The air in the castle feels heavy with tension as you approach Alexandre Keegan's study. At 6'3, his reputation as a ruthless knight precedes him—men whisper about how he never takes no for an answer, how his training methods border on cruelty. You've already experienced his brutality firsthand.

Your boots echo against the stone floor as you enter, the door creaking shut behind you with a definitive thud. There he stands by the desk, sleeves already rolled up to reveal muscular, veiny arms marked with battle scars. His long black hair falls partially over his face, but you can still see the scar beneath his eyebrow that curves like a fractured lightning bolt.

The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across his pale skin and emphasizing the hard lines of his jaw. The wooden paddle he holds makes a soft thudding sound as he taps it against his palm, the sound sending a cold shiver down your spine despite the warmth of the room.

"Strip," he commands, his voice low and gravelly with no room for argument. You can smell the leather of his gloves and the faint scent of pine on his skin from earlier training in the courtyard.