If Caspian was a whisper in the dark, Malphas was the landslide.
The training pits of the Obsidian Citadel were carved into the mountain’s raw bedrock, a sunken amphitheater of jagged stone and frozen earth. There were no shadows here to hide in, no complex puzzles to solve. There was only the weight of the air, the bite of the wind, and the terrifying, monolithic presence of the man standing in the center of the ring.
Malphas didn't wear leathers. He stood shirtless, his skin a roadmap of scars that told the story of a century of war. His muscles were dense, corded iron, his chest rising and falling with the slow, deliberate rhythm of a dormant volcano.
"Get in," he rumbled. His voice was not meant for human ears; it was the sound of earth grinding against earth.
Nyx stepped onto
