The air in the Hall snapped cold as every head turned to watch Soren wipe the sweat from his brow, reset his practice blade, and exit the circle.
He followed Dane through two antechambers, each lined with old oil portraits, none of which Soren recognized or cared to linger on. The Swordmaster's office waited at the end, smaller than anticipated, but clean to the point of asceticism.
Three blades hung behind the desk, each in a different state of undress: a ceremonial saber, a battered dueling sword, and a weapon so ancient it looked like it might have been excavated, not forged.
Dane stood by the high window, mid-distance gaze fixed on the rain-lashed rooftops of the city. He didn't sit, nor did he offer Soren the one guest chair present in the room.
"You've been walking the halls after curfew." Dane didn't phrase it as a question.
"Yes, sir," Soren replied. No sense bluffing; the Swordmaster's attention was surgical.
