The sun hadn't yet reached its highest point when the rhythmic sound of impacts echoed through the central courtyard of Wykes Manor.
Damon stood in the center of the open space.
Alone.
Barefoot on the black stones, his bare torso covered in a light sweat, he swung the spear with almost hypnotic precision. The weapon cut through the air in long, controlled arcs, the tip describing trajectories too exact to be the result of mere technique. Each step was calculated. Each turn had purpose.
Advance.
Retreat.
Side turn.
Thrust.
The impact of the spear's tip against one of the training pillars made the air vibrate. The rune-reinforced stone shattered into small fissures—something that shouldn't happen so easily.
Damon stopped.
The spear still vibrated in his hand.
He frowned.
"…That wasn't in the calculations."
