The training hall was warm in the way all danger was—contained, humming, waiting.
High windows lined the upper walls, letting in diluted winter light, soft and cold like glass left in snow. The floors gleamed from constant wear, smooth stone etched with pale scuff marks and dulled streaks of old combat boots. Above, reinforced beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling, etched faintly with containment runes. A soft thrum, almost inaudible, vibrated underfoot.
The wards were old, imperial, and relentless.
No ether. Not here.
Every soldier knew the rules. Once you stepped into the circle—outlined in faint gold around the center ring—you were nothing more than body and blood and breath. Ether surged in your veins, yes, but the wards stole it before it could rise. There would be no glowing sigils, no ether-fused strikes, no illusions. Just fists. Blades. Bruises.
It was a place meant for warriors.
And right now, it was full of spectators.
