The morning sun had barely touched the windows when the rhythmic sound of breathing and movement began to fill the mansion's inner courtyard. There, in the cool light of dawn, Damon placed a single hand on the stone floor and slowly lowered himself, sweat dripping down his bare chest. Each flexion made the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense like steel cords about to snap, his breathing measured, steady—controlled like the beating of a heart at war.
In the last few months, his body had changed drastically. The thin, almost sickly-looking boy who had arrived in Mirath was no more. In his place was a man sculpted by effort and pain, with defined muscles and a strength that seemed to pulse beneath his skin. Discipline—or perhaps fury—had transformed him.
The scars on his arms and abdomen told stories no one in the mansion dared ask. Sweat ran down his chest to the floor, dripping steadily, mixing with the cold dust of the stone.
