I stood frozen in the doorway watching in real time as the image I’d built of her, the aloof, unshakable warrior, the blade that cut through armies, the name whispered with reverence and fear, shattered like glass. In the book, she was a phantom of inevitability, a woman who carved her legend without hesitation or misstep.
Here, in reality, she was pacing her living room in a hoodie and trousers, brow furrowed as she muttered to herself. "I could’ve sworn I left it on the table. Unless the table grew legs and walked away... do tables do that?"
She paused, lifting the remote to her face, then shrugged and tucked it into her pocket. "Guess I’ll find it later."
I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch.
{Dead serious,} Bastard said dryly. {And here I thought she’d be this terrifying swordmaster who’d crush your spirit. Turns out she can’t even crush her laundry pile.}
I blinked, watching her wander over to the couch and pat around the cushions with the same distracted air. Her movements weren’t clumsy, she was still balanced in that way fighters always were, but her focus was everywhere except where it should’ve been.
"This..." I muttered, deadpan, "is not what I expected."
’In the stories, you were a storm. A blade. An unstoppable force.’ My thoughts were bitter, incredulous. ’And here you are, a woman arguing with furniture and losing.’
{Careful, Sebastian,} Bastard chuckled. {She might smite you with the almighty power of losing her own belongings.}
I dragged a hand down my face. Living with this woman for six months? Forget danger. Forget training. Forget the academy.
{You’re in hell,} Bastard whispered. {And it’s beautifully furnished.}
Belle tilted her head slightly, blindfold aimed in my direction.
"...Oh. You’re here already."
Her voice was soft, low, the kind that didn’t fill the air so much as drift through it, like she was still halfway somewhere else.
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. "Should I...?"
"You can come in," she said, already turning away before I’d finished. Her fingertips brushed the wall, tracing its surface like she was mapping it in her mind. "I was looking for something."
Her hand drifted along a shelf, paused, then rested on an object that had been there the entire time, the same remote she’d pocketed earlier. "Ah. Here." She sounded faintly surprised, as if it had reappeared on its own. "That explains everything."
"...Does it?" I muttered.
No answer. She set the remote back down like nothing had happened and turned her head toward me again, blindfold catching the light.
"You’re smaller than I thought."
That one threw me off. "I’m six feet tall," I said flatly. "At least two inches taller than you."
She tilted her head again, thoughtful. "Really?" A small pause. "You sound shorter."
I stared at her. "That’s... not how height works."
"Mm." She seemed to consider that for a moment, then nodded once as if acknowledging the point — or perhaps just deciding the discussion was over.
She crossed the room, bare feet silent against the polished floor, and lowered herself onto the couch. Hands folded neatly, expression unreadable. "So. You’re the one I’m supposed to teach."
The words weren’t cold or inviting. Just there — weightless, spoken because they needed to be, not because she cared to say them.
{I’ve heard rocks start conversations with more energy,} Bastard muttered.
’Don’t insult the rocks,’ I thought, still watching her.
Belle moved her head toward the couch and patted the cushion beside her.
Her tone didn’t change. Not an order, not an invitation. Just a statement, quiet and certain.
I crossed the room and sat down, leaving a polite gap between us. The couch dipped slightly under her weight — or maybe under the weight of everything I didn’t understand about her.
She stayed still for a few moments, hands resting lightly on her knees, then said, "Training will be difficult."
"You’ll think you’re dying," she continued, still calm. "You won’t be. Not unless you’re careless."
"That’s... comforting."
She nodded slightly, as if taking that seriously. "It should be. Most people don’t realize how much dying feels like living until they’ve done both."
I blinked. "...You say that like you’ve tried it."
A ghost of something flickered across her lips. Not quite a smile. Not quite sadness either. "Maybe I have. Hard to say. Some days I think I left parts of myself behind a long time ago."
Her blindfold tilted toward me, unseeing, unreadable. "Do you have that problem, too?"
I hesitated. "Leaving parts of myself behind?"
"...I think I’m still figuring out which parts I even have."
"That’s good," she said simply. "Means there’s something left to lose."
For a long moment, she said nothing else. Just sat there, one hand loosely clasped in the other, posture straight but somehow... absent, like her body was here but her thoughts wandered somewhere far away.
Then, in the same even tone, she added, "You should rest. There’s a room next to the kitchen. Use it."
That tone - still airless, soft, but carrying a quiet finality- left little room for argument.
"That’s it? No welcome speech? No ominous threats about what’ll happen if I slack off?"
"You’ll find out," she said. "Tomorrow."
{That’s worse,} Bastard muttered. {I’d take the threat.}
I stood, rubbing the back of my neck. "You really don’t talk much, do you?"
"I talk plenty," she replied softly. "People just don’t listen long enough."
That... didn’t sound airheaded. It sounded like something that should’ve been written on a gravestone.
I turned toward the kitchen, heading for the small door she’d pointed out. My hand brushed the knob.
After a long pause, she reached absently toward the table, patted around twice, and asked in that same calm voice,
"...Have you seen the remote?" Googlᴇ search NoveI-Fire.ɴet