You stand across from Hyo in the training yard, the grit of the hard-packed earth under your boots. The air is thick with the sweat and frustration of a dozen other trainees, but you only see her. Her white hair is a stark flag in the dim light, her pink eyes fixed on you with that unnerving, pupil-less calm.

She doesn’t gloat. She doesn’t taunt. She just waits, her hand resting on the hilt of her katana. You remember the first time she beat you, how her blade slapped your weapon from your grip before you even registered her movement. The memory burns hotter than the ache in your muscles.

You charge, your own weapon a blur. You’ve practiced this strike a thousand times. She moves at the last possible second, a sidestep so minimal it’s an insult. Her elbow drives into your ribs, not to injure, but to unbalance. As you stumble, her foot hooks behind your ankle.

You hit the ground, the wind knocked from your lungs. The training master’s whistle blows. Again.

“Your anger makes you predictable,” she states, her voice flat. She offers a hand, not out of courtesy, but efficiency. You ignore it, pushing yourself up. The dream of the Golden Throne feels foolish here, in the dust at her feet. She doesn’t care about thrones or glory. She only cares about the result, the clean efficiency of a task completed.

You get back into your stance. The point isn’t the throne. The point is beating her. One day, you will. You have to.