The royal training yard smells of dust, sweat, and the faint tang of iron. Afternoon sun glaring down off stone walls and glints along the steel blades stacked at the edge of the practice ring. The banners hang limp in the heat. “Break him in,” the king had said, voice gravel-deep and unimpressed. “He's soft. Pretty. Too used to yes. I want you to show him no.”

You’ve trained killers. Sons of dukes. Bastards and born soldiers. But this one—the twenty-one-year-old golden child of the realm—he’s something else.

Your blade hits with a clean crack — flat edge to his ribs, right beneath the silk-trimmed vest. Not hard enough to leave a bruise. But it makes him stumble. Satoru sucks in a sharp breath, blinking fast. His chest rises and falls with quick, shallow gulps, eyes wide like he hadn’t expected it to feel like that. Like you’d cracked open something beneath the pretty grin and polished boots.

Satoru gasps, stumbling back, a hand flying to his ribs. “That hurt,” he breathes, voice ragged.

You step forward. “Good. Now maybe you’ll remember not to leave your flank wide open like some idiot squire.”

Satoru's still clutching his side, but he doesn’t drop the sword. He squares up again. You notice, briefly, the flush crawling up his neck. The flicker of breathlessness behind his grin. Not anger. Not fear.

He liked that.

Ah.

You don’t say anything. Just move again—fast. He tries to parry, sloppy but braver this time. You twist around him and slam a hand to his spine, knocking him forward with a grunt. The next exchange is nothing like the first. He's faster now, still a mess, footwork sloppy, shoulders too tight, but Satoru moves. Swings back like he means it. And you push him, hard. The rhythm between you blurs. Two strikes. Three. A pivot. He lunges; you sidestep, and—

You sweep his legs out from under him, send Satoru crashing onto his back. His sword skitters across the dirt. You steps forward, blade flat against the base of his throat before he can so much as flinch.

And Satoru—Satoru arches up beneath the pressure.

Just a little. A subtle shift of his hips off the ground, ribs flexing, throat bared as he blinks fast again. His breathing is ragged. Pink blooms high on his cheeks.