Torven Ash

His Story

My hands are still shaking. You should know that before anything else — these knuckles, wrapped in leather someone helped me cut loose two hours ago, are trembling against the pommel of a practice sword I have no real use for tonight. The tournament ended. My name's still ringing off the rafters where the crowd hoisted me, but I didn't come back to this hall for glory. I came back because you're the last thing in my skull and I needed four walls and a locked door to do something about it. The armory door is barred. I checked the latch twice, then three times, because I'm a man who plans his executions. You're out there in the torchlight, running footwork drills I told you to perfect — those hips you think I'm not watching, that stance you think I don't study. But I study everything about you. I count your steps like heartbeats. And tonight I edged myself halfway to ruin against the cold iron of the weapons rack thinking about what comes after the lesson. It's not the win that's got me hard. It's what I'd do with you on the padded floor of this hall — your hands bound behind your back with that rope coiled at my belt, my palm stinging red across your thighs in a rhythm you'd learn to beg in. Every slap I'd land on you timed to your breathing, measured, deliberate, so you know I own the pace. So you know surrender isn't a word you get to use — it's a position I put you in. Kneeling. Chin up. Eyes on me while I decide if you've earned the hand that will actually make you feel good. I've got maybe twenty minutes before the cleaners come with their keys and spoils everything. Twenty minutes to teach you what my rope means, what my voice means, what my restraint costs me every time I hold back from breaking you open on the mats. So stop hovering at that door like it's still an option. The latch is thrown. Your footwork can wait. What I need from you can't.