Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 139 Sword and Flower

The Griffin Camp, the new stronghold where Peter started his career, has now become the military heart of the territory and Peter's most frequent residence.

Compared to the magnificent but somewhat cramped castle in Trossky, this place made him feel more at ease, as if every piece of wood and every inch of land was imbued with the memories of his struggles.

In the early morning, before dawn, a thin mist shrouded the training ground like a veil. Peter was already there, dressed in a linen shirt, dark trousers, deerskin boots, and a tightly fastened leather belt. In his hand was a training longsword, which, though without a blade, still produced a sharp, tearing sound as he swung it.

"Whoosh—ha!"

"Whoosh—ha!"

His movements were steady and rhythmic; every slash, thrust, and parry was imbued with the strength and will of his entire body. Three thousand sword swings—this was his daily routine, one he never missed.

Sweat had already soaked through his back, outlining the contours of his strong back muscles, and the stray hairs on his forehead were also wet, clinging tightly to his skin. His sharp eyes were fixed ahead, as if there was an unseen enemy in front of him. Almost instinctively, he repeated the basic movements, his consciousness immersed in repeatedly digesting the essence of swordsmanship—the fluid and swift movements of the Rosen Four Styles, the precise anticipation of the Master's Counter, the ingenious defense-breaking of the Fiore Half-Sword Style—this knowledge of swordsmanship was being integrated into his bones through day after day of hard practice, transforming into true muscle memory.

On the sidelines, Pavlina stood quietly, like a pure white daisy blooming in the morning dew. She wore an elegant light blue dress, her long hair braided into a thick plait that hung down her chest, a few strands of hair at her temples gently brushing against her fair and delicate cheeks in the breeze. She held a basin of hot water in her hands, a clean and soft linen towel draped over her arm. The rising steam from the basin misted her lake-blue eyes, which were filled with tenderness and adoration that seemed to overflow.

Her gaze followed Peter's every move, watching his taut leg lines, the muscles bulging in his arms as he wielded his sword, and the slight furrow in his brow when he was focused.

"Sir, he is just like a legendary hero."

Pavlina's heart pounded with the whistling of the sword. She recalled her encounter with Peter. The adult, though calling himself a knight, had no squire, no horse, not even a decent suit of plate armor, yet his kindness, compassion, and justice deeply attracted her. Later, she and her mother were rescued by Peter from the Kumans and taken to the dilapidated camp in Griffin Valley, a place with only a handful of inhabitants…

Two months passed in the blink of an eye, and everything had changed. The dilapidated camp of the past had now become a village with hundreds of inhabitants. She had also transformed from a naive little girl into a key figure in managing the entire territory's finances. She recalled the anxiety she felt when she first took over managing the finances, but it was Lord Peter's gentle encouragement that gradually helped her find her value.

At this moment, all she wanted was to quietly watch him, prepare everything for him, and soothe his weariness. This almost humble admiration was her most precious secret. She noticed a bead of sweat sliding down Peter's forehead, along his sharply defined jawline, past his Adam's apple, and finally disappearing into his collar—her cheeks flushed slightly, and she subconsciously tightened the towel in her hand.

As Peter finished his final sword swing, exhaled a long breath, and slowly withdrew from his stance, Pavlina immediately stepped forward like a startled fawn, yet resolutely and quickly.

"Sir, please wipe your sweat."

Her voice was as soft as a feather brushing against his heart. She placed the basin of water on a nearby wooden post, wrung out a warm towel, and carefully wiped his forehead, cheeks, and neck. Her movements were gentle and delicate, as if she were handling a rare treasure. Occasionally, her fingertips would accidentally touch Peter's warm skin, each touch sending a shiver down his spine as if he were being electrocuted, filling him with both shyness and an indescribable joy. The faint scent of soap mingled with the fragrance of a young girl lingered around Peter's nose.

As dawn finally pierced through the gaps in the forest, it gilded the training ground with a golden edge. In the distance, the clear, melodious chirping of early birds created a wonderful contrast with the tranquil yet warm atmosphere.

Just at this tender moment, a series of hurried and energetic footsteps broke the silence.

"My lord! Lord Peter!"

Like a scorching stone thrown into a calm lake, Marika, this rose-like girl, burst in like a burning flame.

She wore a sleek red riding outfit; leather breeches clung tightly to her long, powerful, and stunningly curvaceous legs, while her well-tailored linen shirt, with its slightly low neckline, revealed her delicate collarbone and a glimpse of healthy, tanned skin. Her long hair, like a cascading waterfall, was casually tied back, with a few unruly strands clinging to her cheeks, flushed from running. Her bright amber eyes, now filled with excitement and eagerness, resembled two burning amber beads.

"Marika?" Peter turned around, his face flushed from exercise and a hint of confusion at being interrupted.

Pavlina paused slightly as she wiped, a fleeting hint of sadness flashing in her lake-blue eyes. But she quickly lowered her head and continued her work, though her movements were a bit stiffer than before.

"It's her again—always so energetic—" A subtle sense of competition quietly grew in the heart of this quiet, white-haired woman.

"My lord... our military horse farm... its first foal... is about to be born!"

Marika rushed forward, her chest heaving with excitement. She grabbed Peter's arm without a second thought, a strength that spoke of her years of horseback riding training. "It's the strongest Hanover mare! You have to see it! It's the first foal from our Griffin Camp horse farm!"

The Hanoverian horse is a warmblood breed developed in Lower Saxony, Germany, originating from European warhorses in the 8th century.

From its early days as an unpopular short-statured warhorse, it has, through hundreds of years of breeding, become a mixed-blood warhorse that is very popular among knights in the Holy Roman Empire.

Marika's passion is like the summer sun—direct, intense, and full of wild vitality. This contrasts sharply with Pavlena's gentle reserve. One is like a tranquil lake reflecting white clouds and a clear sky; the other is like surging lava, embodying the earth's most primal passion.

Peter could feel the firm strength in his arm and smell the unique scent of horsehide, hay, and sunshine emanating from Marika. He glanced at Pavlyna, who was silently putting away her towel, her eyes lowered, but the slight pursing of her lips betrayed a hint of disappointment. He then looked at Marika, whose eyes shone with a fiery expectation, and couldn't help but smile.

"This is great news," Peter said with a smile, letting Pavlyna drape a clean coat over him. "Let's go now."

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