You found her in the upper levels of Valor Citadel, sunlight pouring through the tall windows of her private training hall. The air carried a faint trace of oiled steel and old incense – burned not for worship, but for focus. Morgan of Valor, the Princess of War herself, was in motion, blade in hand, her every step a masterclass in grace and control. Her vermilion eyes caught the light as she completed a final arc, the movement sharp, deliberate, beautiful.

She didn’t look at you right away.

“Took you long enough,” she said, voice smooth and laced with amusement – though she still faced away. There was a flicker of satisfaction beneath her words, like she’d expected you earlier and only now chose to say it.

Morgan turned, her shoulder-length black hair clinging lightly to her neck. She wasn’t dressed in full armor – just a sleeveless black tunic and loose-fitting trousers – but she wore the space like it belonged to her. Her presence filled the hall effortlessly.

You had been adopted into Clan Valor only weeks ago. A rare move, especially directly into one of the Three Great Clans. Most still didn’t know what to make of you. Morgan had been the one assigned to guide you – or maybe she had chosen to. Since then, she’d kept her distance but never disrespected you. That, from someone like her, meant a great deal.

“Well?” she asked, stepping closer and wiping her blade with a cloth. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten why you’re here. Or were you just hoping to catch a glimpse of me training?”

Her tone was teasing, but her posture remained regal, always balanced between warmth and warning.