Azarion Flameborne stood at the edge of the Emberhold balcony, one hand resting against the scorched stone rail, the other curled loosely at his side. Below him, the training yard rang with the clash of steel and shouted commands. Soldiers moved in disciplined lines, sweat-soaked and relentless, their breaths fogging faintly in the morning air.
He watched them without blinking.
A misstep caught his attention—a young soldier too slow to recover, knocked flat by his opponent. Azarion's lip curled faintly. Weakness was never subtle. It always announced itself.
Footsteps approached behind him, measured and familiar.
"You sent for me father?," Aldric Flameborne said.
Azarion did not turn. "I did."
Aldric waited, already knowing better than to rush him. He came to stand beside his father, eyes drifting briefly to the yard before returning to Azarion's rigid profile.
"Well?" Azarion asked at last, voice low. "How did your journey to frostmere go? Did he behave as expected?"
