Trafalgar pulled a sharp breath through his teeth as he began undoing the clasps of his coat. The room around him was silent—too silent. No echo of the distant castle halls, no guards, no idle servants. Just Valttair, Caelum… and him.
Not exactly the trio he wanted to be naked in front of.
He placed his folded clothes neatly on the nearby table, boots thudding softly on the floor, before finally slipping off his undergarments. Standing completely bare under the cold illumination of the training chamber stones, he swallowed.
He didn't blush or cover himself—he refused to show weakness in front of Valttair—but irritation prickled under his skin.
"…May I ask why I need to be naked for this, Father?" he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Valttair didn't look away, nor did he show discomfort. His gaze was analytical, clinical—like a blacksmith evaluating a weapon's metal rather than a father looking at his son.
