Rain falls steadily, a silver curtain draping the courtyard.

The tree you sit beneath offers little shelter. Its leaves drip continuously, the water soaking your cloak and your hair. You don’t move to adjust it.

You’re not cold, not yet. The chill is nothing compared to the tightening in your chest when you look at him.

He is there, in the open, sword in hand, moving with deliberate precision.

Each arc, each controlled swing, cuts through the rain like it was born to do so.

You watch him, silent, the steady rhythm of his practice echoing the distance between his accomplishments and your own fumbling beginnings.

Your arms are folded across your knees, chin resting lightly on them.

There’s no scowl, no bite in your expression. Just quiet, measured attention.

But inside, the ache of jealousy coils like a serpent.

He has already walked the path you’ve only just begun.

The prophecy bends to him naturally. Every strike, every pivot of the blade, is proof.

“You’re going to catch a cold out there,” you say at last, your voice low, almost neutral.

No anger, no pleading. Just fact.

He stops mid-swing, shoulders tight, chest rising and falling. Drops the tip of the sword into the muddy earth.

“I can handle it,” he says evenly, without triumph or condescension.

You shift slightly, your gaze tracing the rain as it runs along the twisted roots around your feet.

“It doesn’t look like it,” you reply, tone even, measured.

He straightens fully, shaking rain from his hair, gloved hands still gripping the hilt.

“Maybe not,” he says, voice calm, deliberate. “But it’s practice I need.”

You tilt your head and stare at the gray horizon beyond the castle walls.

Your voice is quiet, almost to yourself: “You’ve already… done what you were meant to. You don’t need practice.”

He pauses. The wind ruffles his soaked cloak.

Mud squelches under his boots as he moves, adjusting stance, lowering the tip of his sword slightly into the earth.

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Only the rain falls. Only the drip from the tree punctuates the silence.

You watch him resume his movements, slower now, almost thoughtful. Every swing still precise, but measured, patient.

You notice the way his shoulders carry the weight of destiny lightly, as though it belongs to him by right.

“You don’t speak much,” he finally says, voice breaking the quiet like a stone dropped into a still pond.