"Lower! If your shield drops another inch, a Frost-Drake won't just kill you, it'll thank you for the snack!"
The roar that ripped through the morning air didn't sound like a man giving an instruction. It sounded like a landslide. In the heart of the arena, Zarius loomed, a dark presence against the pale Northern light. He wasn't wearing his ceremonial furs or the fine silks of a Duke. No, today he was draped in sweat-stained leather and battered practice plate, looking every bit like the god of war the legends claimed he was.
There was a barely contained ferocity in him, like a flame ready to flare at any moment.
The knights, men who had seen literal hell and walked back out of it, were pale. They were gasping in uneven, ragged breaths, eyes flicking nervously toward their commander. Zarius had been at it since sunrise, hammering them through the drill until their arms felt heavy as stone and their lungs on fire.
