One of the many war camps on the Matarok side of the border under Warlord Vise. The warriors were training, sharpening their weapons, and preparing for combat–as always. Non-warriors cooked, cleaned, looked after the horses and kept the camp running.
However, in a solitary corner, there was a young warrior separated from the others, sparring with the air.
"So, where you from, boy?"
Kilan didn't turn around to look at the person talking to him. He kept swinging his sword.
"Here. Sir."
The man talking to Kilan raised an eyebrow and walked around him to get a look at his face.
Young, tall, lean, almost skinny. Dark hair that hadn't been washed in probably forever. Clearly a loner.
"I haven't seen you around before. Do you not train with the other warriors?"
"I do not. Sir." Kilan glanced at the man. He was shorter than Kilan, but not by much. He was much older, though, and, without a doubt, a veteran who had seen his fair share of fighting.
