Time began to distort in the training yard.
Days merged into dawns and dusks, and the dry sound of wooden swords became the rhythm of the routine—a sound that was already part of the air.
Every morning, before the sun touched the hills, Damon was already there. The ground still damp with dew, the biting cold of dawn, and him, in a simple shirt, his body marked by bruises that seemed never to disappear.
And always—always—Caerth was already waiting for him.
The veteran didn't praise.
He didn't encourage.
He only observed.
He walked around Damon, arms crossed, his gaze precise as the edge of a blade.
"The blow starts from the ground," he would say, without emotion. "You're raising your shoulder."
"Your left foot is too far forward."
"Your center of gravity is unbalanced."
Each correction was a needle prick.
Each word, an invisible blow.
But Damon didn't complain.
He just listened, adjusted, repeated.
A thousand times, if necessary.
