After the knights responded to Luka's enthusiasm and drive, he stood in the centre of the training field with a smile on his face.
The morning sun had climbed above Babylon's manor, casting a pale gold sheen across the uneven yard, the cracked posts and the sweaty-faced men before him. The old knights slowly lowered their hands after saluting, but their eyes remained fixed on him with a subtle change from before.
Though he hadn't earned their blind loyalty or worship, there was a deep sense of expectation and curiosity towards him.
Luka felt this was enough for now.
Luka lowered the wooden sword and tossed it toward the weapon rack. It struck the side with a hollow clatter before settling among the other practice blades.
"Sir Randel."
The older knight straightened despite the sweat running down his temple.
"My Lord."
