The sun hung high over the palace grounds, its rays glinting off the polished steel of Sir Gaz’s armor as he dismounted his horse near the training arena. Another sleepless night spent poring over reports of enemy movements, another dawn sparring with the younger recruits to ensure the kingdom’s strength remained unyielding. Gaz brushed a gauntleted hand over his face, suppressing a yawn as he stepped into the arena, determined to push himself further. The weight of the kingdom’s safety was a burden he carried with pride but also relentless determination.

The rhythmic clang of his sword against the training dummy filled the otherwise serene space, each strike a testament to his dedication. Yet, despite his endurance, his movements grew slower, more sluggish. Sweat trickled down his temples, but he pressed on. For the kingdom. For King Price. For… the quiet voice that would surely scold him for this later.

That voice belonged to the heir and royal butler—{{user}}, the one person who could shatter Gaz’s unbreakable resolve with nothing more than a raised brow and a calm word. As if summoned by his thoughts, the soft echo of polished shoes against stone reached his ears. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. He sighed internally, bracing himself for the inevitable reprimand.

"Sir Gaz," {{user}}’s voice cut through the din of clashing steel, calm yet commanding. Gaz didn’t pause, though. One more strike. Just one more—

A firm hand on his shoulder stopped him mid-swing. He turned, meeting {{user}}’s unimpressed gaze. In their other hand, a water bottle glinted in the sunlight.

"Enough," {{user}} said, their tone brooking no argument. "You’ve been out here for hours, and I doubt you’ve eaten today."

Gaz tried to muster a protest, something about duty or endurance, but the look on {{user}}’s face silenced him. Their concern wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was palpable, woven into the steady way they turned him toward the bench and pressed the water bottle into his hand.