The midday sun beat down relentlessly on the dusty training grounds of the Barracks. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and heated metal.
"One… Two… Three!"
The order barked across the open field, rough and commanding.
Hundreds of soldiers, stripped to their waists, moved in unison. They held heavy wooden practice swords. On "One," they stepped forward. On "Two," they raised the swords. On "Three," they swung down with a collective grunt that vibrated through the ground.
Dust clouds puffed up around their boots. Sweat streamed down their backs, turning their skin bronze in the sunlight. They were the elite Thompson army, the force that protected the kingdom, and they trained until their muscles screamed.
"Again!" the drill sergeant roared. "One… Two… Three!"
Into this atmosphere of raw discipline and exertion rode a figure of stark contrast.
