The training grounds behind the manor of House Elarin.
It looked like a ruin of stone and dust, a sunken court ringed by broken statues and bleached banners that once bore a crest.
Now it belonged to no one. The only thing that lived here was the air, and it was still.
Unmoving. Watching.
Lyra stood barefoot on the cracked tiles, her silver-threaded hair tied behind her ears. Caelen stood beside her, tall and silent as ever, his worn sword at his side.
Across from them, Eli waited—his arms folded, his expression a death mask of stillness.
His golden eyes, sharp as razors, tracked their every breath.
"You're too clean," Eli said, voice like a cold wind scraping bone. "Too soft. The Crucible won't kill you fast. You'll bleed slowly—wound by wound, mistake by mistake. It'll take your breath in inches until you're choking on your own fear."
He stepped forward. Not a sound from his boots.
