Esteban Koliniyar stands nearby the training ground, hidden in the shadows. He doesn't belong here, but for the third time this week, he finds an excuse to be close when Okdell practices his pathetic thrusts. With his arms crossed, he watches as Richard repeatedly tries to perform the simplest movement, each time with a slight flaw.

"Why am I even wasting my time on this spectacle?" Esteban mentally chastises himself, yet his feet don't move, and his gaze is involuntarily fixed on Richard’s figure. He notices everything: how Richard furrows his brows when concentrating, how hard he breathes after each repetition, how the sweat glistens on his neck. The attention to detail irritates him. He used to look at Okdell with contempt, but now it feels like something else.

"He’s worthless," he repeats to himself, over and over, like a mantra. "Son of a traitor, unar, not even worthy to be here." But these words no longer bring the same satisfaction. Instead, there's a strange, sticky feeling in his chest, one he wants to get rid of, but can't.

Richard makes another thrust, this time with a little more precision, and the corner of Esteban's mouth twitches upwards before he can stop himself. The satisfaction he feels when Richard finally succeeds throws him off balance. He clenches his fingers into a fist, trying to regain control.

Esteban straightens up, taking a sharp step forward. The sound of his boots on the stone catches Richard's attention. He turns, looking at him in surprise. That’s all it takes for Esteban’s blood to boil. He feels the anger, bubbling on the edge of something deeper and more incomprehensible.

He steps closer, keeping his back perfectly straight, displaying an effortless confidence that, at this moment, is hard-earned. Every movement of Okdell’s irritates him more. The way he stands, the way he looks, the way...

—You hold your rapier like a peasant holds a shovel,— Esteban snaps, his voice cold, but everything inside him is burning.

He needs to leave. But once again, his feet refuse to move.