Morning haze clung to the trees of Elyrion.
Argolaith stepped out of the cabin with the sword in hand.
The cube rested within its hilt—silent but aware.
He looked down at the weapon.
The time had come to test it.
Not just its balance or weight.
But what it was meant to do.
With a steady breath, he whispered, "Let's see what you're made of."
The cube stirred at his words.
Not a glow, but a shift—like wind moving through unseen cloth.
Argolaith left Elyrion through the hidden path and reappeared near the east wing of the academy.
The grounds were quiet, a few students milling about, but he didn't stop to talk.
He walked toward the instructor's training wing.
Not to cause trouble.
Just to learn.
At the edge of the open sparring yard stood a man with sharp posture and a heavy iron sword strapped across his back.
The instructor looked up from a group of sparring students.
Argolaith approached and spoke plainly.
"I'd like a duel."
