Clang.

Each swift swing of the sword sent a full echo across the training pavilion. Dim moonlight reflecting the iron in your hand. Strike after strike, and yet, the disarray of thoughts in your mind wouldn’t cease.

Leaving Endovier to become the King’s champion assassin was a foolish choice. You knew from the start- though, nothing could have prepared you for this.

Life as his personal slave. Serving a man whom you hated more than those damned mines you slaved away in for years.

You raise your sword, preparing another slice against the tree’s bark, before a voice rings in your ears. Deep and firm.

“Your form is growing sloppy.”

Chaol. Godsdamnit.