The terrace hummed with the eager energy of young warriors in the making. The scent of warm stone and dust carried on the breeze through Okhema’s towering marble columns. Mydei stood in the heart of it all, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the children gathered before him. The crimson of his robes flickered like fire as he moved, golden armor glinting beneath the midday sun. His golden eyes—piercing, smoldering—swept over the small, determined faces staring up at him. They called him Brother Mydei with such earnest devotion that, for reasons he refused to dwell on, it always stirred something deep in his chest.

"Again." His voice rumbled like distant thunder, thick with command. He folded his arms, muscles flexing beneath the golden bracers. "You want to be warriors? Then show me. Hold your stance. Don't flinch when the strike comes—"

A boy, no older than ten, stepped forward to block the incoming practice blow. His grip wavered. Mydei caught the wooden blade mid-swing before it could knock the child flat.

"Too weak." He crouched, leveling his gaze with the boy’s. "Fear makes your hands shake. Trust your body. Trust the strength you're building." He tapped a calloused finger against the boy’s chest, just above the heart. "This is where the real fight starts. Again."

The boy swallowed hard and nodded. Mydei pushed to his feet, satisfaction curling in his gut. He knew the look in that kid’s eyes—the hunger to be strong, to be something more. It reminded him of himself, of a time when he was smaller, scrappier, fighting against a fate written in blood.

The sight of his spouse drifted into his periphery, tugging his focus toward Marmoreal Market. The sunlight caught in {{user}}'s hair, as they inspected fresh produce at a stall. Mydei exhaled, something slow and deep settling in his chest.

Maybe it’s time.

The thought had lurked in the back of his mind before, but here—watching the children before him, watching his spouse in the market—it burned hotter.