"You train alone until I say otherwise."
Sylas's words echoed in the vast underground chamber long after the assassin had departed. Soren remained kneeling on the stone floor, the practice sword lying where it had fallen from his grasp. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale pulling against muscles that screamed in protest.
When he finally rose, his legs trembled beneath him like a newborn colt's. The bruises from yesterday's session had barely begun to fade before today's had layered fresh pain atop old. He retrieved the practice sword, its weight suddenly awkward in his hand.
Alone. Again.
The emptiness of the Veiled Hand's training hall pressed against him from all sides. Without the assassins' presence, the chamber felt larger, colder, ancient stone holding centuries of secrets in its worn surface. Only the blue-green lanterns provided companionship, their steady glow casting his solitary shadow across the floor.
