The spars he had when he was young seemed so distant now, but he still remembered them somewhat.
The training grounds where stone pillars rose like ancient sentinels and the floor was worn smooth by generations of feet finding their stances. The weight of practice weapons in his small hands. His father watching from the elevated platform, nodding with approval when technique was executed properly, offering corrections when it was not.
Those memories felt like they belonged to someone else. A different boy in a different life.
But now, when he looked at Uncle Adam who had a spear ready, he felt something of that boy stirring within him.
Uncle Adam stood with the stillness of a predator about to strike. The tendrils of Mana coursing over his body had intensified, coiling around his arms and shoulders like serpents preparing to lunge. His grip on the spear was loose but certain, the kind of grip that came only from decades of repetition.
