The night was crisp, the forest alive with the sound of insects and the distant cry of owls. A campfire flickered in the clearing, casting golden light upon weary faces. Cael sat with his knights, the heat of the flames warming his skin, though his mind felt colder than steel.
The battle with the assassin had changed him. He could still feel the sting of failure—the hesitation, the closeness of death, the knowledge that his enemy had spared him not from mercy, but from cruel intent. And yet, it was not despair that grew in him. It was determination.
Cael tightened his grip on the hilt of his practice blade. His companions had already finished their evening meal, but he had chosen to train instead, swinging the sword again and again, his body aching but relentless.
Sir Aldric, grizzled a
