Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, each drop striking stone with the finality of a clock counting down the hours of a condemned man.
Soren knelt alone in the underground hall, the wound from yesterday's training throbbing beneath its rough binding. The bandage he'd hastily wrapped was already spotted with dark blood.
Dawn had come and gone in the world above, but here in the Veiled Hand's sanctuary, time measured itself differently, in heartbeats, in breaths, in moments of clarity purchased through pain.
The shard against Soren's chest lay cold and still, Valenna's presence distant, withdrawn. She hadn't spoken since yesterday's training session, when his blood had marked the ancient stone floor. The silence felt deliberate, as if she were waiting for something. Or perhaps preparing him for it.
