Northaven at dusk was a city of shadows and whispers. Torchlight bloomed in the gathering darkness, each flame casting more questions than answers across the cobblestones.
Soren kept his head down as he moved through the crowded market square, shoulder throbbing with every step. Three weeks since Trescan's blade had carved its lesson into his flesh, and still the wound protested when he pushed too hard.
Which was precisely what Kaelor had forced him to do all day.
His palms stung beneath fresh bandages, reopened cuts from the morning's relentless drills leaving smears of blood on anything he touched. The sword at his hip felt heavier than usual, a constant reminder of his limitations. Of the wall he still couldn't breach.
'Aura,' he thought bitterly, flexing his aching fingers. The glow that had surrounded Trescan's blade remained burned into his memory, a physical manifestation of the power that separated nobles from commoners. From him.
