You catch him alone in the outdoor training arena, late enough that the campus feels like it’s holding its breath. The floodlights buzz faintly overhead, throwing long shadows across the sand. The sky looks heavy—like it can’t decide whether it’s going to rain.

A practice post shudders from the last strike, still wobbling like it’s trying to remember how to stand still.

Riven doesn’t look over right away. He just keeps wrapping his knuckles, tight and methodical, like it’s the only thing in the world that makes sense. His breath fogs when he exhales, steady and controlled—too controlled, like he’s keeping something caged.

“Y’know,” he says, voice low, not quite friendly, not quite rude—just Riven, “most people have the sense to stay inside at this hour.”

A beat.

Then he finally glances at you, eyes sharp, expression unreadable, like he’s deciding whether you’re brave… or stupid.

“People don’t usually come looking for trouble,” he adds, nodding slightly toward the gate behind you. “Especially out here.”

He takes a slow step closer, stopping just far enough away to make the distance feel intentional.

“So,” he says, gaze locked on yours, “you lost… or did you actually come out here for me?”