Lady Elara Vance retreated to the austere confines of her private chamber, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind her with a definitive finality that did little to block out the distant echoes of a bustling household. She settled onto the plain wooden stool beside the cool stone hearth, her fingers instinctively going to the severe knot of hair at the back of her neck. The sheer *volume* of offspring, of grandchildren, clinging to her new identity like barnacles to a hull, was frankly, bewildering. The cacophony of small feet and shrill voices was an incessant thrum beneath her skull, a constant reminder of the life she’d abruptly inherited. She let out a long, shuddering sigh, a wholly un-matronly sound that she quickly suppressed. Right now, it seemed she had no other choice; even if she was uncomfortable, even if every fibre of her being screamed protest, she would have to slowly acclimate. Instead of succumbing to the creeping sense of incredulity here, she was better off thinking about the grim realities of how to keep this barony, and herself, afloat in the days to come. Her gaze fell upon a carved oak chest that stood at the foot of her bedstead. It was not a lavish, jewel-encrusted affair one might expect of a baroness, but a sturdy, iron-bound contraption, showing the signs of long use and many repairs. With a pragmatic shrug, she opened it, revealing a smaller, more intricately decorated strongbox within. Inside, nestled amongst worn velvet lining, were two silver brooches – simple, unadorned pieces, likely passed down through generations – and a pair of silver armbands, equally understated. Beside them lay a small pile of loose silver marks, which she estimated to be perhaps thirteen in total. Next, Elara located a clay crock tucked away in the deepest corner of the hearth’s alcove. This, too, contained coin: a scattering of copper pennies. After a quick, practiced count, Elara deduced that, aside from the heirloom jewelry, the Vance Barony’s entire liquid wealth amounted to roughly fifteen silver marks. For such a sprawling family, a minor noble house clinging precariously to power in the fragmented Kingdom of Eldoria, this was a meager, almost insultingly small, sum. A whisper of genuine panic, quickly quashed, stirred in her gut. Fortunately, the family still held rights to twenty hides of cultivable land, and with the late harvest season already upon them, it wouldn’t be long before the tithes and yields were gathered. For the coming year, the family would likely be able to survive, provided no unforeseen disaster befell them. As for the future, well, that, it seemed, would be left to the capricious whims of fate. Whether a baron’s tenants could reap enough to eat all depended on the caprices of nature; with good wind and rain, there might be enough food, but in the event of a blight, a flood, or—more terrifyingly—a raiding party, starvation was an ever-present specter. Having accepted this rather bleak reality, Elara felt compelled to consider how she might improve their prospects. Following the trope of the fantastical tales she'd once consumed in her original life, should she start inventing glass, brewing unique ales, forging advanced siege engines, and then, perhaps, rally a rebellion to become a queen? The absurdity of it all was almost too much to bear. However, after giving it some pragmatic thought, she rolled her eyes. Those stories were truly deceiving. She knew, vaguely, that sand could be used to make glass, but *how*? She was utterly full of question marks. Rendered animal fat could apparently be used to make soap, and then *what*? Still, she was full of question marks. As for advanced siege weaponry, let alone true firearms, she was totally clueless; it would be a struggle for her even to mix a volatile alchemical fire, let alone construct a reliable explosive device. Most modern people knew a little about ancient technologies, but knowing a little did not mean they could *create* them from scratch, in a medieval world, with limited resources. Moreover, this world possessed Bladesingers, warriors of singular skill, capable of incredible feats: flying across the skies, facing thousands single-handedly. Against such extraordinary beings, primitive siege craft or even rudimentary alchemical explosives would be useless, unless one managed to develop true gunpowder and manufacture modern firearms and ammunition. Otherwise, it was far better to be an obedient citizen—at least that way, one was less likely to be summarily executed. She knew, from the fragmented memories of the original Lady Vance, that her predecessor had been a Bladesinger, achieving her prowess by the age of fifteen, which was likely why she had been permitted to marry into the military-focused Vance lineage. But unfortunately, after a great battle years ago, the original Lady Vance had been gravely injured, and the path of Bladesinging for her was completely cut off. The internal memories, still foreign yet undeniably *hers*, ached with the loss. Thinking of the Bladesinging the original Lady Vance had practiced, Elara clenched her fist. Although this body appeared somewhat frail on the surface and carried numerous hidden injuries, it was surprisingly strong, certainly more so than an average commoner. However, to re-cultivate Bladesinging, she would first need to heal the hidden injuries and replenish her vital essence. This was not something that could be resolved with ten or twenty silver marks; otherwise, the original Lady Vance would have sought treatment long ago. The thought was sobering. Thinking of these hidden injuries, Elara suddenly froze. A new, wholly inexplicable piece of information appeared in her mind, clear as a mountain spring: *Aetherial Spring Water: It has the effect of healing injuries, and long-term consumption can improve physique and potential.* And then, a familiar scene came into view: a subterranean grotto, a shimmering pool, surrounded by pervasive shadow. This was a scene from her recurring dreams, a vivid, almost lucid vision that had haunted her sleep since her transmigration. “Aetherial Spring Water!” Elara breathed, a strange, hopeful revelation dawning. She quickly walked out of the room to retrieve a glazed earthenware bowl from the nearby kitchen, drawing an odd look from a scullery maid she barely recognized. Back in her room, she extended her index finger into the bowl. With a thought, a sensation not unlike drawing water from a well deep within her own mind, a clear liquid flowed along her finger, shimmering faintly as it filled the bowl. Soon, a small measure of perfectly clear, almost luminous, water appeared before her. Could this water truly be drunk? Elara looked at the peculiar liquid in the bowl with a mixture of doubt and desperate hope. In her mind’s eye, the dark grotto’s pool had become empty, but at the bottom, it seemed like water was slowly seeping out. *So, Aetherial Spring Water can regenerate continuously!* The implications of this were staggering. After hesitating for a moment, her pragmatic nature winning over her skepticism, Elara picked up the earthenware bowl and poured its contents down her throat. It was crisp and sweet, a taste unlike anything she’d ever encountered. As the spring water entered her stomach, a profound warmth spread throughout her body, like the gentle sun after a long winter. Her left shoulder, which had been a persistent throb beneath the surface of her new skin, felt much more comfortable, and her entire being was suffused with an unprecedented sense of comfort and lightness. “Does it truly work?” she murmured, moving her body. She felt indeed much lighter than before, the years of aches and pains that had been a silent companion to the original Lady Vance’s body significantly diminished. There was still some lingering pain when she lifted her left arm, a reminder of the deeper injury, but the improvement was undeniable. The Aetherial Spring Water worked—it could heal her hidden injuries, but one bowl was clearly not enough. Elara’s eyes lit up sharply. If she could heal her hidden injuries, she could re-cultivate Bladesinging, and with the foundation laid by the original Lady Vance, she should easily become a formidable warrior once more. More importantly, her body could recover to its peak condition. Though her reflection showed a woman easily past fifty, the true vigour that now surged beneath her skin felt… incongruous. She was, in essence, a youthful mind trapped in a matriarch’s form, and the thought that she might return this vessel to its prime filled her with a peculiar, almost defiant, glee. To be truly 'young' again, even if only internally, within a body others perceived as seasoned, was a delicious, if absurd, prospect. In her early fifties, she was still a woman of considerable power, given the proper restoration! A grandmother, yes, but certainly not a decrepit old crone. Thinking this, Elara not only felt lighter in body but also in spirits. Being decades older wasn’t a crippling blow, as long as she wasn’t a weakling and could still be lively and energetic. That was enough. With a slight focus of her mind, the grotto in the darkness reappeared. Although the spring water at the bottom was seeping out very slowly, Elara saw hope. It’s okay if it’s slow, as long as there’s hope, that’s enough. Putting away the paltry silver, Elara walked out of the room, her hands clasped behind her back in a posture of casual authority that belied the tumult within. Young Master Theron, her eldest grandson, was playing in the cobbled courtyard, chasing a stray chicken with youthful exuberance. He saw her and immediately rushed over with a cheerful shout of “Grandmother!” Now, looking at her eldest grandson, Elara felt less resistance in her heart. The little fellow was full of spirited energy, quite endearing indeed. Elara deftly picked him up; one bowl of Aetherial Spring Water hadn’t completely healed her hidden injuries, but it had made it possible for her to lift her grandson without a grimace. In her memories, the original Lady Vance seldom held the boy; not out of unwillingness, but because the effort of lifting him would cause a dull, agonizing pain in her left shoulder. “Grandmother, teach me the Vance spear-forms!” Young Master Theron, held securely by Elara, had a face full of joy. Elara looked up, her gaze falling on her youngest daughter, Lady Isolde, in the courtyard. The ten-year-old Lady Isolde, slim but surprisingly strong, was wielding a blunted practice spear with admirable focus. It was the ancestral spear-form of the Vance family. Although it was not a mystical or secret art, it was a practical, battle-tested tradition. The moves were sharp and decisive, without any superfluous flair, following a principle of continuous, flowing attack. All five children of the Vance family had practiced martial arts and had also learned to read and write. Bladesinging, or rather, the Vance family’s combat forms, were passed down from the ancestors, while literacy was taught by the late Lord Vance, her 'original' husband. It may sound like they were proficient in both literacy and martial arts, but in reality, they were neither accomplished scholars nor true master Bladesingers. Practicing the combat forms hadn’t made any of them true Bladesingers, and their reading was merely at a level sufficient to recognize words; they could not be considered genuine scholars. Usually, the eldest, Lord Gareth, and the second oldest, Lord Bastian, had to take care of the heavy farm work, so they had fallen behind in their martial practice. The fourth son, Lord Ronan, had been sent to apprentice at a master smithy in Oakhaven Market and probably had neglected his forms as well. Now, only the little daughter, Lady Isolde, maintained the habit of practicing her combat forms every day. Watching her little daughter brandish the long spear powerfully, Elara felt an unexpected itch to join. Every person, she mused, harbored a dream of becoming a martial hero in their youth. Her own dream, the quiet yearning for physical prowess, had been shattered long ago. But in this world, where true Bladesingers existed, where strength could mean the difference between survival and ruin, her broken dream of martial heroism began to resurface, unexpectedly potent. “Grandmother will perform the spear-forms for you, is that alright?” Elara said with a slight, almost imperceptible smile at her grandson, a flash of genuine, unmasked delight in her eyes. “Okay!” Young Master Theron clapped his hands in cheer, his small face alight with excitement. Elara put down her grandson, turned, and walked into the bedroom, returning moments later with a weighted training spear. The spear was about a meter and eighty in length, with a seven-inch blunted head and a substantial weight, its edges dull and unsharpened for practice. Recalling the physical memories of the original Lady Vance, Elara thrust the iron spear out like a viper striking, then moved swiftly, continuously brandishing the spear in a fluid, deadly dance, each movement precise and powerful.

A Matron's Reckoning, A Warrior's Whisper