(R-18)
The training grounds were empty.
Not abandoned—never that—but quiet in the way a place becomes when it is no longer meant for observation, when the purpose shifts from performance to something far more private.
The torches along the perimeter burned low, their flames steady but subdued, casting long shadows across the worn stone where countless hours of discipline had carved their marks into the ground.
It was late.
Late enough that even the most dedicated soldiers had long since withdrawn, leaving the space to silence.
And yet—
Marcus remained.
The sound of steel cutting through air broke that silence again and again, sharp and controlled, each movement precise—but heavier than it needed to be.
Not careless.
Never careless.
But not restrained either.
His blade came down with force, stopping just short of the wooden post before him, the impact reverberating through his arm—not enough to injure, but enough to feel.
To ground.
To release.
He stepped back.
