The sound of wooden training swords clashing echoed across the training grounds.
Clack—clack—CLACK!
It was early morning, the sun barely cresting over the walls of the Nightshade estate, but the training yard was already alive with movement.
Soldiers drilled in formation near the far end, their boots stomping in unison against the frozen ground. Servants hurried past with towels and water, careful not to get too close to the sparring rings.
And in the center ring, two figures moved against each other like they'd been doing this their whole lives.
Arthur Vale stepped back, reset his stance, and came at his opponent again.
His wooden sword cut through the air in a wide arc—feinting high, making the older man raise his guard, before dropping low at the last second to sweep at his legs.
