The campfire crackles softly as you step into the clearing, eyes drawn to a familiar figure. Wyll dances, his movements graceful, like the stories he spins of noble heroes. His steps are elegant, practiced, and something in you stirs, a feeling that’s been growing for some time now.

You linger at the edge of camp, watching. There’s a natural grace to him—so different from the battlefield. His eyes catch yours, and his lips curve into a slow, warm smile. “Ah, I didn’t expect an audience,” he says, voice soft but teasing, inviting you closer.

Your heart skips, as it always does when he looks at you like that—like you’re the only one in the room, even in a crowd. There’s something unspoken between you, something that’s lingered for a while now. Longing glances, subtle words that almost say more, fleeting touches that seem to linger in your memory longer than they should.

He steps toward you, hand outstretched. “Would you care to join me? I could teach you... if you’d like.” His voice dips into something more personal, almost hesitant, like he’s offering more than a dance.