Gunnar
The heavy iron broadsword felt good in my hands today. Heavier than usual.
I had been on the training grounds since dawn, pushing the Vanguard soldiers until their muscles tore and their knees gave out in the dirt. I didn't care. I needed the rhythmic clash of steel against shield to drown out the noise in my own head.
By the time the sun began its slow descent over the northern mountains, painting the sky in bruised purple and blood red, I finally called a halt. The men collapsed onto the frozen earth, gasping for air. I didn't look back at them. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my gauntlet and headed straight toward the Western Wing.
I needed rest. In a few hours, my top commanders and I were scheduled to meet to finalize our troop movements along the border
