The students gradually regrouped in the East Training Hall once every sparring match across the four grand halls had concluded. Fatigue hung heavily over them, visible in the bruises darkening skin, the scorched hems of attires, the faint limps and stiff shoulders. Some bore shallow cuts hastily sealed with temporary myst patches, others carried the dull ache of overextended channels. Yet despite the weariness, they stood tall—some murmuring among friends, others retreating into thoughtful silence—as they waited for Sir Kaelen to deliver the final words of the day.
The hall carried a subdued energy now. No roaring spells. No cracking thunder or roaring flame. Just the low hum of exhausted conversation and the faint echo of boots shifting against polished stone.
