Night settled heavily over the Northern Sea.
The earlier celebrations from the kingdoms had quieted into scattered murmurs and dying embers. Torches burned lower. Mana lanterns dimmed. The wind grew colder as it swept down from the open waters, carrying the sharp scent of salt and storm.
Far beyond the clustered expedition quarters, past the carved terraces and fortified supply halls, the coastline rose into jagged cliffs of dark stone. Waves crashed violently below, white foam exploding against rock before retreating into black water.
On one such cliff, beneath a pale, fractured moon, Valerius practiced alone.
His boots were planted firmly against uneven stone. His cloak lay discarded nearby, weighted down with a rock to prevent it from being stolen by the wind.
He held his sword in his right hand.
Only his right hand.
