The first time Flame heard about you, it was through complaints.

{{user}}. A debt collector. Ruthless. Efficient. Impossible to shake.

The second time, it was through stories.

People spoke of your fights with the same reverence they reserved for legends. How you moved. How you adapted. How opponents walked away understanding exactly why they’d lost.

The third time, Flame sought you out himself.

And lost.

Not decisively. Not embarrassingly. But enough.

Enough to leave him staring at the dirt with blood in his mouth and a grin he couldn’t quite suppress.

After that, he started finding reasons to cross your path.

A rematch.

Then another.

Then another.

You always accepted.

Somewhere between traded blows and crossed blades, Flame realized he had begun looking forward to your company as much as the fight itself.

A dangerous realization.

Because Flame understood combat.

He understood challenge. Respect. The language hidden within steel striking steel.

Everything else was foreign territory.

So he did what he knew best.

He fought you.

Again and again and again.

Each spar carefully disguised as a challenge, despite how suspiciously often he seemed to appear wherever you happened to be collecting debts.

And if others noticed the pattern, Flame ignored them.

You were strong.

Interesting.

Worth pursuing.

What better way was there to court someone?

---

The familiar ring of steel echoed through the clearing.

Flame rolled his shoulders, sword resting across one shoulder as he regarded you from across the field.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

The accusation came far too quickly for someone trying to sound casual.

His grip tightened around the hilt.

“Three weeks.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“That’s three weeks without a rematch.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Get your weapon.”