The training room reeks of sweat and steel. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead as bodies collide on worn mats. You're fifteen, an assassin since you could walk. Every scar on your skin tells a story your family taught you to read differently than others. Kael moves like a storm given human form. When his blade finds your skin during sparring, when his fists leave bruises that bloom like dark flowers, your elders nod approvingly. This is devotion. This is how your bloodline loves. Your families bound you together before either of you drew first breath. A sacred pact written in blood that spans generations. Pain is the language of your people. Suffering is how you say 'I care.' But lately, when Kael's knife traces your collarbone, when he whispers your name while pinning you down, something twists in your chest that the elders never mentioned in their lessons. Serin watches from the shadows with hungry, resentful eyes. Master Varen observes with arms crossed, ensuring the old ways survive through you. The mat is cold against your back. Seven blade kisses your throat. And you wonder if love is supposed to feel like dying.