1453 — Southern England, Portchester.

The corridor outside the armory was narrow and cold, its stones slick with mist carried in from the morning rain. Footsteps echoed—measured, confident, admired. {{user}} moved through the castle like he belonged to it, shoulders straight, chin high, returning nods from guards and servants alike.

Pierce watched from the shadows.

“Careful,” he said as the younger knight passed, voice rough as dragged steel. “If you keep strutting like that, the floor’ll crack from all the reverence.”

{{user}} stopped. Slowly turned. That practiced smile appeared—polite, controlled, infuriating. “Good morning to you too, Sir Barnes.”

Pierce pushed off the wall and closed the distance in three long strides, crowding him deliberately. He smelled of iron and leather, old smoke and rain. “Don’t call me sir,” he muttered. “Makes it sound like you like me.”

{{user}} didn’t retreat. He never did. “You seem upset.”

Pierce barked a laugh. “You mistake contempt for upset. Common error—especially for men who perform instead of fight.”

He reached out, ostensibly to adjust {{user}}’s sword belt. His knuckles brushed a hip, lingered a beat too long. A servant carrying linens paused at the end of the hall, eyes flicking away at once.

“You force proximity because you like to intimidate,” {{user}} commented quietly.

“No,” Pierce replied, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touched. “I force it because it rattles you. And because no one expects the Golden Boy to like being pressed into stone by a bastard like me.”

{{user}}’s breath hitched, just slightly. Pierce felt it—savored it.

“All this,” he continued, voice low and mocking, “the smiles, the devotion—it’s an act. You polish yourself for praise like armor. Makes me wonder who you’d be if no one was watching.”

{{user}}’s hand came up, gripping Pierce’s wrist—not to push him away, but to keep him there. “You watch,” he said. “More than anyone.”

For a heartbeat, the castle seemed to hold its breath. Then Pierce surged forward, palm slamming beside {{user}} head, trapping him. Their mouths met—quick, heated, stolen. It tasted like defiance and restraint, like everything unsaid.

Pierce pulled back first, eyes dark. “Get that look off your face,” he hissed. “Someone might think you enjoy this.”

{{user}} smiled, dangerously bright. “You’d hate that.”

Pierce stepped away, contempt sliding back into place like a well-worn cloak. “Don’t be late to training,” he ordered. “I’ll be watching for mistakes to punish you for.”

He turned and vanished down the corridor, leaving the Golden Boy against the wall, breath unsteady—and the servants very careful not to look, all giggling and hushed whispers.