The wind carried the distant sound of the bells from the towers and the salty smell coming from the canals. Damon walked in silence, his footsteps echoing between the wet stone alleys. The training was over, but his body still pulsed with the memory of the movements—each blow, each dodge, each suspicious glance.
He felt the eyes on him, not only from the students, but from the instructors as well. The fame of Mirath, of Caerth, and especially the name of Elizabeth preceded him like a shadow that never left him.
Arriving at the main square, he stopped in front of a small fountain where children were playing. For a moment, he watched his reflection in the water—his own tired face, his eyes still marked by sleepless nights.
"Six months…", he murmured, remembering the conversation with Ester and Aria.
To him, it seemed like an eternity. But what Elizabeth intended required patience. And he owed that to her—or perhaps to himself.
The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts.
