The days that follow are quiet. I stay at the Valemont estate, mostly in the west wing, where the garden catches the afternoon sun. My mother insists on taking her tea there every day now—it's the only part of the house that still feels alive.

We don't talk much about the duel. Not the nobles, not the letter, not Valen lying bald and humiliated on the floor. She doesn't have to. She usually just looks at me sometimes with a thin smile.

We spend the mornings walking through the rose paths. She tends to the plants herself while she's here.

It's weird, honestly. She looks like a seasoned adventure in her attires, but she's a very caring woman, nonetheless.

After a few days of placid routine, my mother finally tells me it's time to go.

"I have to clear an Elite Mithril Dungeon," she sighs. "I've received an offer from an Adventuring Team to team up and… yeah. I have to go. It might spill soon, otherwise. It's a one-in-ten-years kind of Dungeon. I wish I could have spent more time with you, Jacob. I'm still… I know it doesn't make up for the time I haven't been by your side. But I hope that at least now you'll have a slightly clearer picture of your mother."

"I do," I say. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you, too, darling," my mother says, getting up and coming to hug me, with tears in her eyes.

I swallow, trying not to be a sucker, but it's basically impossible and I let a few tears fall myself.

She holds me close, and for a long moment neither of us says anything.

When she finally pulls back, she wipes the corner of her eye, then studies me carefully.

"Jacob," she says softly, "before I go, there's something I want to do."

I blink and sniff once, trying to compose myself. "What is it?"

She straightens, her expression shifting from gentle to serious in an instant. "Spar."

I stare at her. "You want to spar? Right now?"

Priscilla Valemont grins.

"You're my son. You didn't think I'd leave without testing what kind of warrior you've become, did you?"

"I—uh…" I glance down at a woman who's about to run a Mithril-Ranked Dungeon. "I might not be ready for that."

She steps back, already unfastening her cloak and tying her hair into a high ponytail.

"Then it's time to find out. And don't worry. I'll lower my power and I won't use any Skills. I just want this to be a display of martial ability. Just come at me with everything you've got. Don't hold back or I might break a few bones. I have a hard time controlling my power sometimes."

You might want to be careful. She's not bluffing, I hear King Baalrek's voice in my head.

* * *

We descend into the courtyard full of rose bushes and I see Kai and Thorne present.

"She told us she was leaving," Kai says.

"And we know that she would want to spar you, too," Thorne adds, caressing the giant white tiger that follows him everywhere.

"Are you ready?" Priscilla Valemont asks. "I won't ask twice, Jacob."

"I am."

I draw Black Flame, the blade humming with heat and shadow, and take my stance.

My mother doesn't. She stands relaxed, holding what looks like a simple steel sword—no runes, no sigils, no visible enchantment. Just metal and calm confidence.

I move first. [First Step of Mephistus] blurs the distance, a sharp rush of displaced air. The swing that follows should hit before she can even react. Should.

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Her sword flashes once.

Clang.

She redirects my entire strike with a lazy twist of her wrist, barely stepping aside.

I push harder. [Quake Balance] and [Greater Fault Line Instinct] activate at once, keeping my footing perfect as I channel [Web of Withering] through the floor while at the same time I slash at her chest. The dark energy crawls toward her, ready to snare her movement—

—but she just flicks her blade down. The threads break like cobwebs.

"You're overextending," she says.

"Not enough," I mutter, and trigger Infernal Wings of Ash.

Black feathers burst behind me, the heat coiling as I take to the air. The shadows cling to my armor, and I dive.

She still looks bored.

I swing. The flame roars—and she steps in, under my guard, letting my strike graze her shoulder before she knocks the sword aside with one effortless parry.

Her blade hums faintly, wrapped in pale-blue Mana now, light and fluid.

"Good power," she says, "but too predictable. What kind of an expert can't get ready for you diving like this?"

I dart back and launch another combo.

"Again, darling," she sighs. "Overextending."

She blocks all of it. Not a stumble. Not a scratch. She reads me like she's been fighting me my whole life.

Her aura flickers once—Peak Platinum, nothing more—and yet I feel like I'm standing in front of a mountain that chose to stay still.

I grin through clenched teeth. "You're enjoying this."

Priscilla Valemont smiles faintly. "Of course. You're fast."

She raises her sword. "But not yet fast enough. Come closer, I'll show you something."

I do, relaxing for an instant.

The next moment, the pommel of her sword finds my chest.

I almost puke my entire lunch on the ground then and there.

"What—"

But before I can say anything, I see her directing a kick at my head.

I roll, trying to reset my stance, but she's already there—her foot cutting through the air where my head was half a second ago. The impact rattles the ground, scattering dirt and petals from the garden's edge.

"What are you—"

I hear her blade whistling.

Damn it!

I activate the Grimoire and try to look for weaknesses in her attacks. But nothing flashes red.

I throw a counter, a horizontal slash with all the force I can muster. She doesn't even parry it. She steps through it, her Mana blooming for an instant, dispersing the heat from my blade before it touches her. My sword skids uselessly along her aura.

"Good reflex," she says. "But your follow-up is too linear."

I launch another strike, feinting low and twisting the blade upward, Black Flame roaring. She leans back, taps the flat of my sword and I use Shard Dominion, expecting her sword to fly away. But when she taps the sword with her own, and the entire flow of my attack collapses.

"You think too much and rely on the Skills too much," she continues, voice calm, even as she keeps pressing me. "I can see when you're distracted because you're looking for openings. It's written all over your face."

I blink sweat from my eyes and grin.

"And you don't think at all?"

"Oh, I do," she says, sidestepping my next thrust. "But I learned to think between strikes."

Her hand snaps forward, faster than my eyes can track. A sharp impact slams into my gauntlet, sending my sword flying a few meters away and, before I can recall it, she puts her blade at my neck.

"You tricked me," I say. "You said you wanted to show me something."

"And I did. I showed you that the people that can hurt you the worst are those you let get too close."

I turn, uncomprehending, toward my older brothers. I can see on their grimaces that our mother must apparently pull stunts like this quite often.

* * *

I hesitate before she leaves. The carriage is already waiting in the courtyard, its sigils faintly glowing against the morning mist. She's fastening her gloves when I ask, "Are you going to be okay? With… everything? The title, the court, all of it?"

She stops, looks at me, then smiles that calm, unshakable smile she's perfected over years of storms. "Jacob, I'll be fine. Titles come and go. They were never what made me who I am."

Her voice is light, almost careless, but her eyes linger on mine longer than usual. "If I lose a name, I'll take another. If they close one door, I'll make my own path. Don't worry about me, sweetheart."

I nod, but something twists in my chest. I know her too well; she's lying through her teeth to keep me from worrying.

"I'll win the duel for you," I say quietly. "For everything they said. I'll make them regret it."

Her smile softens. "You don't have to fight for me, Jacob. You've already done more than enough."

"I'm not doing it because I have to," I reply. "I'm doing it because I want to."

She looks at me for a long time before finally nodding. "Then win beautifully," she says, and steps into the carriage.

As it pulls away, Baalrek's voice hums low in my mind. She hides her pain well, that one. But she's proud of you. So be worthy of it.

"I plan to be," I whisper.

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