The sun slowly descended upon the stone rooftops of Arven's Academy, tinging the training courtyard with orange hues. The metallic sound of swords echoed in the distance, accompanying the shouts of the instructors and the heavy rhythm of boots against the ground.
Damon sat on the stone bleachers, his body relaxed, observing the young knights in their training exercises. It had been a few weeks since the duel with Morgana—weeks he had made the most of.
The advanced training with the Academy instructors had become more intense, and even among the veteran knights, the name "Damon of Mirath" was beginning to circulate. Some said he had a unique technique, others that his sword seemed alive. Harven, the head instructor, constantly put him to the test, trying to extract something from him that no one could quite define.
And yet, Damon maintained the same carefree air. He trained, rested, observed. He didn't seek attention—but it found him anyway.
