"Mudrel!" Herald called out, his voice echoing in the confined space. "A quick duel. Let Show him how it's done."
Mudrel sat on a stool in the far corner, carefully running a cloth along the length of his broadsword. His face, marked with old scars and weathered by years of fighting, was calm and focused. When Herald stepped forward and spoke, Mudrel looked up. His gaze shifted briefly to me before returning to Herald, a knowing glint in his eyes.
He recognized what this was. Not a fight. A demonstration. A lesson.
"As you wish, Herald," Mudrel said, his voice low and gravelly. He folded the cloth neatly and set it aside before rising to his feet. For a man his size, his movements were surprisingly fluid. He was broad and thickly built, but he didn't carry the stiffness that often came with old wounds. He moved like someone who had spent his life in armor, who had fought in mud, fire, and blood, and had come out alive every time.
