she matched him with everything else she had.

Thunk!

The final slash of "Highwind" brought their practice swords into a resonant clash. Even so, Nayra remained completely composed, quietly observing Maxime’s form. Her murmured thoughts likely didn’t reach his ears. Gradually, the pressure on her sword lessened as she released her grip.

"That’s enough."

The overwhelming weight that had hung in the air vanished. Maxime lowered his practice sword, his expression dazed as though awakening from a trance. Throughout the match, Nayra had been reading his movements with razor-sharp focus. For her, it had been like tapping stones along a winding path—predictable yet satisfying. Maxime flexed his tingling fingers, feeling the echoes of their clash in his hands.

"You’ve improved. You can brag about your skills now," Nayra said with a smirk.

Maxime frowned. "And what does it say about a master who can handle all of that so easily?"

"Well, I’ve lived 300 years longer than you. It’s more absurd that you can spar with me on even footing at all."

Maxime looked at her, noting the faint melancholy mingled with the pride in her expression. Encouraged by her smile, he voiced a proposal he had been holding back.

"Master."

"Yes?" she replied, her face calm but curious.

"Have you considered moving to the capital?"

Nayra's expression twisted into a scowl.

"Did you eat something strange?"

"I'm serious, Master."

"What for? Need another mistress? Thanks, but no thanks. If you’re interested, I could introduce you to some other lovely elves. Of course, you’d have to move to the forest to meet them."

"I’m saying this because I’m worried you’ll disappear again."

Maxime’s voice carried a hint of unease. Nayra chuckled, shaking her head.

"Disappear, I will. It’s about time I returned to the forest anyway. Besides, most of the danger seems to have passed."

"What danger, exactly?"

"The Behemoth. If humans—or rather, the kingdom—had failed to stop it, we were prepared to intervene. Fortunately, they managed, which gave me the freedom to check on you instead."

When Maxime didn’t respond, Nayra shrugged lightly.

"You don’t need me anymore. If people find out about our connection, it won’t do you any favors. And I’d rather avoid the headache of living among humans."

"There are ways to keep you hidden," Maxime insisted.

"I’ve got other things to worry about, so don’t concern yourself. It’s not as though I’ve been staying here because I have nothing better to do."

Realizing further persuasion was futile, Maxime relented. He understood better than anyone that his suggestion was unreasonable, yet he couldn’t help but wish for a world where he could visit his master whenever he wanted.

"Will you still leave the forest occasionally?"

"I don’t enjoy being cooped up at home. I’ll go out from time to time. I might even drop by your house unexpectedly."

The conversation ended there. Maxime accepted her decision, while Nayra, despite rejecting his offer, didn’t seem entirely displeased. A soft smile graced her lips.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint warmth of approaching spring.

"Feels like the weather’s easing up. Spring isn’t far off," Nayra remarked, turning toward the breeze.

"It does feel that way, Master," Maxime replied with a nod.

"Keep yourself busy, Maxime. Slack on your training, and I’ll make sure you regret it."

"I won’t forget."

"And… be happy."

Maxime couldn’t bring himself to answer aloud. Instead, he nodded a couple of times, letting his actions speak for him. Nayra chuckled softly, ruffling his hair a bit before stepping back.

"Take care."

"Until next time."

The wind grew stronger, swirling around them. When Maxime blinked, Nayra was gone, leaving only the marks of their sparring behind. He stared at the empty space for a moment before turning toward the cabin she had occupied.

"What’s she going to do with all the stuff she left behind?"

As he approached the cabin’s door, his eyes fell on a piece of paper pinned to the wood with a dagger. Pulling it free, he read the note.

"Take care of whatever’s left."

That’s all she left? Maxime glanced between the note, the cabin, and the space where Nayra had vanished. Then, he broke into a laugh. Her halfhearted farewell was also a promise to return.

Folding the note, Maxime tucked it into his pocket. The air he breathed didn’t feel as cold anymore. Just as Nayra said, spring was indeed on its way.