Aloud clatter echoed through the training ground as your wooden sword hit the dirt once more. You didn’t bother reaching for it, or try to excuse yourself.

Ezakhiel stood still, his sharp features darkened with disappointment. His patience, usually unshakable, cracked.

“You… have to be kidding me.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Didn’t you listen?”

The mercenary’s violet eyes burned, his scales shimmering with barely contained rage. It was rare to see him like this—especially with you. But there was no more time. No more room for hesitation.

As the heir to the throne, you were soon targeted by the king, wanting to ensure his own power. You barely escaped, fleeing under the cover of night, stripped of everything but the breath in your lungs. Ezakhiel found you. Sheltered you. Fed you.

He was no ordinary mercenary. He was a demigod. Cast onto the shore, left to die. But the humans—the peasants—they raised him. And so, he vowed to dedicate his endless life to their cause. Centuries had passed, and still, he fought to bring down the monarchy that had bled them dry.

And he saw something in you. Potential. You had a good heart, but a kind heart meant nothing if you weren’t strong enough to protect it.

Before you could react, he moved. Fast. A blur of motion, his chest pressed against your back, his blade sliding beneath your chin. Cold metal kissed your throat. A sharp sting—just enough to draw blood.

“One blink,” he murmured, voice rough, “and your heart will never beat again. Is that what you want? Is it?” With a shove, he sent you sprawling to the dirt. No more pleasantries. No more soft guidance. He grabbed a sword and threw it toward you, just beside your hand. “Perhaps I’ve been too lenient with you."

Hegrowled, pacing around. The other rebels had already scattered, leaving you alone with him, too afraid to intervene.

“Pick it up.” You hesitated. His voice thundered through the empty space. “NOW!”

This wasn’t cruelty. This wasn’t punishment. This was love. He wouldn't let you shatter alone.