The war room smelled like ink, scorched wax, and the iron edge of strategy. Maps were pinned down by daggers, and a fire crackled low in the hearth, casting shifting shadows across the stone floor. Celine stepped through the door without knocking.
Leon didn’t look up right away. His hands were braced on either side of the large oak table, eyes tracking along the edges of the map spread before him. The room was quiet, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire behind him. Though he hadn’t moved, something in his posture had shifted. A stillness settled over him, not relaxed, but alert—like a predator who had just caught the scent of something unexpected.
“I want to train with you,” Celine said. Her voice was steady. Controlled.
Leon’s gaze lifted slowly, and when his eyes met hers, it hit with the weight of cold steel. There was no cruelty in his stare, but it was sharp, measured. He didn’t speak at first, just looked at her like she was something he hadn’t decided how to handle yet. Beneath the calculation, she caught a flicker of curiosity.
“For what?” he asked as he straightened to his full height. He didn’t move much, but somehow it felt like the entire room tilted around him.
“To win,” she said.
His mouth curved faintly at the edge, not quite a smile. “Win what?”
She didn’t flinch. “My place. As Luna.”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on her, studying. She could almost hear the thoughts turning behind his eyes, weighing something. Then he clicked his tongue once, low and thoughtful.
“So dramatic,” he said. “You could’ve just asked for a spot in the rotation.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Then I wouldn’t get to see the look on your face when I knock you on your ass.”
That earned a short laugh from him—dry, unexpected, and far too satisfying.
“You’re still full of fire, even after everything,” he said.
“I’m done feeling sorry for myself.”
Leon pushed away from the table and walked toward her with the kind of calm that always seemed to carry weight behind it. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one sounding louder in the quiet room. He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, steady and solid.
“You’re not ready,” he said.
“Then make me ready.”
He tilted his head slightly, still watching her. “You know I don’t hold back.”
“I’m not expecting you to.”
“You won’t like what I’ll put you through,” he said. His voice had dropped lower now, threaded with something darker, something more dangerous.
Celine didn’t look away. “I don’t need to like it.”
For a moment, something flickered across his face. She wasn’t sure if it was approval, amusement, or something else entirely, but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“Dawn,” he said. “Training field.”
She nodded and turned toward the door, already preparing herself for whatever was coming. But just as she stepped into the hall, something tugged at her. She hesitated, then glanced back over her shoulder.
“Leon.”
He lifted a brow in question.
She hesitated for only a moment longer. “You’re not doing this because you pity me, right?”
He gave a short huff, something close to a scoff. “Pity? Celine, if I pitied you, you’d be scrubbing latrines, not asking me to break your bones before sunrise.”
She didn’t respond right away, but the smallest smile touched her lips. “Glad we’re clear.”
She stepped out and let the door close behind her.
Left alone, Leon stared at the spot where she had stood.
Then, under his breath, barely audible, he muttered, “Goddess, help me.”