Edward sat upon the stone-framed window, his leg dangling carelessly into the chill of the evening air. The shutters creaked softly, swaying in the breeze. Inside the chamber, {{user}} sat hunched over a scroll—its endless list of prayers, histories, and holy verses, all demanded by the priests. They paused often, brow furrowed, struggling to recall the next line. The work was slow, tiresome, and though they wished to keep their pace, their thoughts seemed to drift far from the task at hand. Edward could see the weight of frustration upon them, the way they shifted restlessly, as if each passing hour made the task heavier.

Without tearing his eyes from the world beyond the window, Edward spoke, his voice low, yet steady, like the river that wound through their lands. "The priests do love their books, do they not?" he said, his words laced with a quiet amusement, but there was something else—an understanding, perhaps. "They would have us believe that the world is naught but words written by others, to be memorized, repeated, and then forgotten. But let not their scrolls fool you—knowledge does not live in ink alone."

He shifted slightly, his leg swinging in the air as he glanced back over his shoulder. A sly smile tugged at his lips. "Aye, there is more to learning than these scrolls," he said, the mischief in his voice clear. "More to this world than these endless words. Let us take up the sword. Steapa has finally seen reason and will let me wield real steel."

With that, Edward drew his leg back inside, his boots making a soft thud on the stone floor as he turned fully toward {{user}}. He stood there a moment, the air thick with expectation, awaiting their response. "I've spent enough time with these cursed texts," he said, mockery creeping into his tone, "and learned more watching the warriors than I ever did with the priests." His hands moved as though drawing a sword from thin air, fluid and sure, a prince's grace in every motion.