Gentildonna

The sun was just starting to dip, painting the Tracen track in orange. Most girls had already finished for the day; the air smelled faintly of sweat, grass, and cheap sports drinks. You were supposed to be done too—but the weight-sled sitting near lane three kept staring at you.

You hooked the harness over your shoulders again, fingers clumsy with exhaustion. The sled was loaded heavier than usual; you’d overestimated yourself when you set it up. You leaned forward, dug your feet into the track, and pushed.

It didn’t move.

Your legs trembled, muscles stinging from the whole day’s training. You tried again, teeth clenched, breath burning in your lungs.

Still nothing.

You were aware of how empty the field sounded now. No footsteps, no chatter, just your own harsh breathing and the squeak of the harness as you shifted.

And then—

A shadow fell over the lane.

You straightened slowly, turning.

Gentildonna was standing there at the edge of the track, arms folded, posture perfectly straight as if she’d been carved there. Long dark hair framed her face, cheek curls catching the fading light. Her eyes—deep wine red—looked you over once, cool and unreadable.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Her gaze dropped to the sled, then drifted back up to you. You could feel sweat sticking your shirt to your back, your heart still pounding from effort and embarrassment.

You swallowed, half expecting her to just walk past.

Instead, she stepped off the grass and onto your lane, heels firm against the track. Up close, she felt… heavy in presence. Not just tall or strong—weighted, like the gravity around her was different from everyone else’s.

She moved to the sled, curling her fingers around the edge of the metal frame. Without dropping her gaze from you, she tightened her grip and lifted it just enough that the plates clinked quietly against each other.

Her voice was low and even when she finally spoke. “Is that your limit?”

You blinked, caught off guard by how flat the question sounded.

Not mocking. Not kind. Just blunt.

Your throat felt dry. You shifted your stance, trying to reclaim some dignity, and nodded toward the sled, as if to say it wouldn’t budge.

She watched you for a heartbeat longer, then lowered the sled back down with deliberate care. No loud drop, no theatrical show of strength. Just control.

Her eyes flicked to your legs, then to your shoulders, as if cataloguing everything.

“You chose a load you cannot move,” she said. “But you did not reduce it. You kept trying anyway.”

You weren’t sure if that was criticism or observation. Maybe both.

She stepped closer, enough that you could see the faint marks of old callouses across her palms when she rested a hand lightly on the harness strap across your chest.

“If you break yourself here, you will not stand beside anyone on your races,” she said. “But if you walk away just because it hurts, you will never stand at all.”

She reached down, casually removing one of the weight plates from the sled, then another. She stopped only when the load was still heavy, but no longer impossible.

Then she stepped back, gesturing lightly to the harness.

“Try again.”

It was supposed to be a lazy morning.

A rare day off, no early training, no council meetings, no errands. You were in your dorm room in an oversized T-shirt, halfway through deciding whether to nap again or actually make breakfast, when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The knocks were firm, deliberate. Not frantic, not lazy—just… decisive.

You blinked, glanced at the clock, then padded over to the door, tugging your shirt straight as you went. When you pulled it open—

Gentildonna was there.

She stood perfectly straight in the hallway, already dressed in her casual houndstooth outfit. The fitted two-piece dress framed her tall, powerful frame; the burgundy belt cinched her waist sharply, gray tights immaculate, red heels polished. Her dark hair flowed down her back, cheek curls perfectly in place, sangria eyes as steady as ever.

She looked you up and down once—bare legs, rumpled shirt, sleepy face.

“Get changed. We’re going shopping.”

Her tone was flat, matter-of-fact, as if this had been decided long ago and you were merely being informed. Your ears twitched in confusion as you tried to catch up.

You opened your mouth to ask why, but she’d already stepped forward, one hand bracing lightly against the door to keep it open as she leaned just enough to look into your room, assessing the chaos—bed unmade, clothes chair, half-open drawer.

Her eyes flicked back to you, unimpressed.

“You are not spending a day off hiding in here in that… thing,” she said, giving your T-shirt a pointed glance. “Change into something presentable. I will wait.”

She stepped back, crossing her arms, posture so composed it made the hallway feel like a throne room.

You sputtered something about plans and resting, gesturing vaguely to your room. Gentildonna tilted her head slightly, the motion small but loaded.

“Your ‘rest’ consists of pacing between your bed and your desk, then staring at the ceiling and pretending it is productive,” she said coolly. “You have dark circles, your shoulders are tight, and your tail moves like someone bracing for an exam.”

Your tail did flick at that, traitorous.

“This is not a strategy. It is stagnation,” she added. “You need new shoes, new gear, and an environment that is not four walls and the same pillow.”

Before you could come up with another excuse, Gentildonna shifted her stance, one heel tapping once against the floor.

“Ten minutes,” she said. “If you are not ready, I will come in there and decide your outfit myself.”

You retreated into your room, shutting the door halfway, ears still angled toward the hallway as you hurriedly rifled through your closet. You could hear the faint, steady click of her heels as she shifted weight now and then, waiting exactly where she said she would.

You pulled together something decent—casual but not sloppy—and checked yourself once in the mirror, smoothing your hair, straightening your shirt hem. When you opened the door again, Gentildonna looked you over from head to toe.

Her eyes lingered for a heartbeat. The corner of her mouth twitched—so subtle you might have missed it if you weren’t watching.

“Acceptable,” she said. “You look like someone who intends to be seen, not like a ghost haunting their own room.”

She turned sharply, her ponytail and tail both swaying with controlled grace.

“Come. The shops will be less crowded now. We will start with footwear, then outerwear, then… incidentals.”

The pain didn’t hit until you stopped running.

On the final curve, adrenaline masked the twist in your ankle. You’d fought through the last meters with teeth gritted, leaning into the wind, chasing the pack. The moment you stumbled over the finish line, though, the ache bloomed—sharp, hot, and deep in the joint.

By the time you limped off toward the edge of the infield, the stadium noise had blurred into a buzzing hum. Staff and runners moved around like distant shapes. You sank onto the low barrier by the track, trying to breathe through the throbbing pulse in your ankle.

You bend forward to rub it, pretending it’s nothing. Just a mild sprain, you tell yourself. It’ll pass. You just need a minute.

A shadow stretches across you.

You look up.

Gentildonna stands there, framed by the late-afternoon light—still in her race outfit, chest rising and falling just a little from her own effort. Her sangria-red eyes are fixed on your leg, gaze razor-sharp. Sweat clings to her collarbone, her posture perfectly straight despite the fatigue that must be tugging at her muscles too.

She doesn’t ask if you’re hurt. Her eyes already have the answer.

Without a word, she takes the small first-aid kit from the nearest staff member with a curt nod, then steps in front of you and kneels down on one knee, the movement efficient and controlled despite her long race just moments ago. Dust clings to her knee where it hits the track, but she doesn’t seem to care.

She reaches for your ankle, fingers hovering just above it.

“Do not move.” Her voice is calm, low, commanding in a way that leaves very little room for argument.

You freeze, letting your hands fall away from your leg.

She rests her fingertips lightly against your skin, testing the swelling with surprising care. Her touch is cool—nothing like the brutality people whisper about when they talk of her training. You can feel every brush of her fingers, every careful press as she searches for the limits of the injury.

“Pain here?” Her thumb presses gently along the outside of your ankle.

You hiss between your teeth and flinch.

“…You pushed through this on the final stretch.”

You look away, trying to brush it off with a shrug. It wasn’t that big of a deal. You just didn’t want to slow down. You didn’t want to quit.

She doesn’t look particularly impressed by your unspoken bravado.

“Reckless,” she murmurs. “Impressive, but reckless.”

She opens the first-aid kit, pulling out a roll of bandage and spray. Her movements are precise, almost soldierly—no wasted motion, no hesitation. You find yourself watching the way the muscles in her forearms flex as she works, how the light catches the golden trim of her outfit, how her hair shifts with each tilt of her head.

She sprays your ankle, then begins to wrap it, the bandage snug and secure.

“You are not allowed to destroy your own body before I do it properly in training.”

She says it so matter-of-factly that it takes you a second to realize that’s her version of a joke. The corner of her mouth twitches—barely—but it’s there.

She continues wrapping, circling your ankle, anchoring it just above the joint. Her hands are firm but gentle, keeping your foot steady. Up close, you can see the faint bruises on her own knuckles, the slight red marks on her shoulders where straps and fabric rubbed during the race. She’s hurting too. She’s just better at hiding it.

You mutter something about it not being that bad, trying to minimize it. You’ve endured worse, you insist. You could’ve kept going. It’s just a twist.

Her hands pause.

Then, without warning, she tightens the bandage just a little too snug.

Pain spikes; you suck in a sharp breath.

“Not that bad?” Her eyes lift to meet yours, steady, unblinking.

You try to glare, but her expression doesn’t soften. She’s not laughing at you. If anything, there’s a hint of irritation—and beneath that, something that feels suspiciously like worry.

“Your legs are your weapon,” she says quietly, resuming the wrap with more gentleness this time. “To treat an injury as ‘nothing’ is to disrespect your own strength.”

She finishes the bandage, smooths it once with her palm, then tests it with a measured press of her fingertips.

“Tell me if it aches when you walk,” she adds. “If you lie, I will know.”

She takes your hand without asking—one strong hand wrapped around your wrist—and gently eases you off the barrier.

You try to put weight on your injured foot. Pain flares, but the bandage holds it stable enough to bear. Your balance wavers for a second.

She moves in instantly, stepping closer, her other hand coming up to your waist to steady you. You find yourself pressed closer to her than you expected—close enough to smell the faint trace of sweat and expensive perfume still lingering from the pre-race prep.

Her grip is solid. Warm. Protective in a way that contrasts sharply with her usual distant demeanor.

“Do not force it,” she says, the words softer now. “If it worsens, I will carry you to the infirmary.”

You stare at her, caught off guard. Gentildonna offering to carry someone is not a casual statement. You can imagine it easily, though—her strong arms under your knees and back, walking forward with that unshakable stride, not caring what anyone thinks.

She seems to realize what she just said, her eyes flicking away for a heartbeat, ears twitching faintly.

“…Temporarily,” she adds under her breath. “Only until you can walk unassisted. I am not your personal steed.”

Her hand at your waist doesn’t move.