They stepped out of the pool, their bodies still dripping wet, water trailing down from their soaked hair and clothes. The cool night air brushed against their skin, sending a light shiver through Riven. He quickly pulled two large towels and a set of dry sleepwear from the wardrobe, tossing one toward Ashtoria without looking at her.
"Dry yourself and change," he said curtly, his voice still heavy with restrained desire.
Ashtoria caught the towel and clothes with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving Riven's back. Water slid down the contours of his shoulders and spine, running into the waistband of his pants.
Riven rubbed his body dry with rough movements, as if trying to erase every trace of Ashtoria's touch from his skin. But when his hand reached his waist, he froze—he could feel her burning gaze fixed on him.
"Please," Riven ground out through clenched teeth, "turn around."
Ashtoria arched a brow but obeyed. They now stood back to back in the same room, peeling off their wet clothes.
And yet… curiosity stirred.
With a slow, quiet motion, Ashtoria glanced over her shoulder—then she saw it.
What was that?
Between Riven's strong thighs, something large and rigid stood defiantly, oblivious to his efforts to hide it. Though he turned away more sharply, the image had already seared itself into her mind.
Was that… because of me?
Her curiosity burned hotter than the water in the pool ever had. Her body reacted strangely—her stomach fluttered, and warmth gathered between her legs.
"Are you done?" Riven's rough voice snapped her out of her daze.
Ashtoria turned fully, now wearing a new silk nightgown that draped loosely over her figure. "Almost," she replied, letting her gaze linger on Riven, who was already in loose trousers.
But she could still see it, the outline was unmistakable.
. . .
The large bed felt smaller with both of them in it. Riven lay caught in Ashtoria's embrace—his body serving as her pillow, his arm as her rest. At first, he had intended to sleep with his back to her, keeping distance so his burning desire wouldn't grow worse. But Ashtoria, like a child refusing to part with her favorite toy, clung to him tightly until he was trapped in this position.
Ashtoria slept peacefully, her face soft and serene, so unlike her usual cold expression. Her legs curled around Riven's thigh, her small hand gripped his waist as if afraid he might vanish. When she shifted slightly, her smooth thigh brushed against the part of him that was still tense.
"Nh—!"
Riven stifled a jolt, his breath catching in his throat. He shut his eyes, forcing his racing heartbeat to steady. Slowly, he glanced down at Ashtoria. She was still fast asleep, her expression innocent, unguarded.
How could I think such filthy thoughts about a girl this pure?
He let out a long breath, then gently stroked her crimson hair, which glimmered beneath the lantern light.
His mind spun endlessly. In his arms, Ashtoria breathed calmly, warm and soft like a well-fed kitten. Yet inside Riven, a storm raged.
She loves me.
That truth should have made him happy.
So why did it feel like a knife wedged into his ribs?
'I love her too,' whispered the deepest part of him. 'Maybe since the first second I saw her.'
His thoughts drifted back to their first meeting—how Ashtoria, gravely wounded, had collapsed right in front of them. At first, he had wanted to walk away. But after seeing her up close, and with Melly's insistence pressing on him, something inside told him he couldn't leave her there.
But now…
I don't deserve her.
Riven stared at the ceiling.
As a man, he couldn't accept it. He wasn't her equal.
He knew himself well enough.
He was nobody. Not clever. Plain-faced. Poor. Without family. Without connections. Even in magic, he wasn't remarkable. He was only someone stubborn enough to keep surviving, without luxury, without gifts.
The list of his shortcomings stretched endlessly in his mind. While Ashtoria? She was a queen, a sovereign, a legendary Lawbearer, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the owner of everything.
What could I possibly give her? Protection? Wealth? Status?
His hand clenched against her back.
I almost failed to protect Melly…
So how could he ever stand beside someone like Ashtoria?
He couldn't.
He wasn't worthy.
So even though his heart yearned for her… Riven couldn't allow himself to fall deeper.
Closing his eyes, he carefully returned Ashtoria's embrace, wrapping his arms around her with measured care. Then he focused inward, quietly activating his mana absorption technique.
A subtle stream of energy flowed into him—from the air, from the earth, from everything around. He matched it to his breath, keeping it steady, binding it to his rhythm. He was training himself to let it run even in sleep.
The night deepened.
And in the warmth of Ashtoria's embrace, surrounded by silence, Riven struggled to calm the storm within.
. . .
Morning draped the Rathsture estate in mist and dew. Sunlight pierced faintly through a thin veil of fog, while crisp air brushed against the skin, refreshing and invigorating. In the quiet backyard, the steady rhythm of footsteps and the whisper of steel through air broke the stillness.
Riven stood tall in the open ground, his body already slick with sweat though the day had barely begun. In his hands, Riftmaker gleamed pale under the morning sun, like newly melted ice. His breath was even, his gaze sharp.
He moved.
A forward step. His stance pressing firmly into the earth. Riftmaker swept outward, then across, then arced downward in one clean motion. He drilled the pattern, carving discipline into muscle and memory.
Each movement was more than repetition, it was pursuit.
Pursuit of precision. Silence within momentum. Strength born not from rage, but from control.
Memories of his battles resurfaced—the moment claws nearly tore his throat, the chill of death brushing past him, the surge of adrenaline when he struck the beast down.
That fear, that wound—now they were his guides.
He adjusted his stance. Repeated the motion. Tuned the swing. The blade began to feel more like an extension of his arm, lighter, more intuitive. Slowly, harmony grew between man and weapon.
After a long while, Riven halted. His chest heaved. Wiping sweat from his brow, his gaze fixed on a boulder nearby. Weathered by centuries, its rough surface stood tall, almost at his height.
He approached it. Paused.
Placing a hand on its cool surface, he felt its steadfastness. He closed his eyes, recalling that moment when he had cut down the White Tiger with a single stroke—when body, mind, and intent fused into a single line of death.
He opened his eyes.
Then inhaled deeply.
Riftmaker lifted, held vertical. Both hands firm but not rigid. He lowered his center, aligning shoulder and heel, then—
The blade came down fast.
Air split apart. Steel traced a flawless line through the wind.
Clang.
The sword struck the boulder directly… and bounced off.
A small cut. No crack. Not even an echo lingered in the morning air.
Riven stared at the result, then let out a long breath.
"…Of course it wouldn't be that easy."
He lowered the sword, shoulders slack. But there was no disappointment in his voice. He knew what was missing. Not power, not technique, but perfect intent, and an understanding he had yet to reach.
That moment, when he had cleaved the White Tiger, had not come from reckless courage. It had come from something else, perhaps a resolve forged at the brink of life and death.
And today, though he knew the method, he had not touched that feeling again.
But he wasn't about to give up.
"Again," he muttered.
He stepped back, readying himself.
First step. Then another. The swing of his body. The draw of breath. The slash.
And the same sound rang out.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
By the fifth attempt, Riven paused, chest heaving heavier now. His body was tiring, but his focus stayed sharp. He pictured the cut, the line, that one perfect moment and unleashed Riftmaker with full force.
Clang!
The blade bounced again, a small tremor running through his arms.
Before he could catch his breath, a sharp voice sliced into the quiet morning.
"Hey! Who are you?!"
The tone was cold, brimming with irritation.
"How could some country bumpkin like you end up here?!"
Riven turned, his eyes falling on a woman.