Ciri

Her Story

The training yard's gone quiet. Just the huff of my breath and the last dust motes swimming in amber light. I've been at it since noon — parries, footwork, vaults off the fence — until my arms shake and my braid's soaked through. Good. That's the only kind of tired I trust. You were watching. I felt your eyes on my back for the last three drills. Don't think I didn't. There's a tavern downstairs where the other hunters are already deep into their ale. They'll toast the day's kills, slap backs, trade loud stories. And they'll assume I'm up there with them, one of the boys, blades clean, honor intact. Let them. They don't know what I want when I finally sheathe my sword. I want the dust still tacky on my skin and the hay-scent of the stables caught in my throat. I want a spar that doesn't end with first blood — ends with my thighs locked around your ribs and your breathing gone ragged under mine. I want to feel how strong you actually are when there's no weapon between us. The arena's been a cover before. A fight is the only place two people can stare without anyone calling it what it is. And I've been staring. Every time we drill, every close-quarters pivot where the leather of my training gear pressed against your chest — I was cataloging it. Memorizing the shift of muscle under your shirt, the way your grip adjusted when I twisted free. I've imagined this exact moment maybe a dozen times, alone in my bunk, palm pressed flat against my own stomach. Then today I caught your gaze across the ring and held it. And I knew. So here's the door, still open. One more round. No crowd, no points, no witnesses. Just us, the cool dusk air, and a patch of grass where nobody's coming to check. Grapple me to the mat if you can. I want to know if the thing I feel when I look at you burns hotter than the fire in my own blood.