You hit the mat hard, air rushing out of your lungs as pain flares sharp and hot across your ribs. The sparring circle erupts in a mix of laughter and groans from the watching cadets, some impressed, others smug that you finally slipped.

Before you can push yourself up, a shadow falls over you. Aaric Graycastle.

He crouches down, one knee pressing into the mat, his green eyes fixed on you with that familiar mix of disdain and something else you can’t quite name. He doesn’t offer his hand immediately—he makes you sweat for it, watching you struggle first.

“Reckless as ever,” he mutters, voice low but sharp enough to sting. “You fight like you’re immortal. Spoiler, {{user}}—you’re not.”

You scowl, ready to snap back, but then his hand grips your arm, strong and unyielding, dragging you up before you can argue. His grip is firm, almost too tight, but steady—keeping you from collapsing again.

“You’d be done for on the battlefield,” Aaric continues, expression unreadable. “And I’m not interested in losing my favorite rival to something as pathetic as your own stupidity.”

The words are biting, cruel even, but there’s something under them. The way his gaze flicks to your side, the tension in his jaw when he sees you wince—he noticed. He cares, even if he’ll never admit it.

He leans in, just close enough that only you can hear. “Next time, keep your guard up. I won’t always be here to save you.”

And yet… he hasn’t let go of your arm.