The atmosphere in the training hall on the second morning carried a different charge than the day before, a charged, static tension that made the fine hairs on Rex's arms stand on end. Yesterday had been an explosion of violence; today was the uncomfortable, suffocating aftermath.
Word had spread through the Nightwing household overnight with the insidious speed of a plague. It didn't travel through official channels or formal decrees; it moved through the whispered conversations of chambermaids polishing silver, the knowing glances exchanged between armored guards in the corridors, and the hushed tones of servants passing trays.
By the time Rex arrived at the sixth hour, the hall was already unnaturally crowded.
The twelve elite fighters were no longer the sole occupants of the floor. Junior guards, whose duty called them elsewhere, had suddenly discovered a desperate need to practice their footwork in this specific hall.
