Ninety-nine, one hundred. Another hundred—and I'll go rest. It was pouring rain.

A door creaked to my left. A man, about thirty, no older: green eyes, dark hair, cropped short, average height. He was walking toward me. Edward, I think. Usually, he keeps quiet and seems to notice no one.

He hesitated a little, then spoke:

— Aria, maybe take a break? Training's been canceled.

"Hm, interesting. What does he want?" — I glanced at the bench under the roof. He understood and followed me. I sat down.

— Well, sit. Why are you standing?

He sat and fell silent.

"And why did he even come over? Fine, I'll talk."

— Edward, is it?

— Yes, Edward, — he replied, still studying his sleeve.

— I've seen how you handle a sword. You're hiding something. Holding back?

His eyes widened—apparently, he thought no one noticed.

— Well… — he mumbled, shrugging. — I don't like standing out.

— But you're not like everyone else. Usually, everyone starts telling you how important and rich they are and asks for your hand in marriage, — I joked. Usually, boys blush so funny after those words.

But this one just smirked, looking at the sky:

— Even though I'm from the "upper class," we only bought the title. People treat us a bit better than commoners. But not enough to ask the Princess of Swords for her hand.

My lips curled upward. Then he looked at me with a glint in his eyes:

— Do you know what I imagine sometimes? A demon is charging at an aristocrat. And the guy stands up, hands on his hips, and yells: "Wait! I'm a Baron of the Third Degree! I have the right to priority rescue!"

I giggled, trying to hold back my laughter, but he told it so well that the picture just appeared before my eyes: a baron with five chins waving his hand, fighting off demons with his title. And I laughed, covering my mouth. Barely calmed down.