Dawn crept over the hills like spilled honey.
Swish!
Alaric's blade cut through the morning mist, each movement precise, economical. No wasted energy, no flourish for style.
Nine hundred ninety-seven. Nine hundred ninety-eight.
Sweat ran down his spine despite the chill, his shirt clung to his back like a second skin. His muscles burned but in the good kind, earned through repetition rather than punishment.
The practice sword had worn grooves into his palms over the months, calluses on top of calluses.
Nine hundred ninety-nine. One thousand.
The final strike sent imaginary enemies scattering like leaves. He held the pose for three heartbeats, then let the blade drop to his side. His breathing was controlled, steady. Not the ragged gasps of someone pushed beyond endurance.
"Haa..."
It had been six months, since his intense training sessions had started.
For the first three months, Selene had overseen everything herself, sometimes even intervening herself.
