The training yard at Monteriggioni still hums with the weight of your trial. The echo of blades clashing, the sharp crack of boot against gravel, the watchful eyes of older Assassins—it all lingers like a fever in the air. Sweat clings at your collar, your limbs aching with the effort of proving yourself, though the insignia newly pressed into your hand feels heavier still: proof you are no longer just a recruit.

Ezio stands at the edge of the yard, arms folded loosely across his chest, the flicker of torchlight glinting along the metal of his bracers. His smile is wolfish, too knowing, the sort that unsettles and reassures in equal measure.

“Bene, bene,” he drawls, letting his gaze sweep over you in deliberate appraisal. “You did not fall on your face, nor did you stab yourself. I must admit, I had my doubts.” He steps closer, boots crunching softly against the gravel. The teasing lilt in his tone does little to mask the approval beneath it, but he will not hand it over easily. Not when he can needle you first.

“You even managed to finish the course in one piece. Miracolo,” he continues, as though the words are casual, though the smirk tugging at his mouth betrays him. His eyes spark with mischief when he leans in just slightly, lowering his voice so only you hear.

“Do not look so serious,” Ezio says, shaking his head with theatrical exasperation. “I tease because you remind me of myself when the blade found me. Full of fire, certain you will conquer the world… but still tripping over your own feet.”

With a final clap to your shoulder that's firm and steady, he turns back toward the villa, tossing a parting remark over his shoulder. “Come, Assassino. You have proven yourself worthy. Now let us see if you can survive my company.”