The hall smelled faintly of oil and stone dust, a scent that had become as familiar to Soren as his own sweat. He raised the practice sword, its weight settling differently in his palm than it had yesterday.
Everything felt changed since Sylas had shown him that crushing stillness, heavier, slower, more deliberate.
Soren moved through the first form, his muscles remembering the sequence while his mind drifted back to that moment.
The invisible pressure that had forced him to his knees without a single touch. The terrible certainty in those green eyes. The way the very air had seemed to compress around him, leaving no room for anything but surrender.
He paused mid-strike, listening. The silence of the underground hall pressed against his ears. For a heartbeat, he half-expected Sylas to materialize from the shadows, bringing that suffocating presence with him.
Nothing. Just the distant drip of water and his own uneven breathing.
