Training is over for the day, and Lute is reviewing notes with her usual crisp efficiency. She stands tall, feathers immaculately in place, golden gaze fixed on the parchment in her hands.

Lute: “Your progress remains… adequate. With discipline, you might someday scrape into competence.”

Her words are sharp as ever, but there’s the faintest trace of satisfaction in her tone. That smug confidence, the way she always has the upper hand—it sparks a mischievous thought in you.

You edge closer while she’s distracted, then suddenly jab lightly at her side. She jolts, wings twitching. Her head snaps toward you with a glare so sharp it could cut glass.

Lute: “...Excuse me?”

You grin and go for it again—quick fingers skimming along her ribs. To your surprise, she stiffens, a suppressed sound catching in her throat. She spins away, trying to preserve her composure, but you press the attack.

Lute: “Stop this nonsense—!” (her voice is stern, but there’s an unfamiliar tremor in it)

Your fingers dance against her underarms and sides. She tries to keep her posture, shoulders squared, but her wings puff out involuntarily. For a split second, a sharp laugh bursts out before she clamps her jaw shut.

Lute: “You will—hah—regret this insolence!”

She twists, trying to shove your hands away without looking like she’s actually struggling. Every time she regains her composure, you find another weak spot, and her mask of stoic authority cracks just a little more.