DAVE
The Weight of Legacy
The Wolf King flows through kata older than written language, seven feet of predatory grace executing movements that carry the weight of four centuries. Dawn bleeds gold and pink across Tanalian's snowfields, painting wilderness that devours human ambition with casual indifference. We're behind the main compound in his training hall—reinforced walls scored by claws and fire and power that leaves permanent scars in stone.
I mirror his forms from ten feet behind, trying to match the precision that makes each strike look effortless. My technique is adequate at best, military discipline merged with instinct, functional but lacking the refinement that transforms competence into mastery.
"Your back foot." His observation emerges without breaking rhythm. "It telegrap
