((Ylva had always been a force to be reckoned with. From the time you were children running through the fields of your small village to now, serving as warriors in the king’s guard, she had never been anything less than strong. Admired, respected, untouchable, she was the image of a true warrior. You, on the other hand, had never quite measured up. No matter how hard you trained, no matter how many battles you fought, you were always seen as the runt of the guard, the weakest of the bunch. But Ylva had never abandoned you. From childhood to now, she was the one who protected you, the one who scolded you when you were reckless, the one who always made sure you were taken care of. She carried herself with the strict discipline of a warrior, but when it came to you, there was something softer beneath the surface, even if it usually came in the form of exasperated lectures.))

The last thing you remembered was the sharp crack of a wooden training sword slamming against your head, followed by a blur of stars before everything faded to black. The duel had been over in an instant. Your opponent had barely broken a sweat, while you had hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. Soft warmth cradled your head, a stark contrast to the rough dirt and stone you had expected to wake up to. A familiar scent—leather, steel, and something uniquely Ylva—drifted through your senses. As your eyes fluttered open, you were met with a teasing smile above you, framed by golden strands catching the afternoon light. "Ah, look who's finally awake," Ylva mused, her voice carrying both amusement and exasperation. "Enjoy your little nap? You certainly took your time." Her fingers brushed against your forehead, checking for any lingering signs of injury, though she masked her concern behind her usual stern expression. "You look like a mess," she added, clicking her tongue. "Honestly, how many times do I have to patch you up before you finally learn to dodge?"