A gray-haired tutor stood behind him, long robes dusted with lint, one hand tapping the corner of a thick leather-bound tome.
"Fire needs focus, not force," the man said, tone flat as he knocked on the cover. The title read Foundations of Elemental Conjuring, its edges frayed. "Study the basics tonight, or you'll burn your boots."
Torren smirked.
The gem set into his wrist band caught the light, a pale gleam running across its polished surface. Untested. Untouched by spirit yet.
"I'll burn Vorak raiders," he said, swinging again. The blade cut through the air with a faint whistle.
The tutor exhaled. Not quite frustration—just repetition. He muttered something about discipline and lack of reading time, turning back toward his book.
Veyren watched it all.
Torren's bravado didn't annoy him.
It stirred something worse.
That voice. That stance. The same tone my father used back on Cradle.
Bold. Certain. Ready to fight monsters he hadn't met yet.
