The sight of them walking away together at every break became routine.
By the end of the first week, no one even looked up anymore when the High Archmage and the Sword Saint left the main camp during rest stops. They simply... went. Always for roughly an hour. Always returning separately, the Sword Saint first, Leon trailing behind looking thoughtful.
Speculation ran wild.
"They're developing new combat techniques," one mage theorized during an evening meal Leon wasn't present for. "Combining magical theory with physical prowess. The High Archmage is preparing for his knighthood."
"Makes sense," another agreed. "He'll need to possess martial capability before the knighthood. The Sword Saint is probably teaching him advanced sword forms."
"On horseback," someone added. "I heard them mention something about mounted combat."
This theory gained traction quickly. It was logical, practical, and completely wrong.
Those who "knew" - the handful who'd caught glimpses of the actual lessons - reported seeing the High Archmage learning to ride. But they misunderstood the context, assumed it was advanced training in mounted combat techniques, preparation for some elaborate knighthood demonstration.
No one guessed the truth: that Leon was learning skills most children mastered by age six.
And if the Sword Saint noticed the rumors, the speculation, the knowing glances that followed them whenever they left camp together, she gave absolutely no indication.
Leon suspected she simply didn't care enough to correct anyone.
From her perspective, she was teaching a practical skill to prevent the royal caravan's leader from creating accidents. Whether people thought they were developing military tactics or secretly courting was apparently beneath her notice.
She remained exactly as unreadable as that first day. The helmet never came off. The armor never changed. Leon began to wonder if she slept in it, if she ever actually took it off, or if she was somehow fused with the metal like some kind of warrior-knight version of a hermit crab.
"Your posture has improved," she said one afternoon during their third week of travel, watching him walk his horse through a series of turns. "You're no longer fighting the animal's natural movement."
Leon accepted the praise - if it could be called that, delivered in the same neutral tone she used for corrections. "I had a good teacher."
"Adequate instruction combined with stubborn repetition," she replied. "Though you still tense when transitioning to a trot. We'll work on that tomorrow."
Tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.
The lessons continued with mechanical regularity. Leon's skills slowly, grudgingly improved. He progressed from "actively dangerous to himself and others" to merely "obviously incompetent" to eventually "passably mediocre."
It was the most frustrating thing he'd ever learned.
Engineering made sense. Magic - despite being magic - followed mathematical principles he could grasp. Even learning a new language had a logic to it, patterns that could be memorized and applied.
Horsemanship was none of those things. It was all feel, instinct, subtle adjustments that couldn't be quantified. His brain kept trying to approach it like a problem to be solved, and the horse kept reminding him that animals didn't care about his analytical framework.
"You're thinking too much again," the Sword Saint said, her voice cutting through his internal frustration.
"I'm always thinking too much."
"Yes." She paused, "I've noticed." She watched him attempt a controlled stop for the fifteenth time. "Your mind is impressive but your body lags behind. You analyze when you should react. Calculate when you should feel."
Leon brought his horse to a halt - better than his first attempts, but still not smooth. "That's kind of my whole thing. Thinking. Calculating. It's worked so far."
"Has it?"
The question hung in the air. Leon had no good answer.
The lessons continued.
By the fourth week, camp gossip had evolved. Soldiers whispered about the "power couple"-the kingdom's greatest warrior and its most powerful mage, spending hours alone together. Some claimed they'd heard laughter. They very much hadn't. Leon never laughed during lessons, too focused on not falling off, and the sword saint... well, she stayed true to her title. Others swore they'd seen the Sword Saint hold the High Archmage's hand. She had, to correct his grip on the reins, with all the romance of a drill sergeant adjusting a recruit's posture.
No one approached them about it. The combination of Leon's reputation and the Sword Saint's intimidating presence created a bubble of privacy around them that even curious nobles didn't dare breach.
Leon was grateful.
He wondered how old she was. She moved like someone in their prime - no hesitation, no stiffness, perfect control. Her voice never showed strain or tiredness. If not for the maturity in how she taught, the patient wisdom that suggested lots of experience, Leon would have guessed she was his junior.
But the way she handled him - like a particularly slow student who needed concepts broken down into manageable pieces - suggested someone who'd taught many people over many years.
In her fiftees, Leon had decided. Magically preserved or blessed with longevity or something. It was the only explanation that made sense.
It definitely had nothing to do with not wanting to think about the fact that he found her incredibly alluring while she was systematically dismantling his ego by teaching him children's skills.
"You're distracted again," she said.
Leon jerked his attention back to his horse. "Sorry. Thinking about... technique."
"You're thinking about something. I doubt it's technique."
Was that humor? Leon couldn't tell. Her voice remained completely neutral.
He focused on the lesson. On his posture. On the subtle shifts of weight that guided the horse. On anything except how close she stood when correcting his form, or how her movements had a grace that made even combat demonstrations look like choreographed dance.
By the sixth week, Leon could ride for a full day without wanting to die afterward. The pain had progressed from "excruciating after every march" to "manageable excruciating pain every two days."
Progress. Sort of.
"I think horse-riding is the one thing I was never meant to do," Leon said after a particularly frustrating lesson where his horse had decided to ignore every command and Leon had nearly been thrown when it shied at a bird.
"You're improving," the Sword Saint replied. "Slowly. But measurably."
"That's the most backhanded encouragement I've ever received."
"It's an observation."
Leon looked at her - at the helmet that never fully revealed her face, the armor that never came off, the posture that never shifted to indicate emotion. "Do you ever... not be completely unreadable?"
She tilted her head slightly. "I'm pretty direct."
"That's somehow worse."
"Why?"
Because Leon had no idea what she thought of him. Whether she found him amusing or pathetic or somewhere in between. Whether she enjoyed these lessons or viewed them as tedious obligation. Whether she'd noticed the camp rumors and was silently judging him for them.
"Never mind," Leon said.
The lessons continued.
Week seven brought Leon's first successful canter - a gait faster than trot but slower than gallop, requiring balance and timing he'd only barely developed. He managed thirty seconds before losing his rhythm and having to slow down.
The Sword Saint watched from her own horse, cantering alongside him with effortless control. "Adequate."
"I'll take it," Leon said, slightly breathless.
Week eight brought rain. They practiced in it anyway, the Sword Saint pointing out that battles rarely waited for good weather. Leon learned that wet saddles were even more uncomfortable than dry ones, and that his horse had opinions about being made to work in the rain.
Strong opinions.
He also learned that the Sword Saint's armor never seemed to accumulate mud or dirt despite the conditions. It just... stayed pristine, like she had some kind of passive cleaning magic.
Leon had many questions about this. He asked none.
By week nine, the mages had stopped trying to glean magical insights from Leon. His constant absence during lessons meant fewer opportunities to "accidentally" ask about his techniques. Some seemed disappointed. Others relieved - less pressure to keep up with the High Archmage's supposedly transcendent understanding.
Aldric remained friendly but respectful of Leon's time. "The knighthood ceremony preparations must be intense," he'd said during one evening meal. "I hope we're not bothering you with our theoretical debates."
"Not at all," Leon had replied, grateful for the misunderstanding.
Week ten brought them within sight of proper roads - wide, maintained, evidence of civilization expanding from the capital. Towns became more frequent. Inns appeared where before there had been only camping. The journey was entering its final phase.
Leon's horsemanship had progressed to "won't immediately embarrass himself in public." The Sword Saint declared this "sufficient for the moment" which Leon interpreted as "you've barely met minimum standards but it'll have to do."
"One more week," she said during what would be their second-to-last lesson. "Then we arrive at the capital."
"And then I'm on my own," Leon said.
"You were always on your own. I simply provided instruction."
"Right. Instruction. That's all this was."
She looked at him - helmet inscrutable as always. "Did you expect something else?"
Yes, his brain supplied. No, his survival instinct countered. "Just making conversation," Leon said.
The Sword Saint mounted her horse in one fluid motion. "Your conversational skills need as much work as your riding did. Perhaps more.."
She rode back toward camp, leaving Leon standing there trying to figure out if he'd just been insulted or not.
Week eleven brought them to the final approaches to the capital. The road widened further, traffic increased, and Leon could see the walls of the city in the distance - massive stone fortifications that dwarfed anything he'd seen in this world.
Their last lesson happened two days before arrival.
"You've improved significantly," the Sword Saint said, watching Leon execute a series of maneuvers that would have killed him three months ago. "You won't excel, but you won't hurt yourself either."
"High praise."
"It's accurate assessment."
Leon brought his horse to a stop beside hers. For once, it was smooth. Controlled. Almost competent.
"Thank you," he said. "For all of this. Teaching me. Keeping my secret. I know it wasn't-"
"It was practical," she interrupted. "As I said at the beginning. The High Archmage falling off his horse would create complications."
"Still. Thank you."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're stubborn. More stubborn than talented, which is saying something given your reputation. But stubbornness has value. Remember that."
It was possibly the closest thing to a compliment he'd received from her in three months.
Leon would take it.
They rode back to camp together one last time, the sun setting behind them, the capital waiting ahead.
Tomorrow they would arrive. Tomorrow Leon would face the court, receive his knighthood, step into yet another role he wasn't qualified for.
But at least he could ride a horse now.
Small victories.
Behind them, camp whispered about the High Archmage and the Sword Saint. About the legendary power couple. About romance and training and secret techniques developed in privacy.
None of them knew the truth: that Leon had spent three months learning to sit on a horse without falling off, taught by a woman he couldn't read and who definitely, absolutely, certainly did not think of him as anything except a particularly slow student.
Definitely.
Probably.
...Maybe.
Leon really needed to stop thinking about it