Morning broke over the camp, pale gold light dripping through the forest canopy. The air smelled of damp earth and smoke from dying embers.
Kael rose first, as always. He had not truly slept. Crimson Fang gleamed faintly at his side as he began the quiet drills Kaelen had insisted upon: steady breathing, footwork sharp as a blade's edge, each swing of his sword accompanied by the whisper of displaced air.
But today, something changed.
"Your stance is too rigid," Arden muttered, stepping into the clearing. He carried his axe loosely in one hand, armor plates half fastened. "You're trying to fight with power alone. Let your blade breathe."
Kael arched an eyebrow. "And you think swinging an axe like a falling tree has taught you finesse?"
Arden grinned. "Better a tree that crushes everything in its path than a reed that snaps."
Their blades met in a quick spar, steel ringing against steel. Kael's movements were precise, calculated; Arden's were raw and forceful, like storms colliding with stone. Selene soon appeared, hands on her hips.
"You two will kill each other before the Sovereign's army even finds us," she scolded, though her lips twitched with amusement. Still, she stepped in closer, adjusting Kael's wrist, correcting Arden's footing. "If you must fight, at least learn something useful from it."
From the treeline, Elira—the archer with hawk-like eyes—watched silently, sharpening her arrows. "Hn. At least they're getting serious. The last battle nearly broke us. We won't survive the next unless we're sharper."
Kaelen finally joined them, leaning on his staff. His presence silenced the morning chatter. "She's right," he said, his voice like dry parchment. "The Sovereign will not grant you time. Train as if every strike were against death itself."
The companions trained hard through the day—blades sparring, arrows whistling, Selene weaving threads of light into their wounds. Even laughter mingled with the sweat, binding them closer.
Yet as the sun dipped low, Kael caught sight of a shadow at the horizon. Black banners. The distant roll of drums.
Minor warbands—scouts of the Sovereign's host—moving like a tide across the land.
Kael's grip tightened on Crimson Fang. The brief respite was ending.
"Companions," he called, voice low but firm. The training ceased. All eyes turned to him.
"They're coming."