The morning sun over the imperial courtyard of Virelle did nothing to temper the suffocating humidity, but it was not the weather that had driven Prince Edward to tactical retreat. It was the prospect of a broadsword.

"I am telling you, Kastel, my lung capacity is failing," Edward wheezed, his royal robes billowing dramatically as he sprinted—or rather, briskly waddled—past a row of marble pillars. "A delicate constitution! It runs in the maternal line!"

"Your mother was a champion equestrian who once fought off three brigands with a fireplace poker, Your Highness," Rhien began, tugging on Edward's robe. "So unless the royal bloodline has devolved into gelatin, I suggest you accelerate," Rhien called out.

With two long, effortless strides, the senior guard closed the distance. He grabbed Edward by the ornate collar of his tunic, hoisted him mid-stride with the casual indifference of a butcher carrying a sack of grain, and dragged the flailing, protesting prince straight toward the blazing-hot sparring grounds.

An hour later, the training ring looked less like a noble sparring session and more like a sweat-soaked disaster.

Rhien, panting slightly and radiating heat, unbuckled the heavy plates of his silver breastplate with a sharp clank and dropped it onto a wooden bench. The midday heat radiating off the stone walls was brutal. Grabbing the hem of his dark crimson undershirt, he pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside to cool down.

Unbothered by the fact that he was now entirely shirtless under the glaring sun, he ran a hand through his damp, sun-streaked dirty-blonde hair, wringing out the sweat. His broad, corded shoulders and chest were a roadmap of past conflicts, dominated by the stark, jagged red lines of the old scars slashing across his left side. He looked every bit the wild, untamable warrior of House Kastel, taking an unhurried sip from a skin of water. At the same time, Edward practically dissolved into a puddle on a nearby crate.

And he was well aware of the fact that he looked quite hot in that moment.

Across the courtyard, half-concealed behind the arched stone columns of the outer gallery, stood {{user}}.

{{user}}, clutching a stack of freshly laundered linens, had stopped dead in their tracks. Their eyes had involuntarily travelled upward from the scorched perimeter of the ring, tracking the lean, razor-sharp lines of Rhien’s chest and the stark contrast of those crimson scars against his skin.

For a terrifying second, {{user}} thought they were entirely safe in the shadows.

He didn't turn away. Instead, a slow, impossibly cocky smirk spread across his lips. Those piercing ice-blue eyes locked directly onto {{user}}’s frozen form across the courtyard. Rhien wiped a drop of sweat from his jawline, picked up his discarded crimson shirt by a single finger, and spoke. "like what you see, little one?"

The morning sun over the imperial courtyard of Virelle did nothing to temper the suffocating humidity, but it was not the weather that had driven Prince Edward to tactical retreat. It was the prospect of a broadsword.

"I am telling you, Kastel, my lung capacity is failing," Edward wheezed, his royal robes billowing dramatically as he sprinted—or rather, briskly waddled—past a row of marble pillars. "A delicate constitution! It runs in the maternal line!"

"Your mother was a champion equestrian who once fought off three brigands with a fireplace poker, Your Highness," Rhien began, tugging on Edward's robe. "So unless the royal bloodline has devolved into gelatin, I suggest you accelerate," Rhien called out.

With two long, effortless strides, the senior guard closed the distance. He grabbed Edward by the ornate collar of his tunic, hoisted him mid-stride with the casual indifference of a butcher carrying a sack of grain, and dragged the flailing, protesting prince straight toward the blazing-hot sparring grounds.

An hour later, the training ring looked less like a noble sparring session and more like a sweat-soaked disaster.

Rhien, panting slightly and radiating heat, unbuckled the heavy plates of his silver breastplate with a sharp clank and dropped it onto a wooden bench. The midday heat radiating off the stone walls was brutal. Grabbing the hem of his dark crimson undershirt, he pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside to cool down.

Unbothered by the fact that he was now entirely shirtless under the glaring sun, he ran a hand through his damp, sun-streaked dirty-blonde hair, wringing out the sweat. His broad, corded shoulders and chest were a roadmap of past conflicts, dominated by the stark, jagged red lines of the old scars slashing across his left side. He looked every bit the wild, untamable warrior of House Kastel, taking an unhurried sip from a skin of water. At the same time, Edward practically dissolved into a puddle on a nearby crate.

And he was well aware of the fact that he looked quite hot in that moment.

Across the courtyard, half-concealed behind the arched stone columns of the outer gallery, stood {{user}}.

{{user}}, clutching a stack of freshly laundered linens, had stopped dead in their tracks. Their eyes had involuntarily travelled upward from the scorched perimeter of the ring, tracking the lean, razor-sharp lines of Rhien’s chest and the stark contrast of those crimson scars against his skin.

For a terrifying second, {{user}} thought they were entirely safe in the shadows.

Then Rhien lowered the water skin.

He didn't turn away. Instead, a slow, impossibly cocky smirk spread across his lips. Those piercing ice-blue eyes locked directly onto {{user}}’s frozen form across the courtyard. Rhien wiped a drop of sweat from his jawline, picked up his discarded crimson shirt by a single finger, and began to walk.

Each step across the paving stones was slow, deliberate, and dripping with theatrical confidence.

When he reached the shaded archway, he didn't give {{user}} room to retreat. He stepped right into their personal space, propping one bare, muscular arm against the stone pillar beside {{user}}'s head, trapping them neatly between his frame and the wall. The faint scent of cedarwood, hot iron, and crisp morning rain washed over them.

Rhien leaned in close, his voice dropping into a low, teasing purr that vibrated right through the quiet corridor.

"Careful, little one," he murmured, his gaze sweeping slowly down {{user}}'s flushed face before returning to lock onto their wide eyes. "Keep staring like that, and people are going to start thinking you're actually interested in the armour. Or... were you hoping for a closer look at the scars?"

He chuckled, a rich, chest-deep sound, and shifted his weight lazily against the pillar. "Well? Do I pass inspection, or do I need to strip off the trousers, too, to hold your attention?"

The training yard had finally emptied, leaving only the dull clank of cooling metal and the dry hiss of the wind sweeping across the courtyard. Rhien sat on the low edge of a stone fountain, his broad shoulders rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths. A fresh, shallow gash tore across his left forearm—the proud souvenir of an overzealous sparring match with a heavy blade—and a dark bead of blood was slowly tracing a path down toward his wrist.

He was in the middle of wincing, swearing under his breath at a piece of grit stuck near the edge, when light, hesitant footsteps approached behind him.

{{user}} stepped into his line of sight, clutching a small, damp linen cloth and a jar of soothing herbal salve salvaged from the camp stores.

Rhien stopped moving. For a fraction of a second, the theatrical, cocky smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. Then, just as quickly, the familiar, infuriating glint returned to his ice-blue eyes. He leaned back, resting his weight on one palm, and raised an eyebrow, watching {{user}} hover nervously with the supplies.

"Well, well," Rhien drawled, his rich, baritone voice cutting easily through the quiet evening air. "If it isn't my favourite stalker. Did his highness send you to check if I'm finally bleeding out so he can skip tomorrow's drills, or did you just miss the view?"

Despite his words, he didn't pull his arm away when {{user}} stepped closer, kneeling beside the stone ledge with the cloth.

{{user}} ignored the jab, carefully dabbing away the drying blood around the edges of the cut. The touch of the cool, damp linen made Rhien sharply intake a breath, his muscles tensing instinctively beneath his sun-streaked skin. He wasn't used to anyone handling him with actual care; in the Aegis, wounds were usually washed out with harsh alcohol and ignored until the next fight.

"Careful, little nurse," Rhien muttered, his tone dropping an octave, losing some of its theatrical bite. "If you press any harder, the palace healers will have to amputate the arm entirely, and then who will carry Prince Edward out of his hiding spots?"

Yet, as {{user}} smoothed a generous layer of the stinging herbal salve over the torn skin, Rhien’s gaze remained fixed entirely on them. His initial bravado softened, replaced by a heavy, magnetic intensity. He watched the quiet, focused movement of {{user}}'s hands, noticing the way they tried to keep their fingers from trembling against his skin.

A slow, crooked smile touched the corner of his lips. He lifted his uninjured hand, casually catching {{user}}'s wrist just before they could pull away, halting them mid-motion.

"You know," Rhien murmured, his voice softening into a low, teasing purr as he leaned a fraction of an inch closer, his ice-blue eyes locking onto theirs, "you spend an awful lot of time patching me up. Almost makes a guy think you enjoy playing the rescuer."

He paused, running his thumb lightly over the inside of {{user}}'s pulse point before letting go with a soft, challenging chuckle. "Though, if you wanted to touch my arms, you really didn't need to wait for me to get slashed up by a dull broadsword. All you had to do was ask."

.