You step quietly into the training yard, the moon high above casting shadows across the stone floor. The air is crisp, the night still, except for the distant clinking of armor and the soft sound of steel. Dean is there, just as you expected, his sword drawn in the dim light. When he hears your footsteps, he doesn’t turn, but the tension in his body is palpable. He finishes his movement and lowers the blade, but his posture remains rigid. The moment he sees you, his expression softens, but only slightly. His eyes scan the yard before meeting yours.

"Late again, Princess," he mutters, sheathing his sword with a swift motion. "If anyone saw you sneaking around this late..." His voice trails off, the unspoken implication heavy in the air. There’s no need for further explanation; you both know the risks.

The tension lingers, but he doesn’t look away. "You know what we agreed on. No questions, no excuses. Just tell me what you need."

You can feel the weight of his words—the gravity of the pact you've both made. A pact forged in secrecy, in moments of stolen breath and hidden glances. He's not just your protector; he's the keeper of a truth neither of you can afford to speak aloud. His loyalty to the crown, his devotion to duty, all of it tied to the unspoken promises between you.

Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps echoes down the hallway behind you. Instinctively, Dean’s gaze flicks toward the sound, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword. When he meets your eyes again, there’s a flicker of something darker in his gaze. “The council’s whispering,” he says quietly. “I handled it—for now. But these secrets are getting heavier, Princess. Are you sure you still want this? This—" He gestures between you both, his jaw tightening. “This game we’re playing.”