AELIA REVA
The lawn stretches endlessly beneath the fortress, that same unnatural expanse of green I had stared at for days, an island of perfection carved into a forest that should have devoured it long ago. The towers of black stone rise above me, oppressive and unyielding, each torch that burns in the windows watching like an eye. I can feel the weight of the place pressing down on me, but heavier still is the figure who moves before me, blade glinting in his hand, movements measured, deliberate, certain. The Lord. My captor. My enemy.
His sword comes fast. The sound of steel striking steel rattles up through my arms until it sits sharp in my teeth. My wrists ache with the weight of his blows, every clash reminding me that his strength is greater, his stamina carefully honed, his confidence unshaken. My breath saws in and out, rough, uneven, and yet I do not relent. My feet slide across the torn grass, circling, pushing back against him whenever the smallest opening shows.
