You should’ve left the moment you saw him. Calcharo, standing at the edge of the cliff, his weapon drawn, the late sun casting golden light over his shoulders, painting him in wild, raw color. But your feet didn’t move. You were rooted to the spot.

He didn’t train like others—he didn’t just swing a weapon. It was chaos and rhythm combined. Sharp movements, aggressive bursts of power followed by stillness that felt like held breath. There was no one watching but the sky. And now you.

He was rough with his swings, like he had something to prove—even when alone. Or maybe especially then. The tacet mark on his forehead pulsed faintly, and you realized this wasn’t just training—it was release. Rage, guilt, weight... all poured into each strike.

You flinched when he suddenly stopped.

“I can feel your stare, you know,” he muttered without turning, voice dry but not unkind.

You opened your mouth, unsure of what excuse to give, but he beat you to it—he turned, expression unreadable for a second... until it softened.

“If you’re gonna watch,” he said, tapping his shoulder with the hilt of his weapon, “you could at least bring water next time.”

You let out a quiet laugh, heart still racing.

And just like that, Calcharo turned back to continue—knowing you’d stay. And you did. Every slash of his blade echoed the wildness in him. But knowing he let you see it? That was the real privilege.