Two days into the journey, Leon was certain he was dying.
Every muscle in his body screamed. His thighs were raw where they pressed against the saddle. His back felt like someone had spent the night beating it with a club. His hands had cramped into claws around the reins, and uncurling them each evening required genuine effort and no small amount of pain.
But he kept riding.
What choice did he have? He was at the head of the royal caravan, the High Archmage leading the king's guard back to the capital. Stopping would mean admitting weakness. Admitting he'd never done this before. Admitting - yet again - that he was a fraud playing a role he had no qualifications for.
So Leon sat in his saddle and tried not to let the pain show on his face, even though every step the horse took sent jolts of agony through his abused body.
The Sword Saint rode ahead of him, as she had for two days. Perfect posture. Fluid movements. No indication that hours in the saddle affected her at all. She was a living reminder of everything Leon wasn't - graceful, competent, at ease in a world he was still desperately trying to understand.
They stopped for a midday rest. Leon dismounted with what he hoped looked like casual ease and definitely didn't involve biting back a groan of pain.
His legs nearly buckled when his feet hit the ground.
Leon caught himself on the saddle, pretending he was just adjusting the stirrups. Around him, soldiers were moving with practiced efficiency - tending horses, checking equipment, passing around water skins. Normal people doing normal tasks without their bodies staging a rebellion.
He forced himself to stand upright. Forced himself to walk -not limp, walk- toward the gathered mages.
Every step was agony.
"High Archmage," Aldric greeted him with a smile. "How are you finding the journey?"
"Fine," Leon lied. "The pace is good."
"Indeed! Much faster than our march north. The king's carriages are well-maintained." Aldric lowered his voice slightly. "Though I confess, I'm grateful to be riding in a wagon rather than on horseback. My old bones aren't suited for long rides anymore."
Leon made a noncommittal sound, trying not to think about how Aldric - who had to be at least sixty- was riding comfortably in a wagon while Leon, at twenty -eight, was being slowly destroyed by a saddle.
He found a spot to sit- carefully, slowly- and accepted some bread and dried meat from one of the supply carts. The food tasted like ash in his mouth, but he forced it down anyway.
Movement at the edge of his vision. The Sword Saint, dismounting with that same impossible grace, her armor catching the afternoon sunlight. She moved through the camp with purpose, checking on the soldiers, exchanging brief words with the officers.
Then she turned toward Leon.
He pretended he hadn't been watching. Focused very intently on his food.
Her shadow fell across him. Leon looked up.
"High Archmage," she said, her voice neutral behind the helmet. "May I speak with you?"
"Of course." Leon stood -fighting a wince - and followed her a short distance from the main group.
She turned to face him, and Leon had the uncomfortable sensation of being seen through. Analyzed. Even with her face hidden behind the helmet, he could feel the weight of her attention.
"Why won't you stop?" she asked.
Leon blinked. "Stop?"
"You're in pain. You have been for two days." Her voice was matter-of-fact, clinical. "Yet you continue riding. Why?"
Leon felt his face heating. She'd noticed. Of course she'd noticed. She was the king's personal guard, trained to observe, to detect threats and weaknesses.
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
"You're not." She took a step closer. "You move like someone with severe muscle strain and saddle sores. Your grip on the reins is compromised. Your balance is unstable. If we were attacked right now, you'd be a liability."
The blunt assessment hit harder than any insult. Because she was right. He would be useless in a fight, more useless. Could barely walk, let alone defend anything.
"I..." Leon started, then stopped. What could he say? I've never ridden a horse before and I'm too proud to admit it?
"I have no good answer," he admitted finally.
She was quiet for a moment, that unreadable helmet fixed on him. Then she reached up and touched his neck.
Leon froze.
A warmth spread from the point of contact. Not heat exactly, something softer, more soothing. It flowed through his muscles like warm water, and everywhere it touched, the pain... lessened. Faded. The screaming ache in his thighs dimmed to a dull throb. The fire in his back cooled to mere discomfort.
The relief was so intense Leon's knees nearly buckled for a different reason.
She withdrew her hand.
"Thank you," Leon breathed, and meant it with every fiber of his being. "I -thank you."
"I'm impressed ."Her tone remained neutral.
"...Impressed?"
"Your tolerance for pain. To continue despite hurting." She tilted her head slightly. "It suggests either remarkable discipline or remarkable stubbornness."
Leon didn't know how to respond to that. Was it a compliment? An observation? He couldn't tell.
"However," she continued, "stubbornness without skill is detrimental. You don't know how to ride."
It wasn't a question.
"No," Leon admitted. No point lying now. "I don't."
"I'll teach you."
The words were so matter-of-fact that it took Leon a moment to process them. "You... what?"
"Horsemanship. I'll teach you. Lessons during the rest stops. By the time we reach the capital, you should be competent enough." She paused. "not to fall off."
"I haven't fallen off," Leon protested weakly.
"Yet."
She turned and walked back toward the horses, leaving Leon standing there trying to figure out what had just happened.
The lessons began that afternoon.
The Sword Saint had them move to a clear area away from the main camp. Leon's horse - the gray mare that still looked at him with patient skepticism - was brought over along with the Sword Saint's own mount.
"First," she said, "your posture is wrong. You're gripping with your thighs and leaning too far forward. This creates tension and transfers every movement of the horse directly to your spine."
She demonstrated on her own horse - mounting in one fluid motion, settling into the saddle with perfect balance. "Your weight should be centered. Your legs relaxed but stable. You guide the horse through subtle shifts, not through force."
Leon tried to copy her positioning. Failed. Tried again.
"Your shoulders are too rigid. And you're still gripping too tightly with your legs."
He adjusted. She shook her head.
"Like this." She dismounted and moved to stand beside his horse. "May I?"
Leon nodded, not sure what she was asking permission for.
She reached up and adjusted his posture directly - moving his shoulders back, repositioning his legs, correcting the angle of his spine. Her movements were clinical, impersonal, but Leon was acutely aware of every point of contact.
"Better," she said, stepping back. "Now walk the horse. Slowly. Feel how it moves beneath you."
Leon urged the mare forward. She obeyed, and he tried to focus on the movement, on his posture, on anything except how mortifying it was to be learning something children in this world probably mastered by age five.
"You're tensing again," the Sword Saint called out. "Breathe. Stay calm"
Easy for her to say.
They practiced for an hour. Basic walking. Stopping. Turning. The fundamentals that Leon had been faking for two days.
She never showed frustration. Never sighed or made any indication that teaching him was tedious. When he failed - and he failed often - she simply corrected him and had him try again. Patient. Clinical. Like teaching a child.
Leon found himself wondering if she was actually older than she looked. The way she moved, the way she spoke - there was a maturity there that seemed to transcend her apparent age. Maybe she was like one of those anime characters who'd lived for centuries but looked young. Maybe she was his grandmother's age, magically preserved or something.
That would explain a lot. The patience. The wisdom. The complete lack of reaction to his failures.
Though it didn't explain why, when he watched her demonstrate proper form, his brain still short-circuited slightly at how effortlessly graceful she was. How the sunlight caught her armor. How she moved like water, like art, like someone had taken the concept of competence and made it beautiful.
"You're distracted," she said, and Leon snapped his attention back to his horse, face burning.
"Sorry."
"Focus. The horse can sense when your attention wanders."
"Right. Focus. I can do that."
He could not, in fact, do that.
By the time the lesson ended, Leon had improved marginally. He was no longer actively terrible, just passively incompetent. Progress.
"Tomorrow we'll work on trotting," the Sword Saint said as they led the horses back to camp. "For now, practice maintaining the posture I showed you. Even when you're tired, even when it hurts. Muscle memory is built through repetition."
"Thank you," Leon said. "For... all of this. Teaching me. The healing. I—"
"It's practical," she interrupted. "The head of the caravan falling off his horse would create unnecessary complications."
"Still. Thank you."
She didn't respond. Just turned and walked away, leaving Leon standing with his mare, wondering how someone could be so unreadable.
Did she think he was an idiot? Was she annoyed? Amused? Impressed? He had no idea. Her voice never changed. Her posture never shifted to indicate emotion. It was like talking to a very polite, very competent statue.
A beautiful statue, his brain supplied helpfully, and Leon told his brain to shut up.
He was going to spend the next two months receiving daily lessons from the kingdom's greatest warrior. Learning to ride a horse like a normal person instead of someone conducting a controlled fall in slow motion.
It was practical. Necessary. Nothing more.
The fact that his heart rate increased every time she came near was just... residual adrenaline from the pain relief. Or fear of failing in front of her. Or literally anything except attraction, because that would be stupid and pointless and -
"High Archmage?" Finn had appeared at his elbow. "You alright? You're talking to yourself."
"I'm fine," Leon said quickly. "Just... thinking about horsemanship techniques."
"The Sword Saint's teaching you?" Finn's eyes went wide. "That's incredible! She almost never takes students. You must have really impressed her."
Leon thought about his spectacular failures over the past hour. "I don't think 'impressed' is the word I'd use."
"Still, personal instruction from the Sword Saint herself?" Finn shook his head in wonder. "You're the luckiest man alive, High Archmage."
Leon looked toward where the Sword Saint stood checking her horse's saddle, unreadable as ever behind her helmet.
Lucky. Right.
He was going to spend two months in close proximity to someone who made his brain stop working, who he couldn't read, who was teaching him skills he should have learned as a child, all while maintaining the facade of being a powerful archmage.
Lucky wasn't the word he'd use either.
But at least his back didn't hurt anymore.
Progress.