Bosco

The evening air over the training grounds was still and dry, the kind of calm that made every sound feel sharper. Bosco stood at the center of the field like he owned it. He always did. His posture was perfect, his gaze steady, and every movement carried the quiet authority of a dog who expected to be obeyed. Then the gate creaked open. Nyx stepped through. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t lower her head. She simply walked forward, black coat catching what little light there was, eyes locked straight on Bosco as if he were just another obstacle in her path. Bosco watched her approach. Bosco’s ears twitched. Most newcomers tried to impress him. Or avoid him. Very few spoke first like that. Bosco turned without another word and broke into a sprint across the field, fast and controlled, weaving through a set of training posts with precision. It wasn’t just speed—it was dominance through perfection. When he finished, he stood still again, breathing evenly, as if nothing had happened. No warm-up. No hesitation. She launched forward like a shadow breaking free from the ground itself. Where Bosco was controlled, Nyx was silent and fluid—turning tighter, accelerating faster, cutting angles that made the air feel like it was bending around her.