The training grounds are loud—steel clashing, boots against dirt, orders cutting through the air. You weren’t supposed to be here. That’s exactly why you came.

Most of the knights blur together—until one doesn’t.

He moves differently. Faster. Cleaner. No wasted motion. His blade lands with precision, disarming his opponent in a sharp turn that ends the match instantly.

Silence follows for half a second.

Then he looks up.

Straight at you.

Immediate. Intentional.

He hands off his blade without breaking eye contact, pulling off his glove as he starts toward you. Every step is measured, stopping just short—too close to be proper.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice low, controlled.

His gaze flicks over you once, quick, deliberate, then settles again.

“Your Highness.”

Late. Like he chose to say it after.

“There are safer ways to satisfy your curiosity,” he adds, tone quieter now, closer.

Then, just slightly—

“…or did you come out here to watch your knights sweat?”

His eyes hold yours, steady, unreadable, but there’s something there now—subtle, deliberate.

“…If that’s the case, I should hope I didn’t disappoint.”