I wandered through the ship, searching for Lance. It wasn’t hard to get a general sense of where he was—Soul Bond made that relatively simple. There was this faint pull in the back of my mind, like a thread, guiding me in his direction. But it wasn’t exactly precise. I could tell the general direction, but not much else.

I paused by a stack of crates, turning my head slightly as I focused on the connection between us. Somewhere, I could feel a flicker of amusement from him. Lance was hiding, and he was enjoying it.

I laughed softly to myself. Of course, he’d make this into a game.

The knowledge of his amusement only sharpened my own determination to find him. As I moved through the narrow spaces between the cargo and storage, my thoughts drifted back to our recent training. Training to use Archangel’s Touch had been challenging—harder than I expected. Sure, the skill itself wasn’t too difficult to activate. Lance himself had said repeatedly it wasn’t complicated: focus, summon the power, and will it to mend. But as he explained further, I learned it wasn’t always so simple.

Lance had told me that if I wanted to properly train in healing, I’d need to understand the body first—how it worked, how to identify injuries, illnesses, and how to best fix them. It was far more than just willing the magical light to appear. Knowing how to direct that power to the right place was the key, and Lance wasn’t exactly a master healer. Healing wasn’t just about power. It was about understanding.

Still, the connection between us was new and strange, but far more manageable. I could feel him, always there, just out of reach but never truly gone. It wasn’t intrusive, just a steady reminder of his presence.

I turned a corner, and the thread tugged me toward a pile of crates stacked against the wall. He had to be close. I crouched down and searched between the boxes, feeling more certain with each step. Lance’s amusement spiked again, a clear sign that I was getting close.

Then it struck me. The crates.

I grinned, finally catching on to his little trick. With a grunt, I started moving the crates aside, pushing them until there was just enough space for me to peek behind them. Sure enough, there was Lance, tucked into a small space, barely containing his laughter.

“You took your sweet time,” he said, his voice half-muffled as he stifled another laugh. He climbed out from his hiding spot, stretching his arms as if he’d been cramped in there for ages. “You’re going to have to do better next time.”

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t help but smile. “Next time? How about we stick to something I can actually improve at?”

Lance grinned, clapping me on the back. “Alright, alright. Let’s get back to sword training, then.”

We got to our usual spot on the deck, with me already dreading what would come next. I really wanted to improve, but despite my determination, it was slowly becoming the hardest task of them all.

Lance drew his sword, the scabbard still on, and tossed me my now least favorite piece of sturdy wood, which I caught mid-air with a grimace.

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“Ready?” Lance asked, already assuming his fighting stance.

I didn’t respond, just mirrored his stance as best as I could. We’d been doing this for days now, and I already knew how this would go. Lance wouldn’t dare hurt me, not that he could—as a sworn noble, any injury he inflicted on me would bounce right back to him thanks to Royal Revenge. But that didn’t make the training any easier.

The piece of wood in my hand felt foreign, like it didn’t belong. My whole life, I’d relied on my hands, on quick movements, on instinct. I always fought with my own body, never with a blade. Well, at least until Darrick had grown too big for me to have a fighting chance back at the orphanage. And now, I had to learn how to wield something completely different. It was frustrating beyond belief.

The training was harsh. Lance moved effortlessly, even with his sword still sheathed, guiding me through the complicated movements with a calm, unwavering voice. But no matter how much he corrected me or how many times I repeated the same motions, I couldn’t seem to get them right.

“Watch your stance,” Lance said for maybe the millionth time, stepping in close and lightly tapping the side of my leg with his foot. “Your balance is off. You’ll never land a hit if you keep leaning too far forward.”

I gritted my teeth, adjusting my stance as instructed, but I could already tell my body wasn’t made for this kind of precision. Every movement felt awkward, like I was working against myself. I swung the stick again, aiming for Lance’s side, but he easily sidestepped, his movements graceful and fluid, while mine were clumsy and slow.

“It’s not about just flailing the stick around,” Lance reminded me, his voice patient but firm. “You have to think. Every step, every motion has a purpose. It’s about control, not force.”

I could feel the sweat dripping down my face, my arms already aching from the repetitive movements. “I get it,” I muttered, but I didn’t, not really. It wasn’t that simple. It felt like I was trying to learn an entirely new language, one that didn’t come naturally to me at all.

Lance swung his sheathed sword, and I barely managed to block it with the wooden stick. The force of the impact jarred my arms, sending a shockwave up to my shoulders.

“You’ve got to be prepared,” Lance said, stepping back and watching me with that same serious expression. “Think about where you want to go, where you expect the fight to lead, and move with intention.”

I tried. I really did. But I knew—we both knew—that I wasn’t born for this kind of thing. No matter how much I tried to mimic Lance’s movements, it was clear I didn’t have the same natural grace. The sword was like an extension of his body. For me, it felt like I was trying to run using my hands instead of my feet.

Frustration bubbled up, and after another failed attempt to land a hit, I threw myself on the deck. “I’m never going to get this,” I said, panting heavily. My whole body ached from the constant repetition.

Lance lowered his sword and gave me a long look, his eyes softening. “You’re not supposed to be perfect at this right away,” he said, his voice gentler than before. “It takes time, Argus. A lot of it. You’re not the same person you were at the orphanage. And this?” He gestured to the stick at my feet. “This isn’t just about fighting. It’s about discipline. You’re learning more than how to use a sword.”

I looked at him, still feeling frustrated, but his words hit something deep inside me. He was right. As much as I hated this training, as much as it felt unnatural, it wasn’t just about becoming better at swordplay. It was about pushing myself beyond what I thought I could do.

“I’ll try again,” I muttered, picking up the stick, though my arms were heavy, my muscles screaming for a break.

Lance nodded approvingly. “Good. But take it slow. One step at a time.”

And so, we continued. The training was still hard, still frustrating, but there was a new determination in me. I wasn’t born for this, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t learn.