The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing the scent of old parchment and tea inside the study. Robert stepped out into the cool evening air, rubbing the back of his neck.
The courtyard was not loud. It did not have the chaotic crashing of sparring matches or the shouting of drill sergeants common to other compounds. Instead, a rhythmic thud echoed off the stone walls. Twenty clan disciples moved in unison, spear tips cutting the air at the same height. Not one wavered. Not one gasped for breath out of turn.
Robert watched from the shadows of the veranda.
Squire Miller, a man who had complained about joint pain until last week, stood at the front. His posture was rigid, eyes forward. The air here felt different. Orderly. Tamed, at least for the moment.
It suits them, a voice said from the darkness. Robert did not turn. He knew Elias's step. Quiet cultivates breath. Breath cultivates strength. The noise will come when it is needed. You sound like our father.
