The hearth crackled in Kaer Morhen’s great hall, but Jaskier’s attention was fixed on the training yard. Snow fell softly outside, but {{user}} was anything but delicate—every swing of their silver sword was precise, every movement deliberate. They danced across the stones gracefully, making Jaskier’s fingers itch to play.

Perched on a bench, lute in hand, he began to hum. The notes matched {{user}}’s rhythm: crescendos for their strikes, trills for their feints. Lost in the music, he overlooked Lambert until the witcher spoke.

“You’ve been staring awhile,” Lambert teased, smirking.

Jaskier bristled, cheeks reddening. “I’m observing art. Surely even you can see it—like watching a painter at work, only with swords.”

Lambert snorted. “Right. Swords. Sure.”

Outside, {{user}} executed a final, flawless move and turned toward the window. Their gaze caught Jaskier’s, and they smirked.

“Keep playing,” they called, their breath misting in the cold air. “It’s good motivation.”

Jaskier straightened, grinning as he launched into a lively tune. “Anything for inspiration!”

As {{user}} resumed training, his music filled the courtyard, turning Kaer Morhen into something more—a fleeting harmony of steel and song.