Steel rang in the air, sharp and steady. The courtyard was empty but for one figure — Riven, shirt damp with sweat, blade flashing in precise arcs under the midday sun. His strikes were not wild, but measured, controlled, each cut carving the air as though the world itself were his opponent.
Then came the sound.
At first, faint — a distant murmur carried on the wind. Then louder. Laughter, jeers, the unmistakable swell of voices from the great hall. Riven froze mid-swing, sword resting against his shoulder as he tilted his head toward the noise.
"Orientation's not usually that exciting," he muttered, wiping his brow. His eyes narrowed. "Unless something… broke."
The wind carried more fragments of words, distorted but clear enough: Classless… waste… ha!
Riven's brow furrowed. His hand tightened on the hilt of his blade. "Classless? Tch. Sounds like those little lords found themselves a new toy to laugh at."
He sheathed the sword slowly, gaze drifting toward the hall. He didn't move to join the crowd — he didn't need to. His instincts whispered louder than any gossip.
"Whoever it was… they're not laughing for long."
The sunlight caught his eyes, steel-gray and sharp as his blade. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Classless, huh? I'll see for myself."
Riven turned back to his training, each swing of his sword now heavier, sharper, as if carving through the mockery he had overheard.
The courtyard echoed with steel, but beneath the rhythm, one truth simmered: a storm was already forming.