Truly the Parabolti’s insistence upon training was an abomination of the natural world order. Not only were females inherently lesser than their male counterparts, but they were softer, too. Delicate. Little creatures whose foolishness necessitated protection from themselves. Like mice, perhaps, or pretty songbirds who had not yet learned - or rather, forgotten - to stop singing when the hawk soared overhead. No matter. They would remember.

Starting with this one right here. She was an attractive woman, Leander noted, eyes tracing her curves as he sidled closer. A shame she was already claimed, and by a Cyrilson no less. That, of course, explained why she thought she could rise above her place in life. From his place to the side, Leander watched as she began to run for an arrow that had landed flat on the ground nearby, and just as she bent to reach for it, he stepped forward and rested his boot on the piece of wood. “Now, now,” He sneered down at her, patronizing. “Don’t go touching what isn’t yours.”

Like the feeble creature she was, she smiled up at him and apologized in lieu of issuing a challenge as any warrior would have. She responded to Miriel, he remembered belatedly, and she had proven his point quite nicely: though the females could adorn themselves in all the trappings of a warrior, they lacked every quality inherent in actual warriors. Of course, they could not be blamed for their shortcomings any more than a bird could be blamed for singing at daybreak; it was simply in their nature.

“Oh, no, that’s not it at all,” Leander corrected her, a smile that more closely resembled a smirk crossing his lips. “Let me explain.” A pause, to make sure she was listening and understood. They had such little minds after all. To emphasize his point, he would gesture to each of the objects as he named them when he continued, “These arrows, that bow in your hand, and that quiver on your back all belong to warriors.” His gaze traveled the length of her body. “You are many things, but a warrior is not one of them.”

She might have managed to hold back tears, but Leander had a keen nose for weakness. Such shame spilled from her like blood from a gaping wound, and now the shark had come to feast. With that smirk still curling his lip, he listened to her words, heard the hesitation in her voice, and saw that despite them, she braced herself like a creature beaten into submission. Her body still knew its place, even if she tried to convince her mind otherwise.

Leander stepped forward, for once as confident as she was insecure. “Who are you trying to convince?” Quiet and smooth, the words were like poisoned honey. “Me or yourself?” A shark in the water, he circled her, slowly, leisurely, until he stood before her once more with judgement written in every line of his lean frame. “I do not see anyone capable of defending Coheed. I see a scared little mouse who thinks she can run with the cats.”

“Can they now?” His voice rose and fell as if humoring a child who had introduced to him some unknown piece of information, one worthy of far more skepticism than belief. After a moment of watching her quake, he continued, “Mice are foolish creatures.” Unlike her own, his words were thoughtful, as much statements of fact as hers had been thinly veiled questions. “Flighty. Not too bright. Wouldn’t know that getting in the way of an elephant when one is oh so small is asking to get crushed.”

He smiled. She quivered some more.

And made an assertion about her willingness to trade death for her family and kingdom. How noble. Still, Leander was not without praise for such a display of dedication: “Good. At least you’ve prepared for what shall come to pass.” A heartbeat of silence. “I should hate to have to correct your expectations in this matter.” His gaze traveled over her once more. “It would be a shame, though, to lose one so young. A waste when your natural talents so clearly lie elsewhere.”

Clearly unimpressed at her claims, Leander looked down at the female and wondered if perhaps he ought to lower his expectations of her even further. Doing so would be difficult, but he had little doubt that he would prevail.

As he watched, she straightened up and eyed him with her best imitation of determination. Or ferocity. Or whatever quality that those who would never understand what it meant to be a warrior thought that all warriors possessed. It wasn’t convincing. Leander looked at her and saw the softness of her body and heard the softness in her voice. Still a little songbird playing pretend.

“How can you be a loving mother if you spend your time on the training grounds, where warriors belong, rather than by your children’s sides?” He countered easily, silkily. A note of disgust entered his voice, intended to shame. “While their father spends all day taking care of his family, you would repay him by neglecting your own duties - and for what? To try to do what he does best?”

“Izen wants you to,” Leander repeated, eyebrows rising and tone light as if he thought that argument held any merit. Then he shook his head, tsking like a teacher correcting a student’s erroneous belief. “Obedience is so deeply ingrained in you that even while attempting to prove your independence, you still only obey the orders of your husband.”

He took a step closer. “Let me tell you a secret.” Lowering his voice as if imparting some pearl of wisdom, he continued, “Even if he gave you his permission, he has set you up for failure. Just as a stubborn child must learn their limits, you have chosen the hard way to learn your own.” A long pause, and then:

“I only hope that after you have spent all this time away from them, your children remember you when you finally learn where you belong.”