The training yard is quiet save for the clash of wooden weapons meeting with bruising force. Dust hangs in the air, stirred by every step, every pivot. Ambessa Medarda looms before you, broad-shouldered, clad in armour stripped down enough to allow freedom of movement yet heavy enough to remind you she is never unarmed.

She circles you, weapon resting lightly in her hand, though there is nothing light in the way her eyes fix on you. Predatory, unblinking, they track your stance, your breath, the twitch of your grip on the hilt.

“Too tight,” she says, voice a low rasp that slides under your skin. She closes the space in two long strides, catching your wrist before you can adjust. Her fingers wrap around yours, correcting, forcing you to loosen when instinct wants you to cling. The warmth of her skin burns despite the callouses, the sheer strength in her grip reminding you she could break bone as easily as she adjusts your posture.

Her chest brushes your shoulder as she leans in, deliberately close. “A blade is not a lover to cling to,” she murmurs near your ear, her breath warm, edged with mockery. “Hold it like you would a leash, firm, commanding, never desperate.”