Dawn broke like a hammer over Northaven, shattering Soren's fitful sleep. His shoulder screamed as he rose from sweat-soaked sheets, the wound Trescan's blade had carved still angry and raw beneath fresh bandages. Three weeks since the tournament, and the pain remained his constant companion.
The training yard hummed with activity when he arrived, a dozen knights and twice as many squires already deep in their morning drills. Steel rang against steel, punctuated by shouted commands and the occasional grunt of pain.
Sweat hung in the air despite the morning chill, mingling with the familiar scents of leather oil and iron.
Soren found an empty corner and drew his blade, settling into the stance that had become as familiar as breathing. The first form of the Nine Petals, The Seed Awakens. His feet found their position on the packed dirt, weight balanced precisely between them. His sword extended, point unwavering despite the protest from his damaged shoulder.
