The following morning, Faeloria's training grounds were once again active—but this time, it wasn't the maids training. It was the princesses themselves.
Astarotte stood with arms crossed, wearing sleek, obsidian combat armor enchanted with lust and shadow magic. Her pink tail flicked in anticipation.
Piglette wore heavier leather armor, her orange hair tied back, a massive hammer strapped to her back.
Liselotte floated slightly in a magic bubble of water, her dress woven from seaweed and water-thread, carrying a trident of coral.
Roanna wore a noble black and red duelist's outfit, her twin tails pinned with ribbons, a rapier with bat-wing motifs at her hip.
Serenil stood before them. "Today, we discover what you're capable of in real combat—not noble sparring or theory."
The four nodded, stepping forward one by one.
Astarotte came first, unleashing a barrage of shadowy clones and seductive illusions. Serenil dodged them with ease, countering with pressure that made her scowl.
"You read through me," she muttered, breathing heavily.
"No. I just don't fall for tricks I've seen in the mirror," Serenil replied.
Piglette followed, wielding her hammer with brutal force but elegant movement. Though quiet, her strikes shook the earth. Serenil blocked and redirected, testing her resilience.
"You're too kind," he warned gently. "Use that kindness as control—not weakness."
She nodded silently, eyes shining.
Liselotte was chaos incarnate—bouncing, twirling, and unleashing waves of water blasts, sometimes forgetting what move she was doing mid-attack. Serenil laughed as he dodged, enjoying her spontaneity.
"Focus your joy," he said. "Your power is wild—but if you harness it, you'll be unstoppable."
Finally came Roanna. Her movements were precise, almost noble in their grace. But her eyes shone with cunning.
"Don't hold back, my prince," she whispered. "I want you to see the real me."
Her strikes were laced with blood enchantments, feints that nearly nicked his cheek. But Serenil countered with a burst of soul energy that knocked her blade free.
"Impressive," he admitted. "You're a dangerous one."
She smirked. "Only for others. Never for you."
As training ended, the girls gathered around Serenil, sweat and pride on their faces. His maids, now soul-bound, stood behind him like guardians. His brides-in-waiting, each unique and deadly in their own right, had proven themselves not as fragile nobility—but as warriors worthy of his name.
And in that moment, Serenil realized—this was no longer a game of politics.
This was war preparation.
And these girls would be at his side—no matter how deep the darkness that would come.