Celestine came home that evening with blood on her training uniform and a grin that could've powered the town wards.
"You should've SEEN it," she announced, bursting through the front door with the subtlety of a cavalry charge. "Instructor Maren put us against 3rd-year students and I beat TWO of them. Two! One of them cried!"
"Celestine," Mother said.
"He cried a LITTLE. It was barely crying. More like... aggressive eye-watering."
"Celestine."
"...Yes, Mother?"
"Is that your blood?"
My sister looked down at herself. She was wearing the standard training uniform of the Verath Holy Knight Seminary — a reinforced gray tunic over dark trousers, with leather guards on the forearms and shins. The tunic had a dark stain spreading across the left side.
"Mostly not," Celestine said cheerfully.
"MOSTLY?"
What followed was a fifteen-minute ordeal in which Mother peeled off Celestine's tunic (my sister protesting the entire time that it was "just a scratch"), revealed a rather nasty gash along her ribs ("see? Barely anything"), and called Father from his study to heal it ("I really don't need—" "SIT DOWN").
I watched from the kitchen doorway, eating an apple.
Father's hands glowed gold as he pressed them to Celestine's side. The wound sealed itself — not instantly, but over the course of about thirty seconds, skin knitting back together like time running in reverse. It was, objectively, incredible. A miracle in the most literal sense.
Celestine didn't even flinch. She'd been getting healed since she started training at twelve. For her, this was Tuesday.
"You need to be more careful," Father said quietly, pulling back. His eyes were tired. They were always a little tired after healing work, and he'd already done a full day of parish appointments.
"I was careful! I blocked the first strike perfectly. It's the second one that—"
"Celestine." Father's voice was gentle but firm. "Being talented doesn't make you invincible. The seminary teaches control as much as power. Remember that."
My sister deflated slightly. "Yes, Father."
He kissed her forehead. "I'm proud of you. Two third-years is impressive."
She lit up again immediately. Emotional whiplash was Celestine's default state.
After Father left and Mother followed to make dinner ("you are NOT helping, you are SITTING"), Celestine slumped on the parlor sofa and noticed me.
"Little Luce! Come here."
I approached cautiously. Celestine's affection was genuine but physically dangerous.
She didn't headlock me this time. Instead, she pulled me onto the sofa beside her and leaned back with a groan.
"Everything hurts."
"You just got healed."
"The wound is healed. The muscle fatigue is not. Father fixes the damage, not the exhaustion." She rolled her shoulders with a wince. "I swear, if I have to do one more overhead kata tomorrow, my arms are going to fall off."
I looked at her. Fourteen years old, already carrying lean muscle, already moving with the coiled awareness of someone trained to fight. She was good. Really good, from what I could tell and from the way Father sometimes watched her practice with that complicated mix of pride and worry.
"Can I see your sword form?" I asked.
She blinked. "What?"
"The one you used today. The overhead one."
"You want to see me swing a sword? You hate physical activity. Last week you complained that walking to the temple was 'unnecessary cardio.'"
In my defense, the temple was uphill.
"I'm curious," I said. "I like watching how things work."
She studied me for a second, then shrugged and stood up. In the parlor. Mother would have a heart attack if she saw this, but Mother was in the kitchen.
Celestine picked up a fire poker from beside the hearth and held it like a sword. Her stance shifted — casual slouch transforming into something balanced and alert. Even with a poker, even in her socks, she looked like a warrior.
"Basic overhead strike," she said, and demonstrated. The poker came down in a clean vertical arc, stopping a foot above the carpet. Fast, controlled, precise.
I watched. Not the poker — her body.
"Do it again?"
She did. And again. Three times.
"Your left shoulder drops right before the strike," I said.
She paused. "What?"
"Your left shoulder. It dips about an inch right before you bring the weapon down. It's like you're winding up, but it telegraphs the timing. And I think it's putting extra strain on your right side to compensate, which might be why your muscles are so sore."
Silence.
Celestine stared at me. Not with suspicion — with genuine surprise.
"How did you — you're SEVEN."
"I watch things," I said. "You drop the left shoulder, the right side has to work harder to generate the same power, and over dozens of repetitions, that asymmetry accumulates into fatigue."
More silence. She was actually thinking about it. I could see her mentally replaying her form.
"...Huh," she said.
She did the strike again, this time focusing on keeping her left shoulder stable. The difference was subtle but visible — the arc was smoother, the motion more symmetrical.
"That does feel different," she admitted. "Lighter."
"Biomechanics," I said, and then immediately regretted it because that word absolutely did not exist in this world.
"Bio-what?"
"Something I read in one of Father's books," I lied. "About how the body moves."
She accepted this because Celestine, for all her physical genius, had approximately zero interest in reading anything that didn't have diagrams of sword techniques. If I said I'd read it in a book, she believed me, because reading weird books was just something Lucien did.
"My seven-year-old brother is coaching my sword form," she said, half to herself. "This is either amazing or embarrassing."
"Can't it be both?"
She laughed — a real, bright laugh — and ruffled my hair. Gently this time.
"You're weird, Little Luce."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"I'm choosing to take it as one."
She laughed again, and Mother called us for dinner, and the evening folded into the warm routine of the Ashveil household.
But I noticed, over the next few days, that Celestine started keeping her left shoulder stable during overhead strikes.
She didn't mention it again. Neither did I.
Some things didn't need to be discussed.