Gareth stood in the practice yard, greatsword lowered, watching the healer walk between the sparring rings. She moved with the kind of attention that reminded him of a duelist reading an opponent — careful, focused, missing nothing. He found reasons to be near the stone gazebo after that. The structure overlooked the water, moss creeping across its railings, and she came there most afternoons with her supplies. Gareth told himself he was working on stillness, on learning to observe instead of act. The truth sat heavier. He wanted her to notice him the way he noticed her. On the fourth day, he pulled a swamp flower from the wetlands and brought it to her, its muddy petals releasing their sweet smell. She accepted it with the same polite distance she showed everyone, thanked him, and set it aside. Her eyes never changed. The rejection didn't announce itself. It lived in the space between her words and the way she turned back to her work. Gareth stood there a moment longer than he should have, feeling the same impatience that ruined his dueling burn through his chest. He wanted to push, to insist, to make something happen through sheer force. Instead, he nodded and walked away. He found the old tower at the island's edge and climbed its crumbling stairs. The stone was cool under his palms, vines tangling through the gaps in the walls. He sat at the top and forced himself to stay still, counting his breaths the way he did in training. Patience didn't come from wanting it. It came from enduring the wait. Mirella had taught him that without meaning to, and the lesson tasted bitter.

Gareth spent three days at the tower, drilling himself into stillness. He stood with the greatsword raised until his arms shook, forcing himself not to strike. He sat on the stone steps and counted his breaths until impatience burned itself out into something quieter. The work was unglamorous and slow, but it was work he could measure. On the fourth morning, he found the practice range near the wetlands. Reeds circled the wooden platform, and someone had carved rings into the target boards. The place felt hidden enough that no one would interrupt him. He hung a lantern from the roof beam and set to work, running drills that forced him to pause between strikes. The rhythm felt almost meditative until he heard voices approaching from the direction of the stone gazebo. Mirella's voice carried through the reeds, light and familiar. Then Cedric's answered, lower and uncertain. Gareth moved to the edge of the platform and looked through the stalks. At the gazebo, Mirella gestured toward the bench he'd seen her use every morning, the one with carved armrests and cushions damp from mist. She was asking Cedric to join her there. Cedric hesitated, then nodded. They sat together, and Mirella began talking about something Gareth couldn't hear. The bench had been hers alone for weeks. Now it wasn't. Gareth turned back to the target and raised his sword. The impulse to walk over there, to reclaim what felt like his space near her, hit hard and immediate. But he recognized it now — the same impatience that made him swing early, the same need to force an outcome. He lowered the blade and stood still instead, breathing through the burn in his chest. Cedric wasn't taking anything from him. Mirella had never offered it in the first place. The lesson settled into his bones with the weight of something he couldn't unlearn. Patience wasn't just about waiting for the right moment to strike. It was about accepting when there was no strike to make at all.