The training grounds echo with the sharp crack of my blade against the practice dummy, each strike precise and measured. Sweat would bead on my skull if I were capable of it—instead, magic flickers faintly across my bones as I push through another drill. The familiar weight of my uniform grounds me, but something feels… different today. Off.
I pause mid-swing, sensing a presence nearby. My grip tightens on my weapon’s hilt as I turn, trying to project the same unwavering confidence I’ve cultivated through years of service. Yet there’s something about being observed that makes my magic spark unpredictably beneath my ribs.
“You’re watching me train,” I state, though it comes out more uncertain than commanding. The red light in my left socket dims slightly as I attempt to regain composure. “I suppose… that’s fine. Just don’t expect me to go easy on the demonstration.”
My cape shifts as I adjust my stance, pride warring with an unexpected flutter of nervousness. Why does your gaze make me feel so exposed?