I Got Married to a Yandere Queen

No one could tell exactly when the atmosphere at the Valderacht Estate began to shift.

At first, the servants and guards treated Riven with a relaxed familiarity. They greeted him with warm smiles, occasionally joked when bringing meals or passing him in the corridors. Some even asked about his training or inquired after his sister. Riven, though not one for small talk, responded with polite nods or short, friendly replies.

But over the past few days… all of that had disappeared.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, their behavior began to shift. Not drastically, but enough to be felt. Their smiles became awkward. Their gazes lingered only briefly before quickly darting away. And whenever Riven asked something, the replies were short, hurried, followed by some excuse to leave: "Sorry, I need to clean the kitchen," or "I've been assigned to the eastern corridor."

He wasn't stupid. But he also wasn't the type to pry or demand answers. As long as Mira wasn't harmed, as long as he could still train and sleep in peace… Riven chose silence.

And that evening, like always, he sat alone in the corner of the training yard, leaning against a cold, weathered stone, catching his breath after another grueling session. His loose shirt was soaked with sweat, and his right hand still held Crysthalis.

One strike… just one…

One perfect cut, born of absolute intent, capable of slicing through anything in its path, no matter the consequence.

He pondered. How do you strike with your full strength—no restraint, no doubt, no hesitation? No, he had thrown away hesitation long ago. But something else was still missing.

Then came the sound of approaching footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. But impossible to ignore.

He knew who it was even before turning his head.

"Asha," he murmured, as if greeting the wind.

She approached, wearing a dark blue casual gown that contrasted starkly with her pale skin. Her blood-red hair was tied up in a simple knot, and her sharp eyes locked onto Riven from a distance before closing the gap between them.

"I heard you," her voice was soft, almost gentle, yet there was a chill hidden beneath its calm surface. "You cursed under your breath. Something's frustrating you?"

Riven finally turned his head. His brown eyes met hers—cold, calm, always unreadable. A strange kind of interest lay behind them, like a predator too patient to strike.

He nodded, exhaling sharply. "I… haven't made any progress. I still don't know my affinity."

Ashtoria paused, studying his face. Then her lips curved slightly. Not a warm smile, but something else. Something unsettling. A quiet pleasure in seeing him frustrated, not because she wanted him to fail, but because she wanted to be the only one he turned to when everything else failed.

"In that case," she said calmly, directly, "do you want to spar?"

Riven frowned, then brightened. "Right now?"

"Yes. I think you've got a solid grasp of the basics. It's time for you to… move up."

She glanced at the training sword in his hand, then back to his face, her gaze sharpening like an unsheathed blade.

"And besides," she added in a low, steady tone, "I've been curious for a while now, just how far you've come."

Riven let out a breath, a faint smile tugging at his lips, masking his weariness. He met her gaze and nodded.

"…Alright," he said, lifting his sword. "I'm ready."

Ashtoria's slight smile shifted. Her eyes narrowed—not with joy, but something close to it, tightly reined and cold. She drew her training blade from her belt, flexed her wrist with a dancer's grace, and settled into position.

"In that case," she whispered, "show me… how you plan to cut me down."

Riven slowly rose to his feet, adjusting his grip on Crysthalis, his breath still unsteady. He stared at the red-haired woman standing before him—serene, silent, like still water under a midnight sky.

"Ashtoria," he muttered, still catching his breath, "I've always wondered… is the sword really your main weapon?"

She paused a few steps away, the late breeze stirring her crimson hair. She turned her head and looked at him with her blood-red eyes, calm… and just a little unnerving.

"…No," she answered flatly.

Riven's brow furrowed. "Then why are you so good at it?"

She didn't respond right away. Instead, she raised her practice sword—one she often used to train him—and slid into a combat stance.

"Because when you're not given a choice, you learn to master whatever can kill your enemy first." Her voice was quiet… but its chill bit like steel.

Riven felt the urge to question her words, but he didn't have time.

Ashtoria was already in motion.

No warning. No countdown.

She attacked like a shadow swooping down with calculated speed. Riven barely lifted his sword in time to block, and the impact sent a jolt through his left arm.

CLANGG!

They exchanged a flurry of blows. Riven swung down, then twisted to target her legs, but every strike was deflected with effortless grace—not power, but surgical precision.

"Your angles are a mess," Ashtoria commented calmly, deflecting another slash. "Your footwork is predictable. You always pivot right before striking. A sharper opponent would cut you down before you could raise your sword again."

Gritting his teeth, Riven poured all his strength into a wide, spinning slash. But before his blade landed, Ashtoria's knee met his gut—not hard, but perfectly placed. His breath caught for half a second, and her sword was suddenly pressed against his throat.

"It's over."

Riven dropped to one knee, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping from his jaw. More than fatigue… there was awe. He had known she was strong. But today, the gap between them felt like a chasm. Even though… she had clearly held back to fight him on equal ground.

Ashtoria slowly lowered her blade. No smugness. No mockery.

Just quiet calm.

"Your fighting style relies on brute strength and endurance. But your body… isn't built for that. You're fast. Your reflexes are sharp. But you're holding yourself back, caught between wanting to be a heavy-hitter and a nimble swordsman. You need to choose."

Riven looked up, sweat tracing down his temples. "What do you mean?"

Ashtoria tilted her head slightly. Then, with quiet authority, she asked:

"…Do you know about the four sword styles?"

Riven fell silent.

Styles?

Before he could speak, the wind stirred again, rustling the trees around the training yard. The fading sun cast a faint red glow over Ashtoria's crimson hair, like embers smoldering in the dusk.

She looked at him, patiently waiting.

And for some reason, Riven's heart began to beat faster.