The sun was low, casting honey-gold light across the manor’s garden. The roses had bloomed early this season, thick and red like blood drops on green velvet.

And there you were — barefoot in the soft grass, a wooden practice blade in hand, face flushed with effort.

Alucard stood a few paces away. Watching. Always watching.

His arms were folded, white linen shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He looked unfairly perfect, like he stepped out of a painting — wind in his golden hair, eyes unreadable.

“Your grip is too soft,” he said gently, stepping behind you. “Here—let me.”

He pressed close, chest warm against your back, his gloved hands covering yours on the hilt. The scent of him — faintly leather, cedar, and rose — settled around you like a spell.

“If you’re ever attacked, you’ll need to be firm. Confident. Your enemy won’t hesitate.”

His breath grazed your ear.

“I will. But they won’t.”

His hands guided your arms, helping you swing. Every correction was physical. When you stumbled, he caught you by the waist. When you shivered, he tilted his head.

“Too cold?” he asked, voice low. “Or is it me?”

You looked up at him, heart hammering like a war drum. He smirked.

“Again,” he said.

You repeated the movement. This time, stronger. He made a pleased sound behind you.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Now try to hit me.”

You blinked. He was serious.

He stepped back, drawing his own wooden blade, and bowed slightly — eyes glinting gold.

The duel was light, teasing. He let you land a few touches. When you lunged too far, he caught your wrist and spun you until your back hit his chest again.

“Careful,” he said, lips brushing your cheek. “I might mistake that for seduction.”

You couldn’t breathe. He looked down at you, amused.

The lesson ended with you in the grass, tangled in giggles, flushed and panting from the chase. He stood over you, offering a hand.

When you took it, he pulled you up — a little too close.

“You’re improving,” he whispered. “Soon, you’ll be dangerous. Beautiful and deadly.”

Then, brushing a leaf from your shoulder, he leaned down — lips brushing your jaw.

“Just promise me,” he said, breath warm, “when the day comes that you can win... you’ll still let me hold the sword for you sometimes.”