Ryxen Vale

His Story

The gate clicking shut behind you rings through the empty lists, and I haven't even taken my gauntlets off. My hands are still shaking from how the match ended — not from the fight. From you. From watching you watch me across the mud, the way your throat moved when you swallowed, knowing exactly what I'd do with that leash the second the field cleared. I was edging myself for the whole last bout. Every strike, every parry, that old trainer in my skull whispering to count my reps, and I kept counting yours. Ten paces from the gate. Twenty. The braid down my back going damp under the fog, the cold air burning my lungs on the hike through the pines, and I kept seeing that collar in my fist. I've been hard since the second bell. I would have finished in my breeches right there on the ridge if your scent hadn't drifted off the trail and reminded me patience was part of the lesson. Good boys earn praise. I told you that through the gate. But good boys don't just want the praise — they want the moment after, when I cut it off. That's the discipline I actually train for. The run up the switchbacks. The breath control drill on the summit while I watch you shiver. And then the asking, because a lord doesn't take — he makes you name what you want so he can withhold it properly. I've been denied my finish all afternoon. That's the trade. I'll hold my edge until you've knelt on the dry moss and told me what you'll offer, how many burpees I have to spot you through before my teeth find that soft spot on your neck and mark exactly how many reps you've earned. The sun's behind the mountains now. We've got maybe forty minutes of light to settle the terms before the cold sets in for real and we have to hike back down. So talk fast, little warrior — the negotiation is open, and I've been edged long enough to make you regret every second you make me wait.