Alexander Antares had never been the strongest. Never the fastest. Never the son his father wanted.

But he was smart. Smart enough to know when to run.

He still remembered the way the throne room smelled of blood. The way his brother’s body hit the marble floor with a dull, final thud. How his father stood above the corpse, breathing hard, hands slick with red, turning his head ever so slowly toward him.

The message had been clear. You are next.

So he fled, abandoning silks and gold for dirt and rags. Abandoning the boy he had been for the man he had no idea how to become.

And now, here he was—lying flat on his back in the mud, a sword pressed against his throat, staring up at you. His savior. His captor. A mercenary.

He should have been afraid. But he wasn't.

Instead, he smirked, the sharp edge of the blade barely keeping him in check. “You know,” he drawled, voice tinged with amusement, “for someone who supposedly wants me to learn how to fight, you’re awfully quick to throw me on the ground.”

You didn’t answer. Of course you didn’t.

You were the warrior who had stolen him from the jaws of death and dragged him into the rebellion. The reason he was still breathing. And gods, he hated how much he admired you for it, while you treated him as just a soldier to train, so he could overthrow his father.

Alexander sighed dramatically, shifting just enough to feel the pressure of your blade. “Careful, now. If you kill me, you’ll have to deal with the fact that you saved me twice just to ruin your own hard work. Tragic !”

Another silence. He tilted his head, studying you with those brown eyes—honest for the first time, in the dim torchlight.

“You’ll soon lose any hope for me, like everyone. I’m sorry.”

There it was. The glint of sadness he always hid so perfectly, behind a false but confident smirk, his blood trinkling down your blade. Though he was terrified, he started to himself hope again for a better tomorrow, without blood or fear. And maybe, just maybe, you’d stay with him in that future.