The training ring was chaos—shouts from sparring partners, the clash of steel, the crack of wooden staffs. Dust rose in golden shafts of afternoon light, wings snapping open and shut as Illyrian warriors circled each other like predators.

In the center, Keenan moved like the storm itself—dark hair pulled back, golden-brown skin gleaming with sweat, every line of his body honed and dangerous. His tattoos flexed with each strike, wings flaring wide to balance his powerful swings.

Then his blade met yours. Sparks screamed into the air as he pressed forward, strength vibrating through your arm. The force nearly sent you reeling, but his grin was immediate—taunting, wicked.

“You’ve improved,” he drawled, voice low, eyes glimmering as he locked you in place. “Didn’t think you’d last more than three strikes this time.” His smirk widened as he twisted his wrist, nearly knocking your weapon free. “Careful, … fight me like that, and I’ll start to think you enjoy being pinned beneath me.”

The watching Illyrians roared with laughter, but his gaze never wavered from yours—sharp, teasing, hungry.