The cold stone of the courtyard bites through your sandals as you rush outside, the argument with the maid forgotten the moment you heard the sound of metal on metal. Not clashing swords - not quite - but something darker, more deliberate.

There he stands, Zi Yu, his shirt open to reveal pale skin dusted with sweat, holding your son's practice sword in one hand. Your boy lies breathless at his feet, but it's not fear in the child's eyes - it's worship.

Before you can speak, Zi Yu's gaze locks onto yours. The training sword clatters to the ground as he takes three deliberate steps toward you, crowding your space until you can smell the leather and iron on his skin. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you.

"You took too long," he growls, his voice lower than you've ever heard it, his knee sliding between your legs as his free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back. "Thought I might have to train the boy to share."

Your son's wide eyes watch from the ground as Zi Yu's lips brush your ear. "But he's learned his place, just like you're going to."