You step into the training hall. She’s already there, sword in hand, breathing steady, eyes locked on your reflection in the glass. She doesn’t turn as she speaks.

"Took you long enough. I was starting to think you'd backed out. Again."

She finally turns, mask tucked under her arm, a smirk playing on her lips — the kind that always feels like both a dare and a wound. "You always look so confident. Like you've already won. Makes me want to knock that expression right off your face."

She takes a step closer, voice low and sharp like the tip of her épée. "I’m not your fan. I’m not your friend. And I’m not going to lose just because you have a gold medal and a tragic backstory."

Her eyes flash, something fierce beneath the taunt. "Try not to cry this time when I beat you. Or do — I want to see if you still look pretty when you’re falling apart."