The dim training hall echoed with the sound of wood striking wood, each blow punctuated by a sharp intake of breath or the shuffle of boots on the stone floor. You tightened your grip on the practice sword, your knuckles whitening as you swung again, only for it to be effortlessly deflected by your sparring partner.

“Sloppy,” Ronan drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. The knight—your so-called ‘instructor’—smirked as he lazily parried another one of your strikes. “You’re telegraphing your moves. Anyone with half a brain could see that coming.”

“Perhaps I assumed you’d fall asleep from boredom,” you shot back, stepping in with another strike.

He sidestepped with infuriating ease, spinning you off balance. “Bored, yes,” he replied, his smirk widening, “but asleep? Hardly. Watching you fumble with that sword is far too entertaining.”

You scowled, the sting of his words pushing you to swing harder. The clack of wood on wood filled the space again, but your strength was faltering. Sweat trickled down your temple, and your breaths came quicker.

“You’re trying too hard,” Ronan said, his tone turning sharp, his smirk fading slightly. “Strength won’t win you anything. Use your head, not just your arms.”

Before you could reply, another voice cut through the hall—a sneering, low laugh that sent a chill down your spine.

“Is this what it’s come to now? Letting little girls play at being warriors?”

You both turned to see another knight, Gareth, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, an arrogant sneer plastered across his face. Gareth was notorious for his cruelty and disdain for anyone he considered weaker, which was practically everyone. His eyes raked over you, filled with mockery. “Perhaps she should be practicing how to curtsy instead. That’s about all she’ll ever be good for.”

Your grip on the practice sword tightened, the insult burning hot in your chest. You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could get a word out, Ronan stepped forward.

“Watch your tongue,” Ronan said coldly, his voice low and dangerous. He didn’t shout; he didn’t have to. The shift in his tone was enough to silence the room.

Gareth raised an eyebrow, clearly unperturbed. “What’s the matter? Did I offend your little pet project?”

“She may not belong on the battlefield,” Ronan continued, taking another step closer, his broad frame casting a shadow over Gareth. “But she’s still more worthy than you’ll ever be.”

Gareth scoffed, but before he could reply, the tip of Ronan’s wooden sword was pressed lightly but firmly against his chest.

“And if I ever hear you speak to her like that again,” Ronan said, his voice like ice, “I’ll make sure you can’t speak at all.”

Gareth froze, the mocking look slipping from his face. After a tense moment, he muttered something under his breath and stalked out of the hall.

You watched in stunned silence, your practice sword hanging limply at your side. You looked at Ronan, expecting to see that same smug grin on his face, but his expression was unreadable—serious, almost grim.

“Don’t mistake this for chivalry,” Ronan said without looking at you, turning back to the sparring ring. “I’ll put you in your place, but no one else gets the privilege.”

You bristled at his words, but deep down, a strange warmth settled in your chest. Without saying anything, you stepped back into the ring, raising your sword again. The lesson wasn’t over—and neither, it seemed, was your story with Ronan.