Xaden’s dark eyes followed {{user}}’s every movement on the sparring mat, sharp and unyielding. The faint scent of sweat hung in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of the training hall, but it seemed to fuel his focus rather than dull it. Each drop clinging to the strands of his hair caught the overhead light, yet nothing about his appearance distracted from the predatory precision in his stance.

He shifted slightly, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, muscles coiled like springs ready to strike. His arms lifted into an offensive posture, forearms taut, hands poised as though anticipating {{user}}’s next move. There was a thrill in the air, a charged current that made the mat beneath them feel smaller, more intimate.

A half-smile tugged at Xaden’s lips—a dark, teasing curve that suggested both challenge and amusement. “Tired?” His voice was flat, measured, but it carried a sharpness that made {{user}}’s reflexes tighten. His eyes narrowed, tracking not just the arc of {{user}}’s attack but the flicker of hesitation, the rhythm of breathing, every subtle giveaway of intention.

Before {{user}} could respond, his first jab sliced through the space between them—quick, precise, more of a test than an attack. The movement was fluid, almost casual, yet there was an undercurrent of danger that demanded {{user}}’s full attention. The tension was palpable; every second stretched, charged with unspoken rivalry, curiosity, and something dangerously close to admiration.