The clang of steel echoed through the northern barracks, ringing sharp and steady across the training yard. It was nearly dusk, the sky painted in fading violet and gold, but the drills hadn't stopped. Rows of Shadow Knights moved in precise formations, blades sweeping in rhythm, the sound of footfalls and armor syncopated like a war-drum beat.
Riven stood at the center of it all, his cloak shed, sleeves rolled, obsidian armor dulled by sweat and use. In his hands, the scimitar gleamed—a curved blade of blacksteel edged in red-veined runes, its surface rippling faintly with shadowfire. It moved with him like a living thing, cutting arcs through the dusk-lit yard with silent grace. His sparring partners came at him in tandem—staggered attacks, feints meant to disorient—but Riven danced through them like smoke through slats. Precise. Fluid. Unrelenting.
Then a voice broke the rhythm.
"Your timing's off, Barrin," Aria said flatly from the edge of the ring.
