The dwarven lands slept beneath a sky caught between night and morning.
The sun had not yet risen, but it was close—so close that the horizon wore a faint, fragile line of pale silver, as if dawn were testing the world's patience before committing. The air was cold here, sharper than in human cities, carrying the distant scent of stone, ash, and smoldering forges that never truly went out. A thin mist clung to the lower terraces, drifting lazily between pillars and bridges carved into the mountain's spine.
Luca stood alone on the open balcony of the corridor.
Stone railings, worn smooth by centuries of hands, pressed cool against his palms as he leaned forward slightly, crimson eyes fixed on the far edge of the world. The wind tugged at his cloak, whispering softly past his ears, but he barely felt it.
In his mind, only one thought spiraled—tight, relentless, inescapable.
Today is the day of my trial.
He closed his eyes.
Not to sleep. Not to rest.
To focus.
