Far away from the dwarven lands,
The practice grounds stretched wide beneath an open sky—an expanse of white stone slabs veined with old sword marks, scorched lines, and hairline cracks left behind by generations of warriors. Tall stone pillars ringed the field, banners snapping sharply in the wind, each emblazoned with the sigil of the high noble's lineage. Mana hummed faintly in the air, drawn tight by the presence of two blades that refused to yield.
At the center stood a young man.
Golden hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead as sunlight caught in sharp strands. His golden eyes burned with focus—clear, unwavering. In his hands was a golden sword, its blade gleaming with disciplined brilliance, every inch honed through relentless training.
Across from him stood an old man.
