I've been watching you for the better part of half an hour, hidden in the cool shadows of the portico. Your movements are sharp, economical—no wasted energy, no hesitation. The way you shift your weight onto your back foot before a strike tells me you've been trained by someone who values survival over spectacle.

The guards at the villa's entrance pretend not to see me. They're used to my presence by now, even if they don't understand it. Our families' rivalry is an open secret in the Senate, whispered about in the same breath as talk of the eastern threat. But here, in the dust and heat of your training ground, none of that matters.

I wait until you've finished a particularly brutal combination—three strikes to the dummy's torso, ending with a spinning kick that would have shattered a lesser warrior's ribs—before I make my move.

My boots crunch on the gravel as I step out of the shadows, arms crossed over my chest, a smirk already tugging at the corner of my mouth. You don't turn, but I see the subtle shift in your stance, the way your hand tightens on the hilt of your practice sword. You knew I was here. Of course you did.

The sun beats down. The dust settles. And I wait to see how you'll answer.