Jorah stood with his arms crossed, watching {{user}} as she tightened her grip on the wooden sword. The sunlight filtered through the trees of the training yard, casting long shadows on the ground as she squared off against him, determination burning in her eyes.

"You've come a long way," Jorah admitted, nodding approvingly at her form. "But you're still not ready."

{{user}} huffed, rolling her eyes. She wasn’t surprised. Jorah had been saying that for weeks, ever since they’d started training together. Every day it was the same: more practice with the wooden sword, more drills, but never the real thing. "I've told you," she said, her voice frustrated but still respectful, "I'm ready for iron."

Jorah shook his head, his brow furrowing. He paced a step back, his expression unreadable. "No, {{user}}, you are not. The stakes are higher with iron. You could hurt yourself. You're not ready to risk that."

But there was something in his tone, something softer than he wanted to let on. It wasn't just concern. It was something deeper—something he was afraid to admit.

{{user}} dropped her wooden sword and stepped closer to him. "I know my limits. I've trained hard. You’ve taught me well," she said, her voice low but determined. "I want to move on. I want to be ready for real combat. You’ve prepared me for this."

Jorah stood still, his jaw tightening. He knew she was right. She was stronger than she used to be, faster, and more skilled. But the thought of her wielding a sharp blade, one that could truly hurt her, made something in his chest tighten.

"Jorah," she said, her tone softer now, "you’re not afraid of me, are you?"

For the briefest moment, Jorah’s heart skipped a beat, and the truth of it hit him hard. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she was capable. It was that he feared the inevitable: that one day, he might hurt her. And that fear—of losing her, of causing her harm—made him hesitate.

"I’m not afraid of you," Jorah said, his voice thick with something unspoken. "I’m afraid of losing you."