Eric stood in the backyard, wrapped in a thick cloak he clearly hadn't wanted to wear. His hair was still messy from sleep, and his eyes squinted like they were protesting the sun's very existence.
"Training? Now? This early?" he muttered, voice flat.
Imogen tossed her riding gloves at him with perfect aim. "Are you deaf, Eric? I said I want to train."
Eric caught the gloves with a sigh that sounded like it came from the bottom of his soul. "If I drop dead during your training, who's going to explain it to your mother? You?"
"If you die from training, that means your stamina's trash," Imogen replied casually, drawing her sword with one hand. "Not my fault."
Eric stared at the five-year-old in front of him, then looked up to the sky with the kind of deadpan expression only years of service could earn.
"Is this because your mom made you cry again," he asked, "or are you just trying to murder me slowly over the course of the week?"
Imogen pointed her blade at him. "Both."
