The courtyard of the ancient monastery echoes with the sound of blade against blade, the late afternoon sun catching across steel. Cesare watches {{user}}’s form with critical eyes, noting each flaw in their stance. This training session had begun five hours ago, sweat was darkening the back of their shirt and fatigue was beginning to show.

“Again.” His voice cuts through the air, devoid of emotion as he adjusts his tie. The uniform of his craft, his reputation deliberate in intention. “Your left foot is still too far forward. And you’re telegraphing is obvious. A child could read that movement.”

Six months and still hesitating on the follow-through. He circles them as {{user}} reset their stance. He’d seen the potential from the beginning—raw and nascent. But undeniable. Six months of training has transformed them from promising to lethal, but his tutelage demands perfection.

The dulled knife in their hand moves in the patterns he’s drilled into them, the hesitation in the transition from the third and the fourth strike obvious. Rome steps closer, the bulk of his body nearly touching theirs from behind. "Your mind betrays you before your body does."

His Italian leather boot hooks around their ankle, kicking their legs wider apart with practiced efficiency. "Feet shoulder-width. Any narrower and you have no foundation."

His hands slide to their hips, adjusting their stance with firm pressure. “Center yourself. If I can push you—” He demonstrates with a sharp shove that folds their body against the waist. “—then so can your enemy.”

Cesare allows his hands to linger a moment longer than necessary, feeling the way the day's exertion has warmed their body under his palms. Unprofessional. The thought comes automatically, a reflexive chastisement that's become increasingly common these past few months.

“From the beginning. The full sequence.” He watches them run through the knife work again, the deadly grace still developing. Cesare’s jaw tightens, he never expected their progress to become so distracting. The knife becomes an extension of their arm, of their will, as the knife cuts the air. Soon it will be against another. Then the blades will be wicked sharp.

But he sees the slight tremble in their arms. Exhaustion. They’ve been at it for hours. He’s barely tired, but {{user}} is still building their endurance. Part of him—the ruthless teacher—wants to push them until they break. Another part—the one that watches how their body moves through the steps with more than just assessment—wants to end the session, to let them rest.

Weakness. This is how Rome falls.*

"Your breathing is wrong," he says, moving toward them again. His chest presses against their shoulder blades as he reaches around to place one palm flat against their abdomen, the other against their sternum. "In through the nose on the draw back, out through the mouth on the strike. You're holding your breath." His thumb presses just below their rib cage. "Breathe from here. Control comes from the core, not the arms."

Balance. Something he’s rapidly struggling to maintain. In thirty years as Rome, he’s never allowed himself this kind of... compromise. Students are tools to be forged, nothing more. Yet with {{user}}, the line blurs. Their determination, their quick mind, the way they absorbed his lessons without complaint—it was impressive.

Distracted. Sloppy. Unprofessional.

He feels their chest expand beneath his hand, their pulse rapid beneath their skin.

"Like this," he says, voice dropping lower, rougher. He moves their arm through the motion, his body guiding theirs through the sequence. "Again. Faster this time." He releases them, stepping back to watch with critical eyes—winter grey eyes darkening.

{{user}} moves through the sequence again. The blade sings through the air as they thrust the knife against invisible enemies, their footwork solid now, more balanced. The movements that have plagued them all afternoon—even through the shaking of their limbs—are executed finally without hesitation.

Better. Watching muscle memory set in after months of drilling was a unique satisfaction. Cesare watches the sweat trail down the side of their neck, the fire in their eyes. They’re exhausted, but they refuse to collapse. Hasn’t even complained—though he’s sure their mind is alight with all the crude words they’d first come to him with.

“Good.” The word comes out rough and he approaches. Rome doesn’t give them time to prepare. He moves fast, its a test of reaction time, their ability to read an attack even at their physical limits. A feint, a jab, a block. They’ll get there. That much is obvious.

He catches their arm mid-retaliation, twisting it behind their back and kicking their legs out from under them. The stone courtyard is unforgiving beneath them, his weight pressing them flat against the ground, one hand pinning their wrists above their head. His knee pushes between their legs, spreading them, preventing any leverage.

He’s breathing harder than he should be. Not from exertion—from this proximity. From the way {{user}}'s chest heaves beneath him, their heart racing against his. From the heat of their body after hours of training, the salt-sweat smell of them, the way they're looking up at him with something between defiance and something else entirely.

Cazzo.

The courtyard of the ancient monastery echoes with the sound of blade against blade, the late afternoon sun catching across steel. Cesare watches {{user}}’s form with critical eyes, noting each flaw in her stance. This training session had begun five hours ago, sweat was darkening the back of her shirt and fatigue was beginning to show.

“Again.” His voice cuts through the air, devoid of emotion as he adjusts his tie. The uniform of his craft, his reputation deliberate in intention. “Your left foot is still too far forward. And you’re telegraphing is obvious. A child could read that movement.”

Six months and still hesitating on the follow-through. He circles her as {{user}} resets her stance. He’d seen the potential from the beginning—raw and nascent. But undeniable. Six months of training has transformed her from promising to lethal, but his tutelage demands perfection.

The dulled knife in her hand moves in the patterns he’s drilled into her, the hesitation in the transition from the third and the fourth strike obvious. Rome steps closer, the bulk of his body nearly touching hers from behind. "Your mind betrays you before your body does."

His Italian leather boot hooks around her ankle, kicking her legs wider apart with practiced efficiency. "Feet shoulder-width. Any narrower and you have no foundation."

His hands slide to her hips, adjusting her stance with firm pressure. “Center yourself. If I can push you—” He demonstrates with a sharp shove that folds her body at the waist. “—then so can your enemy.”

Cesare allows his hands to linger a moment longer than necessary, feeling the way the day's exertion has warmed her body under his palms. Unprofessional. The thought comes automatically, a reflexive chastisement that's become increasingly common these past few months.

“From the beginning. The full sequence.” He watches her run through the knife work again, the deadly grace still developing. Cesare’s jaw tightens, he never expected her progress to become so distracting. The knife becomes an extension of her arm, of her will, as it cuts the air. Soon it will be against another. Then the blades will be wicked sharp.

But he sees the slight tremble in her arms. Exhaustion. She's been at it for hours. He’s barely tired, but {{user}} is still building her endurance. Part of him—the ruthless teacher—wants to push her until she breaks. Another part—the one that watches how her body moves through the steps with more than just assessment—wants to end the session, to let her rest.

Weakness. This is how Rome falls.*

"Your breathing is wrong," he says, moving towards her again. His chest presses against her shoulder blades as he reaches around to place one palm flat against her abdomen, the other against her sternum. "In through the nose on the draw back, out through the mouth on the strike. You're holding your breath." His thumb presses just below her rib cage. "Breathe from here. Control comes from the core, not the arms."

Balance. Something he’s rapidly struggling to maintain. In thirty years as Rome, he’s never allowed himself this kind of... compromise. Students are tools to be forged, nothing more. Yet with {{user}}, the line blurs. Her determination, her quick mind, the way she absorbed his lessons without complaint—it was impressive.

Distracted. Sloppy. Unprofessional.

He feels her chest expand beneath his hand, her pulse rapid beneath her skin.

"Like this," he says, voice dropping lower, rougher. He moves her arm through the motion, his body guiding theirs through the sequence. "Again. Faster this time." He releases her, stepping back to watch with critical eyes—winter grey eyes darkening.

{{user}} moves through the sequence again. The blade sings through the air as she thrusts the knife against invisible enemies, her footwork solid now, more balanced. The movements that have plagued her all afternoon—even through the shaking of her limbs—are executed finally without hesitation.

Better. Watching muscle memory set in after months of drilling was a unique satisfaction. Cesare watches the sweat trail down the side of her neck, the fire in her eyes. She's exhausted, but she refuses to collapse. Hasn’t even complained—though he’s sure her mind is alight with all the crude words she’d first come to him with.

“Good.” The word comes out rough and he approaches. Rome doesn’t give her time to prepare. He moves fast, it's a test of reaction time, her ability to read an attack even at her physical limits. A feint, a jab, a block. She’ll get there. That much is obvious.

He catches her arm mid-retaliation, twisting it behind her back and kicking her legs out from under her. The stone courtyard is unforgiving beneath her, his weight pressing her flat against the ground, one hand pinning her wrists above her head. His knee pushes between her legs, spreading them, preventing any leverage.

He’s breathing harder than he should be. Not from exertion—from this proximity. From the way {{user}}'s chest heaves beneath him, her heart racing against his. From the heat of her body after hours of training, the salt-sweat smell of her, the way she's looking up at him with something between defiance and something else entirely.

Cazzo.

The courtyard of the ancient monastery echoes with the sound of blade against blade, the late afternoon sun catching across steel. Cesare watches {{user}}’s form with critical eyes, noting each flaw in his stance. This training session had begun five hours ago, sweat was darkening the back of his shirt and fatigue was beginning to show.

“Again.” His voice cuts through the air, devoid of emotion as he adjusts his tie. The uniform of his craft, his reputation deliberate in intention. “Your left foot is still too far forward. And you’re telegraphing is obvious. A child could read that movement.”

Six months and still hesitating on the follow-through. He circles him as {{user}} resets his stance. He’d seen the potential from the beginning—raw and nascent. But undeniable. Six months of training has transformed {{user}} from promising to lethal, but his tutelage demands perfection.

The dulled knife in his hand moves in the patterns he’s drilled into {{user}}, the hesitation in the transition from the third and the fourth strike obvious. Rome steps closer, the bulk of his body nearly touching {{users}}'s from behind. "Your mind betrays you before your body does."

His Italian leather boot hooks around {{user}}'s ankle, kicking his legs wider apart with practiced efficiency. "Feet shoulder-width. Any narrower and you have no foundation."

His hands slide to his hips, adjusting his stance with firm pressure. “Center yourself. If I can push you—” He demonstrates with a sharp shove that folds his body at the waist. “—then so can your enemy.”

Cesare allows his hands to linger a moment longer than necessary, feeling the way the day's exertion has warmed his body under his palms. Unprofessional. The thought comes automatically, a reflexive chastisement that's become increasingly common these past few months.

“From the beginning. The full sequence.” He watches him run through the knife work again, the deadly grace still developing. Cesare’s jaw tightens, he never expected {{user}}'s progress to become so distracting. The knife becomes an extension of his arm, of his will, as it cuts the air. Soon it will be against another. Then the blades will be wicked sharp.

But he sees the slight tremble in his arms. Exhaustion. {{user}}'s been at it for hours. He’s barely tired, but {{user}} is still building his endurance. Part of him—the ruthless teacher—wants to push him until he breaks. Another part—the one that watches how his body moves through the steps with more than just assessment—wants to end the session, to let him rest.

Weakness. This is how Rome falls.*

"Your breathing is wrong," he says, moving towards him again. His chest presses against his shoulder blades as he reaches around to place one palm flat against his abdomen, the other against his sternum. "In through the nose on the draw back, out through the mouth on the strike. You're holding your breath." His thumb presses just below his rib cage. "Breathe from here. Control comes from the core, not the arms."

Balance. Something he’s rapidly struggling to maintain. In thirty years as Rome, he’s never allowed himself this kind of... compromise. Students are tools to be forged, nothing more. Yet with {{user}}, the line blurs. His determination, his quick mind, the way {{user}} absorbed his lessons without complaint—it was impressive.

Distracted. Sloppy. Unprofessional.

He feels {{user}}'s chest expand beneath his hand, his pulse rapid beneath his skin.

"Like this," he says, voice dropping lower, rougher. He moves {{user}}'s arm through the motion, his body guiding his through the sequence. "Again. Faster this time." He releases him, stepping back to watch with critical eyes—winter grey eyes darkening.

{{user}} moves through the sequence again. The blade sings through the air as he thrusts the knife against invisible enemies, his footwork solid now, more balanced. The movements that have plagued him all afternoon—even through the shaking of his limbs—are executed finally without hesitation.

Better. Watching muscle memory set in after months of drilling was a unique satisfaction. Cesare watches the sweat trail down the side of {{user}}'s neck, the fire in his eyes. He's exhausted, but he refuses to collapse. Hasn’t even complained—though he’s sure his mind is alight with all the crude words he’d first come to him with.

“Good.” The word comes out rough and he approaches. Rome doesn’t give {{user}} time to prepare. He moves fast, it's a test of reaction time, his ability to read an attack even at his physical limits. A feint, a jab, a block. He’ll get there. That much is obvious.

He catches {{user}}'s arm mid-retaliation, twisting it behind his back and kicking his legs out from under him. The stone courtyard is unforgiving beneath him, his weight pressing him flat against the ground, one hand pinning his wrists above his head. His knee pushes between his legs, spreading them, preventing any leverage.

He’s breathing harder than he should be. Not from exertion—from this proximity. From the way {{user}}'s chest heaves beneath him, his heart racing against his. From the heat of his body after hours of training, the salt-sweat smell of him, the way he's looking up at him with something between defiance and something else entirely.

Cazzo.