On the tenth floor of the Tower, the wind whistled through the open courtyard, rustling the edges of a crimson banner hanging high above.
Lady Zelphra's blade cut through the air in fluid, precise arcs, her breathing steady and her footwork perfectly balanced.
Each swing of her sword sent sparks of mana dancing into the air, as if the blade itself was too powerful to be restrained by mere atmosphere.
She pivoted, spun, and finished her form with a downward slash that cracked the stone beneath her feet.
Just as she sheathed her weapon, a young servant rushed onto the training grounds, panting lightly from the effort of crossing the grand estate.
"My Lady, the higher-ups… they have a message for you.""
He bowed, his voice trembling slightly.
Zelphra's brow lifted in mild surprise. She rarely heard from the Tower's ruling council—those dusty old fossils never liked dealing with her directly unless the matter was truly critical.
