The training hall was silent now.
No instructors. No eyes watching. No Eli with cutting words or sharp palms.
Just Ian.
And the dagger.
Stone dust danced in the air like ash. Pale morning light filtered through the cracks above, making long shadows across the chamber floor. Ian stood at the center, shirtless, his torso a canvas of bruises and healing cuts.
His hands were wrapped in blood-stained cloth, and sweat clung to his skin like oil.
In his grip, the dagger pulsed ever so faintly.
Vowbreaker.
It had not yet revealed its power, but he could feel it—some presence sleeping in the core of the bone-forged weapon. Made from the creature Eli had slain in the Blackblood Forest, a Hazard-Rank predator whose aura alone had paralyzed Ian, made him feel small, insignificant, and already dead.
That same presence now lingered—subdued, but alive—in the twin blades he wielded.
