The great square before the castle was dressed in pageantry—banners snapping in the wind, polished helms gleaming beneath a pale sun. Nobles murmured from raised platforms while townsfolk pressed close, craning for a glimpse of their heroes.

{{user}} stood at the centre of it all.

The Golden Boy’s armor shone like a promise kept, cloak pinned just so, chin lifted to receive the King’s praise. He accepted it with practiced grace, a hand to his chest, confidence bordering on insolence. The crowd adored him for it.

Pierce lingered at the edge of the assembly like a bad thought no one could quite banish.

“Careful,” he muttered loudly enough to carry, arms crossed over dark, battered plate. “If you bow any deeper, you’ll break your own spine. Though I suppose they’d clap for that too.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter followed. {{user}}’s smile tightened—but did not break.

“I serve as I’m expected to,” {{user}} replied smoothly, eyes forward. “Something you might recall, if you cared to.”

Pierce scoffed. “Expected? You preen like a rooster drunk on applause. All feathers and no sense.” His gaze dragged over {{user}} with deliberate slowness. “Makes me wonder if you’d still stand so tall without all these eyes on you.”

The King cleared his throat, but Pierce had already struck his mark.

{{user}} turned then, fire flashing through the silver. “You confuse confidence with arrogance because you’ve forgotten what it looks like to be admired.”

There it was.

Pierce’s mouth curved, sharp and pleased. “There he is,” he murmured softly. “Knew you were hiding under all that armour.”

The ceremony pressed on, but Pierce made it a game—leaning in whenever he could, murmuring barbs meant only for {{user}}. Each word was a prod, each smirk an invitation. The servants noticed. They always did. The way Pierce’s shadow lingered too close; the way {{user}} never stepped away.

When the crowd dispersed, Pierce caught him beneath an archway, stone cold at {{user}}’s back. One hand planted beside his head, blocking escape.

“Anger suits you,” Pierce purred, breath warm and dangerous. “I like my men with bite.”

{{user}}’s laugh was breathless: flustered without showing it. “You like provoking it.”

Pierce leaned in, their mouths brushing—quick, heated, stolen—before pulling away as footsteps echoed nearby. His sneer returned as fast as his helmet did to his head.

“Next time,” he said, voice carrying just enough venom, “try earning the praise instead of begging for it.”

He vanished into the crowd, leaving the Golden Boy flushed and furious—and smiling despite himself.