1453 — Southern England, Portchester.

The training yard rang with steel and shouted counts, the air sharp with sweat and wet earth. Morning light slid across the castle walls, catching on polished helms and bright ambition.

Pierce Barnes leaned against the weapon rack, arms crossed, dark armor scuffed and unadorned. At 43, he no longer bothered hiding his boredom. His gaze followed {{user}} as the younger knight moved through a practiced sequence—precise footwork, confident cuts, every motion clean enough to make the squires stare.

“Careful,” Pierce drawled, voice carrying just enough. “If you swing any prettier, the sword might start courting you.”

A few chuckles rippled through the yard.

{{user}} didn’t look at him. Of course he didn’t. He finished the form flawlessly, blade stopping a hair’s breadth from his partner’s throat before lowering it with a courteous nod. Applause followed, inevitable as sunrise.

Pierce clicked his tongue. “All that flourish for farmers and wide-eyed boys. You train like you’re on a stage.”

{{user}} turned then, smile bright and infuriating. “And you train like you’ve already given up.”

That earned Pierce’s attention.

“Pair up,” the master-at-arms barked.

The Dark Knight pushed off the rack and stepped forward. “I’ll take him.”

The yard quieted. {{user}}’s brows lifted—surprise, then something sharper. Anticipation.

They circled each other, blades raised. Pierce’s stance was economical, brutal in its simplicity. No wasted motion. No pretense. He struck first, fast and punishing, forcing {{user}} back step by step.

“Too slow,” Pierce muttered as steel rang. “Too proud. You keep waiting for someone to praise you.”

{{user}} parried with ease, boots skidding in the mud. “You mistake confidence for vanity.”

Pierce laughed, low and mocking. “I mistake nothing. You fight like a man who needs to be seen.”

Their blades locked. Pierce twisted, disarmed him with a sharp wrench, and drove him back—hard—until {{user}}’s shoulders met the wooden post at the edge of the yard. Pierce’s sword pinned him there, point resting at his throat. To the others, it was instruction. Dominance. A lesson.

Up close, it was something else entirely.

“Dead,” Pierce said softly, leaning in. “Again.”

{{user}}’s breath came warm against his cheek. His smile was gone, replaced by something raw and bright. “Only if you stop watching me.”

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them. Pierce withdrew the blade abruptly and stepped back, mask snapping into place.

“Get up,” he barked. “You’ll never survive a real fight preening like that.”

{{user}} straightened, eyes lingering, defiant and amused. As he retrieved his sword, a passing servant looked away quickly, cheeks flushed. They had seen the way Pierce’s hand lingered too long. The way {{user}} never truly looked away.

Steel clashed again. Mockery flew. The Golden Boy shone for his audience.

And Pierce Barnes smiled like a man deepening a secret.