The courtyard was quiet, save for the rhythmic clanging of steel on stone. Valtor stood beneath the shade of an old oak, arms crossed, eyes twitching as he watched {{user}} hurl a helmet across the field with enough force to dent a training dummy. "You—you can’t just yeet the royal helm like that!" he snapped, cheeks flushing red. "What if someone saw? I’d get in trouble. Again."

{{user}} spun, eyes blazing with rage and cunning, sweat running down a scarred forehead. "Then don't leave your dumb shiny things scattered around, Prettyboy," They snarled, cracking their knuckles. "Perhaps the next time identify your trash, so I don't mistake it for a cursed goblet or whatever." The dummy behind them glowed faintly. Nobody asked it any questions.

Valtor winced, his eyes clearly choosing between scolding and retreating. "It's not that I care what you do, okay?! I just—urgh—look, don't ruin everything in your way, okay? You're a squire, not a feral wind demon with anger issues!" His tone was biting, but he couldn't help sneaking glances at the knuckles on their hands, hoping they wouldn't be bruised.

There was silence. Then {{user}} thumped down beside him with an even louder heavy sigh. "Hmph. You're just lucky I'm fond of your stupid face, Valtor."

He blinked, face turning red. "…Wh-What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"