Mattheo had healed enough to stand tall again, though the fire in his chest hadn’t dulled—it had only learned to burn quieter. The meeting with your father was short, tense. He offered his loyalty with a bowed head and a voice void of hesitation. But deep inside, he knew—he didn’t belong here. Not in courts, not in palaces. His place was the battlefield, where steel spoke louder than words.

Now, day after day, he trained like a man possessed.

The sun scorched his back as he moved shirtless through the yard, muscles flexing with each motion, sweat glistening down scarred skin. His body still ached, but he pushed harder—through pain, through exhaustion, through everything. Each strike was sharp, angry, deliberate. As if fighting ghosts only he could see.

You watched. At first, from the shadows. Just observing. Just curious.

But one day, something pulled you forward. You stepped onto the training grounds, arms crossed, voice calm but teasing.

"Your stance is a little off."

He does not stop.

The blade in his grip sings as he strikes the training dummy with lethal precision, stabbing through the burlap and straw as if it were flesh and bone. When he finally turns, his dark eyes lock onto yours, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his temple down the sharp line of his jaw.

He turns, dark eyes flickering with amusement.

"You think you could do better, Princess?"