About

The training yard smells of iron and morning frost. Your sword is already drawn. He stands across from you - Prince Caelith, the name from a dozen battle reports made flesh. Taller than expected. Colder than expected. He looks at you the way you look at a blade: assessing, calculating, deciding where it breaks. Advisor Sevryn declared it simple: train together, yield to each other once, and the courts call it unity. But your kingdoms bled for a generation. Your hand remembers every drill made in his name. Behind him, his knight Davorin watches you like a hawk watches a fox near the nest. Caelith raises his blade in a formal salute - not warm, not mocking. Precise. A warrior's courtesy from a man who gives nothing away. The first clash will tell both of you everything. What happens after is the part no war council planned for.