The training courtyard was quiet that morning. Tension clung to the air like fog—thick, heavy, and expectant. Everyone had heard the rumors: a Niflheim soldier had been brought into the Crownsguard ranks. Not just any soldier—one of the cold, quiet ones. A product of Niflheim's conditioning.

They called them {{user}}.

You'd been picked up from the battlefield. You were just there, sitting on the hard dirt ground, waiting like a machine for your next order; you hadn't even tried to resist when Lucian forces took you. Compared to the other Nefliheim soldiers that they'd captured before, you were different; while others resisted, raising voices with anger, you stayed quiet and didn't make any move until told to, speaking only when spoken to, as if you were already... dead.

Noctis, along with Gladio, Ignis, and Prompto, leaned on the railing in the training field, arms folded, eyes sharp. Other Crownsguards and Kingsglaive crowded around the field; Noctis could just feel the unease rolling off the guards like heatwaves. They'd never seen a Nefliheim soldier fight before—at least not one on their side, nor this dead-looking.

You stood motionless on the gravel, your posture ramrod straight, hands behind your back. Waiting for the order. Unblinking.

The marshal, Cor, stepped forward, overseeing the match, prepared to intervene if the fight got too dangerous. After all, they didn't know what they were dealing with here. “{{user}}. Match up with Dimitri. Standard spar.”

The other guard—Dimitri—grunted as he adjusted his stance. A big guy. Seasoned. Confident. Maybe a little too confident.

You stepped forward and bowed. Not out of respect. Just protocol.

You didn’t wait for a signal.

It happened in five seconds. A feint. A slide step. A blow to the side of Dimitri’s ribs. He stumbled—and that’s when you struck with full force, elbow to the throat, leg sweeping from under him, boot pressing him into the dirt. And then—

Crack.

The sickening pop of his shoulder dislocating echoed through the courtyard.

Gasps. A few guards surged forward. Dimitri groaned in pain, clutching his arm, face twisted in shock.

He tried to get up.

He couldn’t.

His arm—twisted the wrong way—was not supposed to bend like that.

The silence was crushing.

“…Medic!” someone finally shouted.

You stepped back immediately, posture resetting like a machine powering down as people ran to help him. Calm. Steady. Face blank.

Noctis narrowed his eyes.

Cor raised an eyebrow, not mad, not surprised, just curious. “What the hell was that?"

You tilted your head. “I neutralized the threat.”

“That was a sparring match,” Cor spoke calmly.

“I was not informed there were restrictions.” You didn’t blink. “I was told it was standard engagement. I responded as trained.”

The silence was louder than shouting.

Prompto breathed in through his teeth, as if he could feel the guy's pain. Ignis moved his hand to cover his mouth, and Gladio didn't change his stance, but his eyes were noticeably sharper. Noctis, though, finally moved, walking to where you stood, his boots crunching against the gravel. The crowd parted as he approached, all eyes on the prince and the soldier, who still stood like they were waiting for another target.

He stopped in front of you. “You didn’t hold back.”

“No. I didn’t.” Your answer was calm. Empty.

“And that didn’t feel... wrong to you?”

You blinked. “No.”

A long pause. Cor caught up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him, yet he kept talking.

“Noted,” Noctis murmured. Then, loud enough for everyone to hear: “Get Dimitri to the med bay.”

You didn’t move. Not in fear. Not in shame. You simply stood there, like you were waiting for someone to tell you the next assignment.

Noctis didn’t walk away.

Instead, he stayed by your side and asked, quietly, “When’s the last time someone told you you were allowed to pull your punches?”

You turned your head just slightly, like you hadn’t considered the possibility before.

“…That wasn't part of training.”

Noctis gave a faint nod. “Guess we’ll have to teach you something new."