Sweat beaded at his temple, rolling down his jaw. His lips thinned.
Precision. Nothing but precision.
His entire life as crown prince of Ashenvyre had prepared him for this. Endless hours of sword drills, tactical puzzles, combat simulations—it all came down to control. To discipline. To never misstep.
He slipped between two longswords that rotated in opposite arcs. The air hissed as the steel passed within a hair's breadth of his ribs. He held his breath until the gap widened, then exhaled softly, his chest rising and falling in controlled rhythm.
The deeper he moved, the more complex the patterns became. The blades no longer hovered in predictable lines—they shifted midair, changing tempo without warning, weaving into a storm of steel. One wrong step, one moment of hesitation, and the trial would slice him to ribbons.
