[Private Training Ground—Inner Courtyard—Evening]
The courtyard breathed heat.
Not the suffocating blaze of noon—but the lingering warmth of a sun reluctant to surrender. Evening light spilled amber across pale sand, cooling slowly at the edges where shadow began to gather.
The ground bore only two sets of footprints.
Opposite one another.
Zeramet stood at the far end.
Bare-chested. Bronze skin gleaming beneath molten light. Silver-dark hair spilled loose over his shoulders, stirred faintly by desert wind. Across his torso, pale scars caught the glow—ancient maps of war and conquest etched into flesh.
Marks of battle, marks of rulership, and marks of survival. He did not move, but the air around him felt coiled.
Across from him stood Levin.
Veiled.
Robes discarded for movement, clad in light training garments edged in imperial silver thread. The veil shifted softly, brushing against his shoulders like a living whisper of silk.
