The training grounds were nearly empty.
The joyous, chaotic crowds of the festival had long since pulled most students into the city, their distant voices still echoing faintly in the cool night air.
The campus felt like a ghost town, a quiet shell where only shadows and unspoken thoughts remained.
But Kael wasn't there.
He stood in the middle of a wide, dimly lit practice hall beneath one of the eastern towers—a private facility reserved for ranked combatants and officers.
Dust hung in the air, a thick, silver haze disturbed only by his frantic, precise motion. His shirt was discarded hours ago, tossed into a pile near the wall.
Sweat clung to him now, soaking the wrappings around his hands, beading down the curve of his spine.
His breath came steady, a harsh rhythm forced through grit teeth.
His blade moved again.
An overhead slash. A sharp redirect. A draw step. A lateral sweep. Flicker Steps. Not the full technique. Not yet.
