The training grounds were empty except for the soft hum of crickets and the occasional clang of metal echoing through the courtyard. The rest of the students had long gone to dinner, but Tedros was still there, alone, swinging his sword against invisible enemies.

You leaned against the stone archway, watching him from a distance. His movements were sharp but restless, frustration bleeding into every swing. The torchlight caught in his hair, sweat dripping down his temple as he exhaled sharply, tossing his sword aside with a metallic thud.

You stepped forward quietly, and he finally looked up — startled at first, then something softer passing through his expression. “Didn’t hear you come in,” he said, his usual confidence gone. His voice cracked just slightly, the kind of break that only happens when someone’s been holding too much in for too long.