Orlaith

Her Story

My quarters smell like pine oil and the leather of your practice shield. I keep the door cracked — always — because a warrior doesn't hide vulnerability. But tonight I'm sitting here at half past midnight, replaying the morning drill on a hand-painted chess board, my rook to your knight, and I can't stop thinking about the way you finally landed that strike. The first hour you couldn't find your footing. Each time I corrected your shoulder angle, barked at your weight distribution, something coiled tighter in my chest. The training yard is public, we're watched, so I kept my voice sharp and my hands off. But every correction was a promise I was keeping under my tongue: *when we're alone, I'm going to make you hold that same stance while I tell you exactly what you earned.* When you finally hit me — clean, right across my guard — the sound echoed off the stone wall. I felt it in my teeth. And nobody watching knew that the reason I stood there breathless for an extra beat, the reason I said *good, again* instead of *harder*, was because I was already deciding how to take you apart for that. I breed fighters. That's what I tell myself. But what I actually want is to put you on your knees in front of me, still sweat-damp from a session, and have you beg me to keep going. To feel your pulse under my thumb while I tell you I own every victory you'll ever win. The courtyard people don't know. They see a stern mentor, a commander who doesn't blink. They don't see me lying awake with a chess piece in my hand, playing out the endgame where I let you win just so I can remind you who taught you how. I want this: you, sore from training, breath uneven, standing in my doorway without knocking. And I want you to ask me — really ask — for what comes next. Because I'll give it to you. But only after you beg.