The training field was quieter than usual, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the marble tiles. In the center stood Astarotte Sylvarien, golden hair tied into a high ponytail, her pink succubus tail flicking anxiously. Sweat dampened her brow, and her breath came heavy.
Across from her stood Serenil, expression unreadable as always. His midnight black hair barely moved in the still air, and his violet eyes locked onto hers with the same silent intensity he carried everywhere.
"You rely too much on your instincts," he said, voice calm and cool. "Your reaction speed is good, but your footwork leaves openings. Again."
Astarotte groaned, straightened, and took her stance again. "Y-Yes!"
Before she could begin, another voice called out casually from the stone wall behind her.
"You're pushing her too hard, Serenil. She's not a statue—you can't sculpt her into perfection in a day."
Oberyn Marazai hopped down with ease, spinning his spear lazily before resting it on his shoulder. The handsome, silver-haired swordsman—known for both his sharp wit and sharper blade—grinned at Astarotte. "You're improving, little flame. Don't let the silent prince intimidate you."
Astarotte puffed her cheeks. "I'm not intimidated! Well... maybe a little."
Serenil offered a brief nod—his version of approval.
"She wanted to train. I'm simply honoring that request," he said flatly.
Oberyn chuckled. "And I'm here to make sure she doesn't collapse in the process."
The rest of the session was a blend of pressure and encouragement. Serenil corrected her stances with precision, demonstrating close-quarter feints and counterbalance timing. Oberyn taught her to use her tail in coordination with her attacks, using unpredictable momentum to throw off enemy rhythm.
By the end, Astarotte was on her knees, panting and drenched in sweat—but smiling.
"Again... I want to go again...!"
Serenil raised a brow.
Oberyn laughed. "Well damn. You've got more fight in you than I thought."