The dim, amber light of the Long Dark did little to dampen the rhythmic clatter of steel on steel echoing from the training atrium.
Inside, the air smelled of ozone, woodsmoke, and the salt of exertion.
Combat training was the primary physical outlet for the men trapped within the palace walls, a necessary release of the restlessness that came from being snowed in.
Soren moved through the sparring rings with a detached, clinical efficiency. He was effortlessly good, his movements a blur of calculated strikes and fluid parries that made the elite guards look like bumbling recruits.
He sparred to warm up, his breath misting in the cold air, but his interest quickly waned.
His eyes kept flickering toward the entrance; Eris wasn't there to witness his strength, so the display felt hollow.
