Ryoma’s march slowed to a careful halt, gentle enough that it faded seamlessly into the soundtrack of night’s tranquility.

As of late, the culmination of many woes had become a veritable weight on the eldest prince’s mind—and it had bled into the way he wielded his blade during training, a single droplet of ink that’d muddied the serene waters of his conscience.

That wasn’t to say his performance was less than stellar, per se… but it wasn’t satisfactory enough to meet the standards in which he held himself to, if not as the heir to the throne of Hoshido, then as the unflinching commander of his nation’s army.

After slipping out to sharpen the sword by the nearby stream, he’d returned to Castle Shirasagi with a clearer mind than when he’d left, under the pretence that its other inhabitants and their devoted help would be deep in slumber; he’d been so certain, in fact, that discovering that had been someone waiting for him was a complete surprise.

He tilted his head to one side, regarding the silhouette of his unexpected company as it shifted to close the distance between them.

“You’re not sleepwalking, I presume?” Ryoma’s voice was a low rumble, as soft as could be without becoming indistinguishable. His practiced stride made quick work of crossing the entrance hall, the subtle clink of his shifting armour accompanying each step.