Riven swung his sword once more—a diagonal slash from right to left—then drew in a deep breath. His breathing was heavy, sweat beading along his temples, and his arms beginning to ache. But he didn't stop.
In his hands, his new sword—Crysthalis—gleamed faintly in the morning light, its metallic sheen seeming to absorb the sunlight filtering through the trees. The blade was beautiful—too beautiful for someone like him.
He stood on a patch of flat earth surrounded by trees, adjusting his footing as he recalled the stances of knights he had once seen. Shoulders lowered, right hand gripping the hilt firmly, left hand supporting the base. And yet, every movement of his body still felt stiff—like a puppet forced to mimic a dance.
His posture lacked stability. Sometimes his swings were too high, sometimes they tilted too far to one side. But still, he kept trying, even though he knew he had no talent for it.
He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling how those knights moved—how they struck their enemies, how they stood with pride and grace. He had no mentor. No father. No teacher to guide him in combat. All he had was observation.
His battle the night before—with the intruder from Arkham—flashed through his mind. How close he'd come to dying.
If that man hadn't already been gravely wounded, if Crysthalis hadn't been in his hands... he would've become another corpse in the middle of the forest.
He was still too weak. Too slow.
But that was exactly why he trained.
In a world where strength was the highest law, he had to grow stronger to survive—and to protect his sister.
Swing after swing. Movement after movement. Sweat rolled down his forehead, soaking into his collar and dripping to the ground. But every time his blade moved with a little more stability, every time his footing felt more sure, a faint sense of satisfaction bloomed in his chest. That feeling... it reminded him of the old days—when he'd pushed himself to swim harder in pursuit of his dreams.
And he liked it.
Time slipped by unnoticed. An hour and a half passed in a blink. The birds around him had gone quiet, and the sunlight pierced higher through the canopy.
Then—Riven felt something.
A subtle presence.
Instinctively, he turned sharply and raised Crysthalis, ready to strike the figure standing behind him. But before the blade could move any further—
WHAM!
A force slammed into him. His body was thrown to the ground, and within seconds, someone was pinning him down.
A hand closed around his throat.
His breath caught.
His eyes widened as he stared into the face hovering just inches above his own.
Her.
That woman.
With long hair red as blood, wild and flowing like flames, spreading the scent of roses and death. Her eyes—crimson like glowing rubies in the shadows—gazed down at him sharply. Beautiful. Too beautiful. But her face was cold and grim, as if she had no concern for the world at all.
"Who are you?" her voice was low, icy. "And why did you save me?"
Her grip slowly loosened, allowing Riven to breathe again.
But Riven… stayed silent.
He couldn't answer. Not because of the chokehold, but because... her face was so close. Her eyes... they hypnotized him. Her red hair fell across her face, and something stirred inside his chest. And that scent… sweet, fresh, seductive. Like a black rose with hidden thorns.
Ashtoria's gaze sharpened, impatient.
"I asked you," she repeated, "why did you save me?"
Riven swallowed. His tongue moved faster than his thoughts.
"…Because you're beautiful," he blurted.
Ashtoria froze.
For the first time in who-knows-how-long, her expression cracked. A small wrinkle appeared between her brows—not out of anger, but confusion.
"What…?" she whispered.
She didn't know how to respond. No one had ever said that to her without fear. No one had ever called her beautiful without hidden motives. But this man—this young man—said it with such honesty, such sincerity…
Riven, suddenly realizing what he'd just said, quickly turned his head aside, his face flushing red.
"I-I mean, that's not what I meant—I just—uh, I just…"
He reached for his sword, still lying on the ground, trying to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. But it was useless. Even Ashtoria could hear it clearly.
She frowned.
"Beautiful? Me?" she scoffed, almost mocking herself. "Don't say such nonsense."
Riven turned to face her again, still lying beneath her. His eyes were glowing—not with fear, but disbelief.
"Are you… serious?" he said quietly, but with an edge.
Ashtoria blinked.
Riven sat up slightly, now more determined.
"You're incredibly beautiful," he said. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Your hair, your eyes, your voice… all of it. Can't you see it yourself? Do you not own a mirror?"
Ashtoria's face turned crimson.
Every compliment struck like a gentle hammer, cracking the cold walls she had built around herself. She felt strange. Weak? No. It wasn't weakness. But she didn't know what it was.
Slowly, she lifted herself and sat on her knees, releasing her grip on his neck.
She looked at him with uncertain eyes.
"Do you not have eyes?" she muttered, half-annoyed, half-confused.
Riven sat up quickly, still blushing, but now with a strange boldness in his voice:
"You're the one without eyes! Can't you see yourself?!"
Silence fell between them.
Ashtoria stared at him for a long while. This time not with suspicion… but with confusion. And Riven, though still embarrassed, met her gaze without flinching—honest, unmasked.
He was still catching his breath as she knelt nearby, her expression unreadable. A soft blush still lingered on her cheeks, whether from confusion, anger, or something else entirely.
Riven sighed, raising one eyebrow. "Is this how you repay someone who saved your life?"
His tone was half-irritated, half-playful, though clearly trying to keep his composure even as his face stayed red.
Ashtoria turned sharply, brows furrowed.
"I never asked you to save me," she retorted coldly. "And I don't need saving from someone who—who throws around cheap lies like that."
"Lies?" Riven propped himself up on one elbow and tilted his head. "What are you talking about?"
Ashtoria sneered, looking at him as if he'd just claimed the sky was green.
"I'm a terrifying woman," she said flatly, her voice heavy with meaning.
But Riven couldn't help himself. He chuckled and rubbed his sore neck, then stood slowly, still out of breath.
"Oh, come on!" he said, meeting her eyes. "I've seen plenty of women. But not a single one has ever made me say 'you're beautiful' without hesitation… until now."
"Stop," Ashtoria said, her voice low but sharp.
"I can't," Riven replied, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Because the more you deny it, the more I want to prove I'm right."
He gazed at her face.
"Your red eyes… they're not frightening—they're mesmerizing. Your hair looks like living flame—wild and radiant. And your voice, even when scolding me, sounds very melodious."
"Enough—"
"Even when you were choking me just now," Riven interrupted, "I was thinking, 'Wow, she's the most beautiful woman who's ever choked me."
Ashtoria's eyes widened. Her blush deepened.
Riven slapped his forehead mentally. Why the hell am I still talking? Have I gone insane? But his mouth wouldn't stop. Each word tumbled out like falling from the edge of an emotional cliff.
"I said stop!"
And then—
Without hesitation, Ashtoria grabbed his throat again—
And squeezed until he passed out.