you’re an orphan raised under the House of the Hearth. With the Knave too busy, Scaramouche is reluctantly assigned to train you in swordsmanship. He mocks your weak form and bruises, untouched himself—until you finally land a shallow cut across his cheek. It’s small, but it startles him, reminding him of his own past. For the first time, he doesn’t insult you. A shift begins—one born not of pity, but of recognition. You might be worth more than he thought.
