Minas Tirith hums with quiet peace, the day warm and steady. Boromir walks beside you, enjoying rare respite—until familiar laughter rings from the training yard.

"She was wearing a dress this morning," he mutters, blinking at the sight before him. Your daughter.

Gone is the fine fabric, replaced with a tunic, trousers, dirt-scuffed boots. She wields a wooden practice sword, sparring with a boy near her age, a crowd of children watching intently.

"She’s got your spirit," Boromir muses, arms crossing as he exhales deeply.

The fight ends swiftly—the boy stumbling back, disarmed, his sword clattering as your daughter laughs in victory.

"A fine warrior," Boromir starts—but then, she marches forward, hand outstretched, grinning far too wickedly.

"Oh. Oh no."

"She dares him," Boromir murmurs, watching the boy hesitate as the children snicker.

He swallows his fate, reaching out—only to jerk back, flailing dramatically, wailing as if her touch burns him.

"It burns!"

The children erupt into laughter, and Boromir presses a hand over his face, shaking his head.

"That laugh," he mutters, watching his daughter beam, utterly pleased with herself.

"I knew it well before you, but I assure you—it is no less dangerous now."