The air in the training room hung thick and heavy, smelling of sweat, old iron, and the faintly metallic tang of blood.
The light filtering through the grimy, arrow-slit windows was a sickly, grey smear, casting long, distorted shadows across the stone floor.
Grey marched back and forth, his steps were measured and relentless, accompaniment to his monotonous counting.
He wore simple, dark clothes, but his presence was a palpable weight in the room.
Stretched out on the cold stone, four figures struggled through a brutal regimen of push-ups.
They were Aeron, Blaze, Zenon and Lenore, their faces flushed crimson and contorted in silent agony.
Their breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps, but they were clinging to the rhythm with a stubbornness that belied her size.
"Two-hundred and ninety-five," Grey's voice was a low, gravelly drone.
