The water slid from Luca's shoulders in slow rivulets, steam still clinging to his skin as he stepped out of the shower. The dwarven stone beneath his bare feet was cold—grounding. Real. He paused for a moment, letting the chill bite into him, letting it anchor his thoughts.
The mirror across the room reflected a version of him that felt… different.
Not calmer. Not lighter.
Focused.
His crimson eyes no longer carried the restless edge of the night before. There was no hesitation there now—only a quiet, settled resolve, like a blade finally aligned with its sheath. He reached for his clothes, pulling on layers meant for battle rather than comfort, fastening straps and buckles with practiced efficiency. Each movement was deliberate. Measured.
When he was done, he sat down on the edge of the bed.
With a flicker of mana, his storage ring shimmered, and two sabers slid into his hands.
One black. One white.
