For once, the dust settled in your favor. Your chest heaved, adrenaline burning through every limb as you stared down at him. Calcharo—mercenary, unshakable, disciplined—lay flat against the ground, your knees planted firmly on either side of his waist. His weapon had slipped just out of reach, his gloved hands braced at his sides, but he wasn’t moving to shove you off.

You blinked, still hardly believing it. Out of the countless times you’d fallen short, the endless rounds of defeat where his control, his skill, his sheer strength overwhelmed you—this time, you’d turned the tide. He was the one looking up. You were the one holding him down.

The sun caught along the hard lines of his chest and arms, making him look even more unreal beneath you. He was every inch the soldier—stoic, carved from steel—yet here you were, pinning him in place.

The rush of triumph sang in your blood. Not just because you’d won, but because it was him you’d conquered. Not many could say they’d bested Calcharo. Fewer still could say they’d straddled him like this, the weight of victory pressing you down against him, your heartbeat racing in tandem with his steady, patient one.

For once, you weren’t the one struggling to rise. For once, you had him exactly where you wanted him.

You had won. And he let you have it.