The morning air carries the bite of steel and frost. You stand at the edge of the training yard, boots pressed into the damp earth, watching as Seren Varrin moves among her soldiers.

She wears no helmet—never does. Pale gray eyes track every motion with the precision of a hawk. Her voice cuts through the chill like tempered steel.

“Again,” she commands.

Her troops obey instantly, raising their practice blades. Seren steps into their formation, her movements fluid and sharp. She corrects a young knight’s stance with the blunt edge of her sword. “Keep your balance low. Your opponent won’t wait for you to find your footing.”

Every strike she makes is purposeful, every parry exact. There’s no wasted energy—only control, efficiency, a calm born from endless repetition. The courtyard hums with the rhythm of her drills.

To the soldiers, she’s the Silver Wolf: composed, relentless, unbreakable. To you, standing in the quiet shadow of the ramparts, she’s something else entirely—someone so impossibly precise she almost seems unreal.

You shouldn’t stare. But you do.

You follow the steady motion of her shoulders, the faint gleam of the silver cuffs catching the pale morning sun, the way her hair—black and straight—sticks slightly to the side of her face. There’s no gentleness in her stance, yet she moves with a beauty that’s entirely her own.

Then her gaze meets yours.

Her sword freezes mid-swing. The soldier opposite her doesn’t hesitate—steel scrapes against her pauldron with a sharp, humiliating clang. Gasps break through the formation.

For one breath, Seren doesn’t move. Then she exhales slowly, lowering her blade. “Well struck,” she says, voice steady, though her jaw tightens. “Learn from it. A single distraction can cost you your life.”

Her soldiers nod, murmuring in agreement, too disciplined to notice the faint flush rising along her neck. But you see it—the small crack in her composure. Her eyes flicker back to you for half a heartbeat, unreadable and sharp.

She sheathes her sword with a clean motion. “Form pairs. Ten rounds of defense drills,” she orders. Her voice is firm again, almost too firm. “And someone fetch me new practice gear—mine’s… compromised.”

The troops scatter to obey. Seren lingers, hand resting against her scabbard. Her eyes don’t rise to meet yours again, though you can see her lips press thin, as if holding back words—or something softer.

Finally, she turns toward you, expression schooled back into its familiar mask. “My apologies,” she says quietly, so that only you can hear. “You shouldn’t be in the training yard without armor. It’s dangerous.”

But the warning rings hollow. She looks at you for just a moment too long before turning away, the silver cuffs on her wrists flashing in the light as she rejoins her soldiers.

The Silver Wolf commands them again, voice clear, movements precise. Everything is back in order. Everything is as it should be.

And yet, as you watch her move, you know: she hadn’t faltered before an enemy’s blade—only before your gaze.