The Obsidian Citadel was not a home; it was a cathedral of shadows and stone, and within its deepest vaults, Caspian held court.
Nyx had been training under his tutelage for three weeks. The sessions were not physical in the way Malphas’s were—they were mental, a grueling exercise in misdirection and sensory deprivation. Today, they were in the "Silence Chamber," a room carved from obsidian so deep in the mountain that the only sound was the thrum of one's own pulse.
Nyx stood in the center, her back to the wall, eyes closed. She was learning to track movement by the displacement of air, to identify a threat by the faint, distinctive metallic scent of the blades Caspian favored.
Whoosh.
She ducked, the breeze of a steel edge grazing the loose strands of hair at her temple. She didn't o
