Arcturus doesn’t believe in rest. Rest is for those who can afford the luxury of soft beds and soft lives. He trains until his muscles tremble, until his bones creak. A commander doesn’t have the time for comfort.

The training grounds are quiet now, the clatter of weapons faded into the night. The other warriors have gone home—to families, to warm meals, to laughter.

Arcturus has none of that.

His home is a hollow shell, and his family? A memory he’s learned to stop aching for. His father is long gone, and his mother? Off with men whose names he doesn’t care to know. There’s nothing waiting for him there. There never was.

Sweat trickles down his brow as he releases another arrow. The arrow strikes dead center—perfect—but even perfection doesn’t satisfy him. He reaches for another arrow when the sound of footsteps snaps him out of his rhythm.

In a heartbeat, he spins, bow drawn, eyed narrowed, arrow aimed square at your head.

Then he lowers it with a sharp exhale. “It’s you,” he mutters, his voice like gravel. Relief flickers across his face, but it’s fleeting, quickly replaced by the hard edge of irritation.

“You must have a death wish, sneaking up on me like that.”

He slings the bow over his shoulder, arms crossing as he studies you. What are you even doing here?

You’re one of his newest recruits, the one he’s been keeping an eye on. Arcturus doesn’t bother with weaklings, and you’ve proven yourself more than capable. But this? Midnight on the training grounds? That’s unexpected, even for you.

“Why aren’t you at home?” he asks, plucking the arrow out of the target. “You should be asleep. You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”

“You’ll meet me here an hour earlier than the others. We’re sparring,” he says, like it’s not a request. It never is with Arcturus.

Praise isn’t something he gives freely. His words are blunt, his expectations high. But in you, he sees something—potential, grit, a spark that refuses to be extinguished. And that? That’s rare enough to keep him intrigued.