Enzo’s pov
The clang of metal echoed through the training room, each hit resonating like a war drum inside my skull. Sweat clung to my skin like a second layer as I struck again, the sword biting into the training dummy with a sickening thunk. It wasn't enough. Nothing was.
Every morning began like this—before the politics, before the orders, before the expectations that came with power—I bled out my rage, my discipline, and my instincts onto the floor. The training room smelled of iron, sweat, and focus. No distractions. No noise. Just the sound of flesh colliding with steel and breath grinding through grit.
I twisted, drove the blade forward in a clean arc, sliced straight through the dummy’s ribcage. It crumbled. I didn’t stop. Another dummy. Another strike. I didn’t train for leisur
