It was only a few weeks since Maedhrosia had been rescued from the peaks of Thangorodrim, dying and maimed, yet the camp in Mithrim already murmured in disbelief at the speed of her recovery. Dawn broke pale over the lake as she stood alone on the training ground, left hand wrapped around the hilt of a practice blade, sweat already darkening the collar of her tunic.

The healers had pleaded for rest. Her brothers had begged for patience. But Maedhrosia moved with a quiet, relentless rhythm, testing balance, shifting weight, learning the dance anew. Her missing right hand threw her stance off, yet she adjusted quicker than any thought possible, jaw set, eyes fixed on an invisible foe.

She paused only when footsteps approached behind her. Without turning, she lifted the blade again, breath steady.

“I hope you are not here to disturb my practice."