dain fucking aetos was helping the rebellion.

his old self would have laughed in his fucking face if he knew he was currently standing in riorson’s house, surrounded by rebels, helping them keep up on their moves.

his arms were crossed, his red dragon relic peeking out from the edges of his black short sleeves, watching you spar. you were… decent but not great. your moves tended to be brash, too unpredictable.

when you managed to swipe the other rider off of his feet for the dozenth time he stepped onto the mat. you needed to be taught better. perhaps a small part of him wanted to knock you onto your ass to quell your ego.

when you drew two daggers he simply arched a brow, not bothering to draw any of his own. he was a wingleader, for gods’ sakes, if he were to get cut down by a fucking amateur he deserved it.

when you swung at him, trying to feign left he moved where you intended to, catching your wrist and ducking around the swipe of your other blade. in just a few steps he had your arms crossed over your chest, your wrists pinned in his calloused hands. he couldn’t help but be smug, considering the worst he’d gotten hurt was a shallow cut on your wrist.

“you know,” he hummed, noting the way you tugged against his grasp, “if you had actually listened to the instructions i had given you, you wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

he’d lectured you many times to stop being so reckless in fights. sometimes the seemingly unpredictable moves were the most predictable.

he didn’t let you go, not yet.