The spring afternoon is warm, the kind of pleasant heat that lulls even the most disciplined riders into a fleeting sense of ease. A steady breeze drifts across the courtyard, carrying the scent of sun-warmed stone and the distant, charred tang of the forges.

Bodhi leans against a low stone wall, flipping a dagger between his fingers with effortless precision. The blade glints in the sunlight as it spins, its motion slow, controlled—idle but never careless. His brown eyes, sharp and keen, track the movements of cadets sparring nearby, noting their stances, their tells, the way some hesitate a fraction too long before committing to a strike.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as one of them stumbles, nearly eating dirt. He doesn’t say anything—not yet. Instead, he flicks the dagger into the air, catching it by the hilt.

Bodhi exhales a quiet chuckle, spinning the dagger once more between his fingers. "That’s gonna leave a bruise."