Two Estate Ships sailed across the Kryos Sea, cutting through the misty waters toward Everard. One carried eighteen thousand Stormdrakes. The other bore five thousand Gray Knights.
Twenty-three thousand strong.
Weeks passed. On the deck of the leading ship, two hundred meters away, Nero stood with his arms crossed, watching.
Asher trained. Again. Still.
Beside Nero stood Moses and Simon. All three of them had been observing Asher for hours—no, days now.
"He's been swinging that sword nonstop for two weeks," Moses muttered, narrowing his one good eye. "No rest. No food. How is that possible?"
Each time Asher moved, it was like the wind bowed to him. His slashes tore through the air with precision so perfect that every stroke produced a piercing howl.
His swordsmanship was basic in form—just slashes, over and over—but it felt anything but basic. It was as if he could cut the very air at will, like his blade had divorced itself from the rules of the world.
