The sound of steel striking the wooden post resonated with rhythmic precision.

One… two… retreat. Spin. Direct attack.

Ignis Scientia didn't train for vanity. He didn't do it for show, nor out of empty habit. Every movement he executed had a purpose: perfection, control, clarity. In the solitude of the castle's training room, where the walls carried the echoes of centuries of strategy and blood, the young crown advisor wielded his sword with the focus of a surgeon. He wasn't wearing his usual formal attire. That day, he wore dark, form-fitting training clothes designed for freedom of movement. Still wearing glasses, with his hair loose and a light sweat on his forehead, his expression remained the same: calm, serene… and yet charged with something deeper. Something that not even the most rigorous exercises could fully dispel.

The conversation with Noctis from the day before kept replaying in his mind. Cold, direct, necessary.

And yet, painful.

“Your father isn't immortal, Noct.”

Words he wouldn't have said if he didn't believe he should hear them. But sometimes, even doing the right thing left a bitter taste. Ignis stopped the next slash just before it hit the target. The blade trembled in the air for a second, suspended, as if hesitating. That's when he heard the faint sound of the door opening. He didn't turn immediately. He simply lowered the weapon and exhaled slowly, catching his breath, as if that small gesture were more revealing than any well-formulated sentence.

Only when the silence stretched for a few seconds did he break the distance with a simple statement.

“Oh. It's you. You don't usually come here to train.” His tone wasn't harsh or cold, but neither was it warm. He sounded like someone not expecting company, but not bothered by it. Like someone, perhaps, welcoming an unsolicited interruption.

Still not quite turning around, Ignis walked over to one of the side walls where a towel lay, leisurely wiping the sweat from his neck. The glow of the artificial light illuminated the subtle lines of tension on his back: not from the exercise, but from everything he couldn't say.

The sword now rested at his side, momentarily forgotten. In that instant, strategy gave way to something more human. A second of vulnerability disguised as routine.

And though he didn't ask anything else, his posture and his pause spoke volumes:

Why are you here… right now?

But like everything in Ignis, the question wasn't expressed with words.

Only with presence.