By the time Damien and Apnoch returned to the training yard, the sun was already sinking behind the city's western walls.
Warm orange light bled through the clouds, painting long shadows across the worn stone and scattered training dummies around the training area.
The camp was quiet for once, save for the faint shuffling sounds of someone's movements. The soft thud of boots striking earth. The faint hiss of air being cut by a blade.
Damien stopped halfway across the yard.
Lyone was there, stripped down to his undershirt, sweat streaking his face. His hands gripped a wooden staff as he moved through a sequence of strikes. It started slow at first, then faster, sharper, until his movements blurred into a flow of practiced precision.
Each twist made him wince, but he didn't stop. His bones still hadn't fully recovered, yet his expression was steady, eyes locked ahead. He did look determined.
Apnoch let out a low whistle. "Kid doesn't know when to quit."
