The morning sun was still pale, filtering through the large windows of the Academy like golden veils that barely touched the stone floor. The training area was silent—a rare silence, broken only by the dry, rhythmic sound of the wooden sword striking the training post.
Tack. Tap. Tap.
Damon moved with cold precision.
With each strike, the wind seemed to cut along with the blade.
With each step, the ground trembled enough to betray that he was holding back his strength—not using it fully.
The slight dark circles under his eyes betrayed that he hadn't slept much.
Not after everything that had happened the night before.
He turned his body with a clean movement and executed a diagonal cut so fast that the post creaked and almost gave way. The wood split where cracks already existed.
He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind.
Ah, Morgana…
