Soren staggered through the barracks door, each step a negotiation between pain and gravity. His right eye had swollen nearly shut, and the taste of copper lingered on his split lip.
Kaelor Varas had spent the afternoon teaching him exactly how much he didn't know about swordplay, primarily by beating it into him with methodical precision.
The usual evening chatter died as he entered. Dozens of eyes tracked his progress across the room, cataloging each bruise, each bloodstain, each unsteady step. The silence had weight, pressing against his skin like a physical thing.
He made it to his cot before anyone spoke.
"By the Eight," Dane whistled low, his massive frame casting a shadow over Soren. "Did you fall down the mountain, or did someone push you?"
Soren eased himself onto the thin mattress, his ribs protesting every movement. "Training," he managed, the word scraping his dry throat.
