Damon
The scent of sweat and oil hit me before I opened the door.
The royal training hall was half-lit, the overhead lanterns casting long shadows across the stone floor. Weapons lined the walls—blunted swords, spears, and staff. The air was thick with the sharp metallic tang of old blood and the raw musk of exertion.
Asher was already there.
He moved with loose precision, shirt hanging open, skin gleaming with sweat as he drove a punishing series of strikes into a battered practice dummy. His fists moved fast, disciplined.
But there was no focus in it. Just release.
He didn’t see me at first.
I closed the door behind me, the sound was loud in the cavernous space. Asher paused mid-swing and turned his head, brows arching as if I’d shown up holding a bottle of wine instead of gea
