Damien lay sprawled on the training mat, limbs spread, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven gasps. The cool surface beneath him did little to soothe the heat radiating from every inch of his battered frame. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, cuts and bruises marked his arms and ribs, and a thin trail of blood dripped from the edge of his lip.
His body was wrecked.
Wrecked well.
Above him, Elysia stood in silence.
Her shadow stretched long over his torso, hands relaxed at her sides, but her posture was tense—barely, but enough that Damien noticed it even through his haze.
"Young—"
Her voice caught, faltered.
"Master."
Silence.
Then softer.
"…Master…"
Damien's eyes, heavy and lidded, peeled open. He turned his head just slightly, meeting her gaze from the floor with a strained, lopsided grin.
"Yes," he rasped.
