Steel clashes against steel, the sound harsh in the quiet morning air. Your arm aches from the effort, and before you can fully recover your stance, Balekin’s blade knocks yours aside.

You hit the ground hard, knees scraping the stone, breath catching in your throat. A thin line of blood trails down your cheek.

Balekin just stands there, sword still in hand, expression carved from stone.

"Get up," he orders. "Again."

He’s been more on edge than usual today—sharper, crueler, like something is gnawing at him from the inside.