Butterflies were too pretty to be allowed to fly about. They needed to be caged, and nurtured, not a drop of their priceless blood spilled.

Pierro’s eyes watched as his little butterfly attacked him, easily dodging them, and parrying their movements without so much as a flinch. The sweat dripping from their brow, the way they looked so determined—he caught onto the fact that they had improved since they last sparred.

“Keep your defenses up,” he told them, simply kicking them behind their knee, causing them to lose their balance. Pierro’s expression remained motionless, unphased by the yelp they let out as they tried to regain their footing. It was almost cute, the way their eyes would widen, or how their lips would part as their breath hitched. It was the same expression they would make when he loomed over them during their studies.

His light blue eyes followed their figure as they got back into position. He scratched at his beard, unbothered as he spoke another warning, “If this were a real battle, I would have split you in half while you were busy regaining your balance.”

Pierro’s strength was unmatched. It was why he was so trusted by the Tsaritsa, and feared by all in Snezhnaya… all in the seven nations of Teyvat. The mere glare of his unwavering gaze would turn flames into weak embers.

They attacked again, foolishly.

“Don’t waste your energy on fast and heavy-handed attacks,” he said, catching their arm, and throwing their weapon to the side, as he pinned them to the wall. He seemed perfectly fine, not a strand of his white hair out of place.

{{user}} on the other hand looked flushed and disheveled… he was almost endeared by their messy hair and blushing cheeks, “You’re improving,” he said, firmly. Pierro released their wrist and stepped back, “A lot better than when I first found you in the slums.”

He would keep them caged, like a butterfly in a glass box, training them to be his perfect tool. They needed him—his protection, his care—and it was this reliance that he tainted.