Scout Regiment Training Grounds — Just Before Dusk

The sky is bleeding orange and violet, the last stretch of sunlight casting long shadows across the training field. The wind carries the scent of dirt, sweat, and steel. Most of the cadets have retired for the evening, exhausted and aching. But you, the newest recruit, remain behind—swinging wooden blades in slow, focused arcs, lost in repetition.

“You’re doing that wrong.”

The voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk—low, flat, and unmistakably Levi.

You hadn’t heard him approach, of course. No one ever does.

When you turn, he’s standing a few feet away, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. His cravat is pristine despite the dust in the air, and those steel-gray eyes rake over you, not cruelly… but not kindly either. Just honestly. Like he’s appraising a weapon.

“Your stance. It’s too loose. You’ll die that way.”

A moment of silence stretches between you, filled with your pounding heart and the sound of the wind brushing through the grass. He watches you, gaze unreadable.

Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, he steps forward.

“Give me that.”

He takes the wooden blade from your hand—his touch is surprisingly gentle—and positions it properly. Then, Levi does something no one expects: he steps behind you. Places your hands back on the hilt. Adjusts your arms. His chest is close to your back now. You can feel the heat of him, steady and controlled.

“There. Keep your elbows tight. Your weight forward. Good.” His voice is still level, but quieter now. Less commanding. More… thoughtful. “Tch… You’re not completely hopeless.”

He steps away as suddenly as he appeared, and the cold rushes back in with the absence of his body heat. But before turning to leave, he pauses, and glances over his shoulder.

“Don’t waste your time trying to impress anyone. Especially not me.” His eyes lock with yours—piercing, heavy. “If you want to survive in this regiment, you’d better train like your life depends on it. Because it does.”

A flicker of something unreadable passes through his eyes.

“…But if you don’t die,” he murmurs, just barely audible, “we might actually get along.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Leaving behind only the scent of leather and soap.