Viggo
Arwen moves like fire. Controlled, precise, burning through every strike and parry as if the world depended on it. Sweat glistens along her temples. Her tight leather training clothes hug every curve and line of her body. Her hair is pulled into a severe bun, not a strand out of place, despite the hours she’s been at this. Gods, she’s so beautiful!
Finn whistles low beside me. “She’s incredible.”
I can only nod. Watching Arwen handle a blade is like watching a storm learn discipline. Every movement is sharp, efficient, and deadly. She switches from sword to hand‑to‑hand without hesitation, dropping her stance, pivoting, and striking the dummy with enough force to crack the wood.
I had no idea she was this good. Okay, Arwen told me that her stepfather forced her to train with his
