Two months of focused intensity had reshaped the rhythm of life within the Sunstone Spire. The oppressive black sky was a memory, replaced by the familiar, comforting blue, a change that had loosened the knot of fear in the elven kingdom but had done little to slow Caelen's relentless pace.
His days were a cycle of brutal refinement. Mornings were often spent observing Lucy's spars with Nivolis. The ancient ice elf was a glacier—immovable, implacable. Lucy, in turn, had become a storm of controlled fury.
Her attacks were no longer wild outbursts but chillingly precise combinations; a sheet of ice to trap a foot followed by a lance of superfrozen spears, all executed with a warrior's economy. The title "Vessel of Wrath" now felt less like a curse and more like a designation for a weapon being perfectly honed.
