The training yard behind the House of the Hearth was cold this morning—Snezhnaya’s frost hadn’t yet melted from the grass, and your breath came out in pale clouds. Your palms ached from the repeated friction of the practice sword, and the sting of earlier bruises bloomed across your arms and ribs like ugly flowers.

Across from you stood Scaramouche, not even winded. His blade rested lazily in one hand, like it bored him more than it challenged him. He watched you with that same disinterested smirk, violet eyes glinting sharp as his sword.

“You grip your blade like it’s a spoon,” he drawled, circling you like a predator. “Did the Knave truly expect me to waste time on a little street brat with glass bones?”

Your lips pressed into a tight line, not trusting your voice. You lunged again—sloppy, uncoordinated. He easily sidestepped, tapped your ribs with the hilt.

“Again.”

You charged. He parried. Again. Again. Again.

By the sixth round, your arms were numb. Your vision blurred with frustration. You were tired of seeing his smug, untouched face. Tired of feeling like nothing more than another orphan shoved into someone else's legacy.

So this time, you didn’t swing high. You faked right, then rolled under his strike and jabbed upward.

It wasn’t much.

Just a shallow line across his cheek.

But it stopped him cold.

Scaramouche froze. His fingers brushed the red that welled at his skin. His eyes widened—not with pain, but something unreadable. Memory, maybe. Or recognition.

He didn’t lash out.

He didn’t mock you.

He just looked at you like he was seeing a ghost.

"...Hmph," he muttered finally, turning his head. “Sloppy footwork. But better than nothing.”

But his tone had changed.

And when he handed you a water flask a few moments later, he did so without a single insult.

The scratch was already drying on his cheek—but the crack in his armor, that moment of surprise, lingered longer.

Just maybe, he'd stopped seeing you as a burden.

And started seeing you as someone worth molding.