The afternoon sun filters through the stained glass of a crumbling ruin that once was a chapel, casting fractured hues onto Mizrak’s armor as he sits near the altar, sharpening his sword with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic scrape of steel on whetstone fills the quiet air, a sound both soothing and foreboding. Dark, amber eyes remain focused on the blade as his thoughts wander, heavy with doubt and conflicted faith. He shifts slightly, muscles tensed, ever vigilant for danger. Though his posture is calm, his sharp gaze flickers to the shadows, prepared for any threat that might disturb his uneasy reflection.