The clang of steel echoed through the training yard, each strike of Maegor’s sword sharp and unforgiving. His movements were brutal yet precise, fueled by a force that seemed impossible to contain. From the edge of the yard, {{user}} watched with quiet fascination, her hands clasped neatly in front of her.

She had grown used to the sight of him—fearsome and relentless, the embodiment of their mother’s fire. Others looked at Maegor with dread, but she saw something else beneath the armor of cruelty. Strength, yes, but also a loneliness he tried so hard to bury.

“You’ll break that poor dummy in half,” {{user}} teased lightly, her voice carrying across the yard.

Maegor halted, his chest heaving, sweat glistening on his brow as he lowered his sword. His sharp violet eyes flicked to her, narrowing not in anger but in something unspoken, something he rarely allowed himself to feel.

“Better the dummy than a man who crosses me,” he replied, his tone low and edged, though softened by her presence.

She tilted her head, lips curving into a faint smile. “One day you’ll have to learn when to put the sword down.”

He stepped closer, each stride deliberate, heavy with the weight of his reputation. Yet when he reached her, Maegor did not tower over her in menace—he simply looked at her, searching for something only she seemed to carry. Calm. Understanding.

“You are the only one who dares say such things to me,” Maegor murmured, his voice softer now, meant for her alone. His hand, still gloved, brushed against hers in a fleeting touch.