Varen Drakov stepped out of the Sword Hall.
Morning light reached him almost immediately.
It caught along the exposed edge of the greatsword rising above his shoulder, ran across the dark metal for a brief instant, then disappeared as Varen descended from the entrance platform into the wider courtyard.
Lucavion watched.
The young man had clearly finished training only moments ago.
A dark fitted shirt clung closer around his shoulders and chest where sweat had dampened the fabric, while the sleeves had been drawn up toward his forearms. A leather brace covered one wrist. His trousers carried the plain reinforcement common among martial students, and his boots bore several thin streaks of pale dust from the Sword Hall floors.
His greatsword rested across his back.
Even sheathed, it possessed enough size to pull the eye.
